Every day I go to school, I repeat to myself: “Becoming requires equal parts patience and rigor. Becoming is never giving up on the idea that there’s more growing to be done.” These are the words of Michelle Obama in her book “Becoming,” which I have read so many times that it has become ingrained in my mind.
Around the middle of seventh grade, I decided to have a clear goal for my path of life. I decided to become a successful politician who would strive to make a difference in my own life and that of others.
From that moment, I planned every part of my life; I allocated the least time to rest and the most time to study. My plans were so intense that my parents protested but I didn’t think of anything but reaching my goal.
When I prepared to walk home after completing the computer science exam on the last day of our midterm exams, there was a strange atmosphere. Everyone was in turmoil, fleeing in one direction or another.
I asked a shopkeeper what had happened. “The Taliban are here, go home,” he replied. For a moment, I felt the world darken before my eyes. My legs weakened, and I couldn’t move.
The Taliban had entered the city. It was easier than anyone imagined. The former authorities handed the country over to them on a silver platter.
Given the history of the Taliban, I knew that studying would no longer be easy for me or other girls. Still, I felt my heart sink when they officially announced “Girls are not allowed to go to school until further notice,” I held onto the hope that there must be another way, and I wouldn’t give up.
Then we heard that some civilians were being evacuated along with the withdrawal of American forces from Afghanistan. Once again, a ray of hope lit up in my heart, and I told myself that this is the path I must take to continue my education.
After discussing it with my family, we decided to head to the airport, taking only our documents and money. It took hours in traffic before we reached the airport, where the crowds were so overwhelming that I thought everyone in Kabul was trying to flee Afghanistan. My heart ached for the people of my homeland. My heart ached for the motherland, who saw her children trying to leave her.
I held my father’s hands to avoid getting separated in the crowd. As we were about to exit the first gate, a heavy object suddenly fell on my shoulders. The pain was so intense that I lost my father’s hand. I looked back to see the angry face of a Taliban soldier saying something in Pashto. Later, I was told he was threatening to shoot everyone in the area unless we left. Fear, terror, and pain combined to put me in shock. I couldn’t even say a word. My father guided me to the shade of a wall so we could sit for a moment. We heard the sound of bullets flying and smelled the tear gas as the Taliban savagely dispersed the crowd. It was as if I was trapped in the middle of a tragic war movie.
We concluded that it was impossible to leave the country through the airport. We returned home. The next daywe started sending applications for humanitarian visas to different countries, and began preparing and organizing our asylum cases. We had no success. As a last resort, we decided to migrate to Iran. After obtaining visas, we finally crossed the border into the neighbouring country.
When we were leaving Afghanistan, a profound sadness enveloped my entire being. This sorrow was the result of feeling defeated by the Taliban and their obstinacy and bigotry towards female education. It took a year before I could enroll in school due to the strict laws in Iran. During that time, I also applied for scholarships from European countries. Two universities responded and allowed me to participate in their online courses and obtain certificates.
My excitement and enthusiasm for continuing my education in a private school faded when I was told that I could not enter university after finishing twelfth grade since I did not have residential documents. I would not be allowed to take a white-collar job. This news had shattered all my motivation for studying and occupied all my thoughts as I tried to find a solution to this problem.
When my family saw my despair and depression, they made the crucial decision to migrate again. After researching various options, we decided to take the path to Europe. But such a journey is expensive, and we did not have enough money for the entire family. Seeing my restlessness for education, my mother suggested that only my father and I go while she and the rest of our family stayed in Iran.
On the day of departure, I set off with only the most essential belongings in my small backpack, along with a book and a pen, which were my most valuable possessions. My biggest challenge was being separated from my mother, but I knew I had to choose between moving forward and reaching my big goal or staying with my family in Iran. I chose to go.
It took us two days and nights of walking on harsh mountainous paths to reach the Turkish border. My feet had become numb on certain difficult parts of the route, necessitating me to walk with the help of companions.
We ran so fast to the Turkish border that I don’t remember seeing anything. Once, I had to free my feet after they got stuck in some barbed wire. A few hours later, after we arrived at a hostel in Turkey, I realized that my hand was bleeding profusely, and my clothes were torn.
The hostel was actually a stable used to hide refugees. We were locked inside for two days without water and food. We weren’t even allowed to speak in case someone noticed our presence. The situation was quite dire.
None of these issues mattered to me. My focus was reaching our destination and continuing my efforts to fulfill my long-held goal. I fought with all my might to keep that flickering flame of hope alive in my heart.
Finally, a car arrived at the hostel. We thought it was transportation for the next leg of our journey and happily prepared to go when we suddenly realized it was a Turkish police car. They transferred us to a detention centre, where all the refugees were forced to work, including cleaning toilets or making repairs.
After two and a half days, they took us back to the Iranian border. Our deportation dashed my hopes and I cried with all my heart for all the fantasies and plans I had for my future.
Months have passed since that ordeal, and I am again enrolled in a private school in Tehran. Although I know that it’s unlikely I will be able to go to university in Iran after graduation, I’m determined to continue my studies any way I can. Either I will find a way or I will make one!
* Shakiba Rahyab is female student deprived of education by the Taliban.
