I am that same girl who could never stay still at home, not even for a moment. I believed the house was only a shelter for physical rest, nothing more. I never saw it as a prison where dreams go to die. I had a schedule more precise than the hands of a clock, a routine, and a life mapped out in advance. At dawn, I would spring out of bed with boundless energy, readying myself for school. I was physically small, and the books I packed into my bag were heavy, almost too much to carry. But I bore the weight gladly.
Our school route ran through dusty alleyways. In summer, the blazing sun would beat down mercilessly, especially at noon. That was the hour I returned home from school, under the harshest heat. I often became dizzy under the sun’s glare, but I didn’t care. I believed, “This scorching sun is the price of reaching my dreams.” On my way back, I would fix my appearance so that my family wouldn’t notice the toll it had taken on me. I was the youngest in the family, and they didn’t want me to carry burdens too heavy for a child.
Even when I got home, rest was not an option. I would head straight to the education center. In the afternoons, I attended entrance exam prep courses, studying foundational subjects. My plan was clear: complete the basics by grade 10, start advanced prep in grade 11, and focus entirely on the entrance exam in grade 12. But that plan was nothing more than a dream, a dream that went up in smoke.
Many nights, I studied under the dim glow of a lamp during blackouts. I sat for hours solving math problems. At times, my tears fell like pearls onto the pages—tears born from the difficulty of the questions. But I wiped them away and kept solving. I’d go to sleep at midnight. Balancing school and exam prep placed immense pressure on me, but I remained determined.
And then one day, everything changed. It was as if all my efforts, all my sleepless nights, had been for nothing. The Taliban came. During the first month, I didn’t leave the house at all, hiding behind the window of my room. I didn’t even know what was happening outside in the city.
After a month, my mother sewed a black hijab for me—a kind I never imagined wearing at this age. I had only seen such hijabs on newlyweds or middle-aged women. But now, I was to wear it. Eventually, I gathered all the courage I had and decided to step outside. I put on the black hijab and left home with my mother to visit a shrine. The moment I stepped out, my heart trembled. I wanted to run back, but I knew I had to face that fear. I took a few terrified steps.
At an intersection, we intended to turn right when suddenly a man appeared in front of us. He had long hair, a thick beard, and a weapon slung over his shoulder. The moment I saw him, my body froze. It felt as if my soul had left me. I could no longer feel my hands or legs, nor could I see what was around me. I collapsed. My mother lifted me with great difficulty, and somehow, we made it to the shrine. There, I sat quietly, lost in thought. But my limbs were still shaking from fear.
That fear never left me. Now, four years have passed, and still, it clings to me. Even now, when I leave home and encounter a Taliban fighter, my heart races and terror overwhelms me. It feels as if Azrael—the angel of death—has come to take my soul. Who truly knows how many times a soul is taken in one day? Who understands how much fear consumes us every time we step outside? Who realizes that when a Taliban enforcer stops a girl in the street under the pretext of “morality,” her blood freezes, her face turns pale, and her heart trembles like a frightened bird?
When Azrael does come for me one day, I will tell him: “You will only take my soul once, but know this—this soul has been taken many times before.” That first day when an eternal fear settled into my being. The day they snatched my books and buried my dreams in the dust of our alleyways. That was the day my true spirit departed. What remains now is only a shadow, wrapped in a black chador.
Those Azraels who strip the soul from my body every time they appear in front of me—they don’t know that the very girls whose dreams they buried today will rise again from that same soil. They will bloom and rise so high that the echo of their voices will split the skies, and the earth itself will bear witness to their resistance.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
