The eve of the Persian New Year, 1388, brought with it the long-awaited announcement of the university entrance exam results. Three years of relentless effort, accompanied by heartfelt prayers from my grandmother and the benevolent wishes of my mother’s village friend, “Baltah,” finally paid off. Whether it was during my late-night study sessions or the moments when they caught sight of me immersed in a book, their encouraging words, “May you succeed,” echoed in my ears, fueling my determination. These gestures of support, coupled with my unwavering dedication, bore sweet fruit. The names of the triumphant few, including mine, adorned a small piece of paper, marking our entry into Kabul University, in the field favored by the majority of that year’s exam takers.
The New Year arrived, heralding not only the beginning of spring but also a newfound sense of joy that permeated our humble abode and reverberated throughout the neighborhood. With nature’s renewal unfolding around us, we cast aside our worries and basked in the invigorating embrace of life’s beauty. Our courtyard, adorned with almond trees adorned in delicate white and pink blossoms, filled the air with a fragrant symphony, heightening the euphoria of our collective success.
As a symbol of celebration and gratitude, my mother meticulously prepared a pot of fragrant rice pilaf, inviting our neighbors to join in our jubilation. Women and girls from the neighborhood arrived, bearing trays laden with an assortment of sweets, cookies, and candies. Their faces radiated warmth and genuine happiness as they entered our home, eager to extend their heartfelt congratulations on the occasion of both the New Year and my academic achievement.
A neighbor from a house slightly further away came by to offer her congratulations. Someone from their household had also taken the exam. Curious, I inquired about the field of study the successful candidate had secured. The response came swiftly, “Engineering at Kabul University.” As Nowruz approached, news of exam results spread like wildfire throughout our district. Except for me, another girl, and a boy who had excelled in a prestigious field at a renowned university, no one else from our area had tasted success in the exams. However, now this neighbor claimed that her brother-in-law had clinched a spot in engineering at Kabul University.
I couldn’t help but feel amazed and a tinge of envy crept in. How could someone achieve success in engineering at Kabul University without their family celebrating? Despite my repeated inquiries confirming his success, doubts began to form. Gradually, I became apprehensive that a boy from our locality had outshone me in a superior field. It was then that the boy’s sister revealed, “No, he secured admission to Mazar University.” This revelation sparked suspicion, leading me to question the veracity of their claims. Though unintentional, I felt compelled to ensure that no one from our vicinity had surpassed my achievement. Finally, before the day drew to a close, I learned that he had earned a place in agriculture at Balkh University, and a sense of relief washed over me.
Let me illustrate what I’m trying to convey through this account. Over fifteen years, our society has regressed to a point where girls not only aspire to compete with boys but are also deprived of the opportunities available to them. The prospect of attending school or university has become an unattainable fantasy for girls. As we reflect on the year 1403 in the Solar Hijri Calendar, discussions about girls sitting for entrance exams and pursuing higher education are tinged with regret and profound sadness.
During our university years, when the demand for hijab-clad girls was high, wearing the hijab wasn’t mandatory. Yet, a girl who chose to veil herself was admired and revered. We often urged our professor to share anecdotes about young women attending university. In response, our professor would reminisce, “Our classmates didn’t wear the chador, but there were girls whose modesty and veiling were unparalleled.”
Our neighborhood remains lively, especially during Eid and Nowruz celebrations, where warmth and closeness fill the air. However, in the last three Nowruz seasons, our young girls spared no effort in indulging in sweets and elaborate rice dishes to mark their success in university. Now, at the tender age of sixteen, our neighborhood girls are entering into engagements, entangled in the customs and competitions of womanhood as they strive for acceptance from their future in-laws and families.
One of my students, a deserving girl with countless aspirations for success and advancement, has recently become engaged. Despite proudly displaying her fiancé’s pictures on her WhatsApp profile, she confided in me about his questionable morals, equating life with him to a living hell. Nonetheless, she feels compelled to embrace this fate, entering a household where 21 individuals reside together. Here, she will join other brides in the family, taking turns to prepare meals for the household, all to win the approval of her husband’s family.
In our family, three teenage girls, the eldest being 18, have recently become engaged and are eagerly anticipating their weddings, adorned in white dresses. As they embarked on this journey, I refrained from questioning their decisions. The answer was clear even before I asked; their parents often remarked, “How else can we secure a future for our daughters in these circumstances?” Their reasoning struck a chord, and I could only hope for happiness for these three young girls as they prepared to navigate the complexities of married life, grappling with immaturity and societal challenges. My heart overflowed with well wishes for their happiness and fulfillment.
My mother’s delight knew no bounds as the fiancés of her nephews generously bestowed gifts upon our family for Eid and Nowruz, even extending their generosity to include treats for Iftar. Witnessing the appreciation lavished upon those innocent souls filled me with happiness. Yet, hidden beneath this facade of celebration lies a harsh truth—a future fraught with unimaginable challenges awaits them. These three girls will soon transform into women deprived of opportunities for education and advancement. They will lack the drive to seek employment and financial independence. Instead, they will become mothers who raise sons educated solely within the confines of the madrasas, perpetuating a cycle of limited knowledge and closed-mindedness. Our girls stand in line, their eyes and ears sealed shut, destined to contribute to the perpetuation of patriarchal lineage. And in the end, their sons will proudly proclaim, “Don’t wish us a happy Nowruz, for it is forbidden.”