Today is Saturday, 17th of November. The schoolyard looks different today—everyone is bundled up against the sudden chill that swept through yesterday. Long coats, woolen jackets, colorful scarves, and hand-knitted gloves adorned with delicate pearl embroidery have transformed the atmosphere into one of winter. As the bell rings, the morning assembly begins, but only half the students (from grades four to six) gather in the lines. The younger students (grades one to three) haven’t brought their textbooks and are here only for exams. The first-term exams for lower elementary started today. Ours, for the higher grades, will begin on Thursday, 22 November, and lessons will continue until then.
Yet, neither my classmates nor I feel the rhythm of these final lessons. We are not in the mood for studying—or even for exams. For days, a strange anxiety has settled over us, visible in our faces and especially in our eyes. Gone are the mischievous glints and playful humor of regular school days. This unease is palpable, impossible to ignore.
But this worry isn’t about exam scores or rankings. It’s a fear, a deep and unfamiliar one: that these may be the last days of our educational journey. We fear that, like the sixth-grade girls of the past three years, we too might lose the chance to step into seventh grade, forced into the growing ranks of those denied education.
In 2021, when the Taliban took over and closed schools for girls above the sixth grade, I was in third grade. I studied in a school that, back then, had all the classes from one to twelfth grade. Looking back, the clearest memory I have from that time is how silent and empty the school felt when we returned after a long hiatus. The bustling energy of pre-war and pre-regime-change days was gone. Half of the students (grades seven to twelve) had been banned from attending, and many others had fled the area or migrated. Even some lower-grade students, who still lived nearby, were too frightened to attend school due to rumors about the Taliban abducting tall girls.
That year passed in an atmosphere of fear and silence. What stands out most from those days, besides the forced expulsion of older girls, was the eerie quiet that enveloped our school and the pervasive fear among teachers and students. Looking back, those days feel eerily similar to the final days of our sixth-grade year. Back then, too, no one worried about exams, grades, or advancing to the next academic year. It was as though everything stopped in that moment, with no thought for what lay ahead.
Two days ago, we read our last Persian subject lesson in sixth grade, titled “Winter Vacation.” It spoke of time’s value and how winter break is an excellent opportunity to prepare for the next grade. Reading this, knowing that moving on to seventh grade remains uncertain for my classmates and me, brought tears to our eyes. With this lesson, we marked the end of sixth grade and our elementary years. But this ending is unlike any we’ve experienced before. It’s filled with anxiety, uncertainty, and a looming question: Will we return next year to join our peers and study the seventh-grade curriculum?
No one—neither teachers, school administrators, nor our parents—has an answer to this question. This uncertainty has overshadowed the joy and excitement usually present at the end of a school year, dampening the spirit of these closing moments.
“Winter Vacation” the easiest lesson of the year with its simple words and lack of challenging topics, has left the deepest mark on me. Its words keep echoing in my mind, more than any other lesson. Despite the growing shadow of despair, I don’t want this to be my final winter break.
This winter, I’m not looking for fun or memorable adventures. Instead, I want to use this time to read books on various topics and find solace and reflection. Even if the school doors remain closed and I am denied the chance to start seventh grade with my classmates, I hope to greet the new academic season with vitality and a positive spirit.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
