One house, 11 sisters, and countless sorrows and hopes
After the rest of my family had gone asleep, I studied for the university entrance exam (Kankor), under the dim light of a small solar lamp. One night, my father said, “This light will weaken your eyes. Turn on the room light.” I told him I didn’t want to disturb others. He replied, “They’re asleep, and no one’s eyes get weak from light while they sleep. But you are studying, and your eyes must not be damaged.”
That moment has stayed with me. My father has always been the biggest supporter of me and my sisters. He wants his daughters to study, to work, and to gain skills.
My name is Shukria, and I am 21 years old. We live in one of the northeastern provinces of Afghanistan. I have 10 sisters, ranging in age from 5 to 26, and one brother, who is 6.
My parents endured taunts from neighbours and relatives for having so many daughters. Even now, people say to my father, as if in sympathy, “If only you had a grown son.”
But my father never discriminated against his daughters. On the contrary, he supported our desire to go to school and pursue higher education. Four of us have graduated from school: two completed higher education — one in midwifery and the other in law; and a sister and I had just completed two semesters at a public university when they were closed to girls. I was studying English literature, and she was studying chemistry. Three sisters were in eighth, tenth, and eleventh grades when the Taliban shut the schools to girls. Two younger sisters are still in primary school, while the youngest isn’t yet old enough for school.
My father runs a small shop. He covers all our expenses without a single complaint and works day and night to support our education. After the closure of public and private schools, we enrolled my younger sisters in home-based schools. For the past two years, I have also been teaching English at girls’ learning centers and home-based schools.
In addition, my sister and I enrolled in a health institute after the universities were shut to women. I chose dental prosthetics, and she enrolled in nursing. We had completed two semesters when the institutes were also closed to women.
Sometimes, the Taliban’s morality enforcers would enter our classrooms to inspect how we wore our hijabs. They could never find fault in our attire, but they would still criticize us, even declaring that no girl was allowed to walk around the courtyard of the institute. We were willing to make any sacrifice to continue our education — even to the point of not going to the restroom. On December 3, 2024, the Taliban shut the doors of the health institutes to girls.
That night, the weather was stormy in our city as thunder roared and lightning lit up the sky. The sound of the television mixed with the crashing thunder in my ears. When I heard that the institutes were closed, it felt as though a thousand years now stood between me and my childhood dream of becoming a doctor. Lately, I would wear a white doctor’s coat, look into the mirror, and tell myself, “Be patient, it’s almost time.” But the Taliban cut me off from my dream just as I entered my third semester.
To be honest, we’ve learned how to fight back since the Taliban took control of our fate. They close one door, and the girls turn to another. We want to learn. We want to gain knowledge. What is wrong with that? I don’t understand how a ruler, for the sake of holding on to power, can take the future of so many girls hostage.
My sisters and I want to study and work hard enough to make up for the lack of an adult son in our family. If the Taliban hadn’t come, five or six of us would have already graduated from university and found jobs.
At the beginning of last winter, I went to a dental clinic run by a female specialist and asked if I could intern there. Even though I didn’t have a diploma, she allowed me to work. I don’t receive a salary, but I got to learn skills in a medical environment. So far, I’ve learned how to clean teeth, disinfect root canals, and perform basic procedures. I stand beside the specialist every day, watching her hands carefully, dreaming that I’ll be a specialist like her one day.
I keep thinking that our country’s social and economic situation would change if girls in Afghanistan had the opportunity to study and work like girls in other countries. Families would no longer feel ashamed of having daughters. A girl is a human being, just like a boy. Girls can learn, gain skills, and work just like boys.
Before the Taliban’s return, one of my sisters worked in an office. She helped to financially support the family. In January 2023, the Taliban shut down her office and she lost her job.
Now, I study at night and work during the day. I want to become a writer and tell the story of our lives. I want to write about what it means to live with eleven sisters. I want to write about my mother — a woman who gave birth to and raised 11 daughters and one son. She never went to school herself, but she never stopped us from going to school or university because of housework or the burden of caring for young children.
My father says the greatest wealth in his life is his daughters. Even now, he continues to try so that we can keep learning. I dream of the day when these restrictions are lifted — when girls can study and work freely once again.
Shukria is the pseudonym for a young woman from Afghanistan. Her story was written by Khadija Haidari, a reporter for Zan Times.
