By Mehtab
I looked at the clock when my cell phone rang. It was 12:31 p.m. I had been studying for four hours when I answered the call. It was my classmate, Beheshta, who responded to my initial greeting by saying, “I’m not well, Mehtab, my heart is shattered.”
That answer immediately worried me. “Why, what happened? Are you OK?” She then told me the bad news: “The head of the department has announced that girls cannot participate in the graduation ceremony. All my dreams are ruined.” I tried to calm her, asking why girls couldn’t go to their graduation ceremony. She said that only boys were allowed to take part because mullahs as well as a delegation from Kabul, including Neda Mohammad Nadim, the Taliban minister of higher education, were coming to the graduation ceremony.
Though I tried to console her, saying, “Well, don’t worry, they will have a separate event for the girls,” her news upset me. We girls were very excited about graduation day. Once, I had even dreamed about the dress I would wear, though after the Taliban returned, it was clear that we should wear black hijabs. We accepted that.
Finally, I went back to my studies, as I was to defend my monograph the next day, December 22, 2022. By 8 p.m., I was tired and lay down for a few minutes when I heard noise from the girls in the dormitory. When I came out of my room, I saw some of the girls crying in the corridor while others were wailing. “What happened? Why is everyone so upset and worried?” I asked. One girl told me the news: “The universities are closed. No girl has the right to go to class anymore.” I was stunned, replying, “But my monograph defence is scheduled for tomorrow.” She responded, “Everything is banned. I don’t know what will happen.”
I felt sick, telling myself that the news must be a lie, and perhaps someone had published a fake announcement. But in a WhatsApp group on my phone, I saw that students were sharing the announcement of the Ministry of Higher Education. As well, I discovered that our faculty had announced that girls were not allowed to enter the university as of tomorrow and their exams and monograph defences had been cancelled.
Tears welled in my eyes as I read the messages. “God, for what sin are we being punished like this,” I shouted. “Because we are girls, our dreams must be destroyed? I worked so hard, I studied day and night in a cold room, but I ended up like this? Why? What was my sin?”
I’m from Daikundi province and had been so happy when I had been accepted to Kandahar University. My family and relatives were against the idea of me traveling to a distant province, but I had a strong will to study and I made it clear that I could not miss this opportunity – I wanted to become a lawyer.
Life was a struggle for my family. My father could hardly feed our family of seven. Every time I went home and saw my father going to work with his wooden wheelbarrow, hawking from morning to night, I vowed to study harder so I could find a good job after university and get my family out of this situation.
I endured four years of hardship at university. On days when the lesson ended late and I missed eating at the dormitory, I went to sleep hungry because I couldn’t afford to buy food. I refused to lose heart. In the hot summers of Kandahar, we didn’t even have a fan in our room. We’d go thirsty when the water was cut off. During winter, We’d often bathe in cold water. I had to ask fellow students for sanitary napkins when I got my period. If I fell ill with a high fever, I didn’t have enough money to buy a pain reliever.
Now, despite all my hard work, I didn’t get a diploma. While the boys had a magnificent graduation ceremony in the presence of 16 Taliban ministers, I collected my belongings and returned to Daikundi.
I don’t know how to face my father. I couldn’t fulfill the promises I made for him or his wish, which he recounted to me: “I will work hard for you to study and on the day they give your diploma, I will come on the stage and give you a diploma with my own hands and I will be proud of you.” I don’t think that graduation day will ever come. Everyone has become anti-women and no one sees our pain.
As I wait at home each day, my father pulls the wheelbarrow with his tired hands, in an effort to find us morsels to eat.
My father got angry when I tried to apologize, telling me, “It’s not your fault, this country has always wronged the girls.” Still, in my heart, I apologize for wasting so many years with my university studies when I could have learned tailoring or another trade.
I studied to build the future, but in the end I came across nothing. I don’t even have any hope left. Afghanistan has become a prison and hell for women. Every day we witness the burning of our dreams and rights. This is no place for women and girls to live.
Mehtab is a pseudonym for a student living in Daikundi province.
