I write of the days of the fall—days I never dared to speak about. Yet I can vividly recall them with every fiber of my being. I wasn’t in Afghanistan at the time, but the sorrowful news was so deafening that it crossed every border and pierced through every soul. It was still early in the collapse of the provinces, and I thought it was a joke—these reports couldn’t be true. Or at least, I hoped that if they were true, it was the triumph of good over evil. One by one, the provinces were falling, and I seemed to be waiting for a miracle. I wanted to close my eyes, fall into a deep sleep, and wake up to find the nightmare over—to wake in a moment when fear and terror had given way to safety, and our hearts no longer trembled with anxiety.
Back then, I never cried. No. Hope—something called hope—kept me standing and gave me the strength to carry on. But when I heard Kabul had fallen, it was as though the world darkened before my eyes. Although I was never satisfied with the republic and never liked it, I still believed the Taliban were the worst calamity that could befall our land. In those days, the last bricks of hope in me crumbled, and I found myself in a state of utter helplessness, waiting for some grand shift—something like a public uprising, resistance, or anything that could halt this horrific tragedy.
The Taliban had already reached the gates of Kabul, and the President had fled. Some people, displaced and desperate, flooded the airport, while others stayed hidden in their homes out of fear. But I—on the other side of the border—was still hopeful because Panjshir, the heart of Afghanistan’s resistance, was still beating and alive. On those nights, when I went to sleep, I’d dream of terrifying figures with bulging bellies and beards that reached down to their stomachs. I don’t know why they were so frightening, but I knew they were Taliban. I would wake in the middle of the night, panic-stricken, asking myself, “How must those who are close to the Taliban feel? Is it really true that we’re back at the starting line? Have the past two decades all been a lie?”
My heart was more anxious than ever. Sleep didn’t come easily. All my hopes were pinned on that wild and unyielding Panjshir, the last spark of defiance still burning. Then, a week after Kabul’s fall, the Taliban finally had the chance to march toward Panjshir—and occupy it, too. Those days were among the darkest days and nights of my life. It was the last of my strength, the last of my will to keep hoping. Talk of war in Panjshir was everywhere, and my hands could no longer work. I remember that night vividly. I couldn’t even stand to wash the dishes. A tightness gripped my throat, and as I stood at the sink, tears rolled down my face uncontrollably. I stayed awake into the night, crying and wondering, “What a miserable generation we’ve been… How much pain have we endured in our youth? Why must the youth of our country weep through the night over losing their homeland while others sleep peacefully?”
I don’t know. But that night, with a thousand fears in my heart and two longing eyes, I went to bed, hoping to wake to a brighter tomorrow—a dawn that would bring a better day for our homeland.
Unaware that those were the good days.
The next morning, the sun rose again, and light filled the world—but somehow, it hadn’t reached our weary land. With hesitation, I picked up my phone to read the latest news: What was happening in the land dearer to me than life itself? Everywhere, the news of Panjshir’s fall was spreading. The Taliban had entered Panjshir’s soil, and at that moment, the last brick in the wall of hope within me collapsed. Afghanistan had become like an unhealed wound in our hearts—like a tear that could not be shed, a sigh too painful to release, a lump in the throat too large to swallow. Like a nightmare too unreal to believe. Afghanistan had completely fallen, and a strange silence had blanketed the city. Though I wasn’t there during those days, I felt the shared agony with all my being.
Even across the border, that bitter silence reached me. Days passed slowly, yet everything was changing at breakneck speed—from the colors of women’s clothing to the closing of their school gates, from their poems and songs to their pens and books. Decree after decree, injustice after injustice, murder after murder, and the loud cry of bigotry echoed at the height of their regime. Once again, the greatest victims of their ignorance were the pure and innocent girls who, with a thousand dreams, were building a better future for themselves.
Now, four years have passed since those horrifying days. Schools still remain closed to girls, and they are still fighting for the most basic human rights. Perhaps those girls who were once supposed to finish their studies, pursue their desired fields, or even find their dream jobs—perhaps now, they’ve become educated mothers whose dreams were shattered before their very eyes. The same hands that once held pens now rock cradles. The joyful children of yesterday are now parents themselves. And the little girls whose only concern used to be finishing their homework now carry the sorrow of being denied education deep in their hearts. There, a woman’s voice is still considered shameful, her presence a source of corruption in the eyes of the Taliban. Yet, despite it all, they continue to resist—until the day true and meaningful freedom returns, and a woman stands tall on the highest peak of the Hindu Kush, singing the anthem of liberation.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
