These days, Nooria’s image moves up and down our social media feeds. She wears boys’ clothes and a traditional Kandahari cap. Every time I see her face, one truth becomes clear: fear, pressure, and poverty can push a person to the edge. Poverty can spread over a life like a dark sky and force someone into dangers she never chose. How empty must a young girl’s table be for her to cut her own hair just to survive? Why do force and desperation shape her future instead of growth and awareness? When pressure takes control, it can turn a person so completely upside down that she no longer recognizes herself.
Years from now, people may forget Nooria’s photograph. The public will move on. But she will never forget. Poverty did not just stand in her way. It struck her hard and then pulled her into the grip of oppression. She was still so young, yet she fought with everything she had. She struggled to pull herself out of that dark current and save her own life.
In a country where girls face bans and constant threats for studying, working, or even showing their presence in public, a painful question arises. How many other girls, besides Nooria, have cut their hair in the past four or five years? How many have hidden their identity, put on boys’ clothes, and stepped into the streets to search for education, work, or simply the right to exist? No official numbers record these forced changes. No forms capture their stories. But we know the number is not zero.
Ms. Shukria is one of those women. She spent her teenage years during the first Taliban rule. She had no brother, so she stepped in to help her father, who earned a living as a handcart vendor. She did not stand beside him as his daughter. She walked beside him, disguised as his son.
She begins her story quietly: “One night, I saw Nooria’s picture on the news. As they shared her story, my own frightened days came rushing back. I was about her age, maybe even younger, when the Taliban took power. We lived in Pul-e-Khumri at the time. I still hear my father’s voice. He used to say that intolerance had grown and work had disappeared. We could not survive like that. No one else helped with expenses, so my father searched for a way out. He decided we should move to Kabul. In the second year of their rule, we packed our few belongings and left. We hoped Kabul would offer better work. My father carried that hope with him. But when we arrived, nothing had changed. It was the same struggle in a different city.”
She continues: “My father could not find steady work. He worked as a laborer until he finally managed to get a handcart. At first, he sold soap and cleaning supplies. Prices kept changing, and the market stayed unstable, so he switched to vegetables and seasonal fruit. That work demanded constant effort. He had to keep the produce fresh so people would buy it. One day, he asked me to come with him.
It was autumn. I remember the air felt cold and dry. I wore an old shalwar kameez that our neighbors had probably given us. I put on a secondhand jacket from the flea market. Even now, I sometimes remember its unpleasant smell. My father pulled a knitted cap down over my eyebrows and wrapped a scarf tightly around my face. He looked at me carefully, making sure no one could tell. Then we left.
He warned me not to speak to anyone. He told me to keep my head down and focus on the work. I obeyed. From that day on, I walked beside his cart most days. I avoided the neighbors’ eyes and followed him to the Mandawi market, hiding in plain sight.”
Shukria was not alone. She knew other girls who dressed as boys, entered the city, finished their work, and returned home without revealing who they truly were. Today, she is the mother of two daughters. She says she never wants them to hide themselves or change their appearance to survive. Still, she understands how harsh life can corner a person. When survival leaves no choice, no one should answer that act with blame or shame.
Nooria’s story, and the memories of women like Shukria, deserve space and attention. We must tell these stories clearly and loudly. We must not let them fade into silence. Girlhood in this land should grow from love, learning, and beauty. It should not bend under violence and ignorance. We should remove the heavy caps and scarves that hide their faces and allow them to wear bright apple blossom scarves again. They deserve to live with calm hearts and open dreams.
No girl should have to cut her hair to claim her future. No girl should have to swallow the bitter taste of mockery and humiliation just to survive.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
