Until 2020, my life was going well, and I was happy. Then, everything changed on Tuesday, November 2.
The day was sunny and cold. After having breakfast, my brother and I left home for Kabul University. The university campus was bustling with lively and cheerful students. I joined my classmates walking to our classroom on the second floor of the white building, the National Center for Legal Education. On the way, Ruqia, Maryam, and I talked about exams. Maryam hugged and kissed me, saying that my notes helped her pass the exam. She planned to invite us to a restaurant to celebrate this success.
The class was “Organizational Development Management.” I was sitting close to the window, enjoying the cool breeze, as we waited for the professor. Suddenly, the terrifying sound of an explosion and gunfire shattered the tranquillity. Initially, I thought the explosion happened outside the university, but I was wrong – terrorists had stormed the university, and our building was their target. Amidst the gunfire, I could hear the footsteps of the death monsters echoing from the stairs coming up to our floor.
I could hear my heart pounding loudly. I was stunned and trembling with fear. We were all terrified, lost, unsure of what to do or how to save ourselves. We tried to find a way out of the classroom, but all exit routes were blocked. At that moment, it felt like we had to surrender to death. We were crying and reciting prayers. Suddenly, one of my classmates broke a windowpane and threw himself outside.
A few classmates and friends also jumped out that window, but I was afraid and couldn’t throw myself out from that height. Finally, I told myself that my fate would be death if I stayed. If I jumped, maybe I’d have a chance to survive. Images of my family flashed through my mind as I said, “In the name of God,” and attempted to jump out a window, but before I could do it, someone pushed me. I lost control, falling harshly to the ground. I was unconscious for a few seconds due to the intense pain of broken bones, but the sound of gunfire pulled me back into what was happening. I felt excruciating pain in my left leg, spine, hip, and the rest of my body. My head, hands, and face were bleeding. Suddenly, I remembered my brother, who was also at the university. I shouted his name loudly. I tried to move but kept falling. I would take a few steps, then fall. I felt intense dizziness and kept vomiting.
The attackers had entered our classroom and shot at those trying to jump from the windows. They also fired at those who had already thrown themselves onto the ground. Many of my classmates were injured or killed by the terrorists. Fortunately, I wasn’t hit by their bullets. Despite my injuries, I managed to crawl and hobble to the university fence where students helped me climb over it to the outside road. A friend found a taxi and took me to an emergency hospital. Later, I was able to reach my brother, who had managed to escape unharmed.
I was in the hospital when I heard the news that three of my friends – Maryam, Ruqia, and Ahmad Ali – were among the 22 students killed at the university that day. Hearing about the deaths of my friends was another blow that left me more emotionally distressed. Life felt meaningless and void to me.
I was bedridden in the hospital for more than two months. Doctors said my left leg and hip were fractured, my spine and three vertebrae were damaged, and my kidneys were damaged. After being allowed home, I couldn’t walk or speak properly for at least two months as my lower body was in a cast and I had a neck collar.
In the months following the attack, I experienced severe panic attacks accompanied by intense headaches, nausea, breathing problems, and high blood pressure. Each time I had an attack, my family rushed me to the nearest hospital. After two or three hours of oxygen therapy and medication, my breathing would ease and they took me home.
Some relatives who visited me told my family that it might have been better if I hadn’t survived as life for a disabled girl is harder than death. I spent over a year in a wheelchair and the entire experience took a toll on my mental health, leaving me with depression, PTSD, trauma, and anxiety. Once, when I couldn’t speak or move and was still in a cast, my family had me see a neurologist. I ended up being admitted to a psychiatric ward.
There, I was injected with at least three types of medication that made me highly disoriented and so lethargic that I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. In the same room were several other mentally ill girls and women who screamed and broke anything they could get their hands on. Only after having another severe panic attack was I transferred to another room. It was then that I realized I had been mistakenly placed in the psychiatric ward.
In addition, my family took me to India for treatment, financially aided by charities. In India, I was taken to five hospitals, and eight doctors examined me. The specialists said that the amygdala, a part of the brain that processes emotions and decision-making, had been damaged. They thought that I wouldn’t be able to walk for at least four years and might never walk. After receiving the test results and hearing the doctors’ discussions, I lost all hope and thought I would spend my entire life in a wheelchair.
I still felt that education was my only way out. I believed that an educated girl, even in a wheelchair, could carry on with her life. I asked my family to take me back to the university to continue my studies. At first, they objected, saying I needed rest, but finally they agreed.
I had another panic attack when I passed by that white building and all the events of that terrorist attack came back to me. Despite all the bitterness, returning to the university was sweet and hopeful for me — a hope for a future I wanted to build with my own hands. Slowly, my mental state improved and eventually I could stand on my feet and start walking.
It felt like I was slowly healing my wounds and returning to a normal life. Then came news of the Taliban’s resurgence in August 2021. The change was bitter and unpleasant, but I could still go to the university. Then, in December 2022, the Taliban closed universities to women. I felt like I no longer had any hope or excuse to continue life yet I refused to give up.
I’m still waiting for another glimmer of hope to turn my life around and transform my dreams into reality. If I couldn’t study in Afghanistan, I decided to seek a scholarship and continue my studies outside the country. It’s been a year since I started learning English, and applied to universities in the U.S.A. and Canada. A university in California accepted my application and offered me a scholarship for a semester. Sadly, I don’t have the funds for this journey, education, and life in America. Worse still, my passport is only valid until May 2024. The Taliban do not renew passports, and I fear its expiration might happen before I can leave Afghanistan. My dream is to conduct space research with NASA but I might end up confined within the walls of my home.
Such an educational journey would change my destiny. Also, if I can achieve my dream and study in America or Canada, it could inspire other girls. There’s always a path to success – and we must continue our hopeful and purposeful efforts.
*Huma is the pseudonym of a student who survived the terrorist attack on Kabul University.
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