They say time heals all wounds but this saying does not hold true in Afghanistan, where the Taliban rule and have stripped girls and women of their human rights. Here, the passage of time is not a balm; it is a blade pressed deep into thousands of young girls imprisoned in their homes.
My name is Mahnaz. Before the fall of the republic, I was like thousands of other girls, living a simple life with modest freedoms. I was a 19-year-old newly admitted student at Kabul University. My biggest worry was whether I could keep pace with women in the rest of the world, advancing my personal, economic, and social development.
Just before noon on August 15, 2021, I was waiting for the university shuttle, as I did every day. It was running a little later than usual. I called the driver, but his phone was out of service. I was about to call one of the girls who also rode in the shuttle when my mother phoned from her workplace. She hurriedly told me not to leave the house, explaining that Kabul was swarming with armed Taliban. I couldn’t believe it, so I called a friend who lived near Kabul University and asked about the situation in that area. She said, “If you love death, then go to the university!”
My older sister had gone to the university that morning, and I hadn’t heard from her since. I called her, but she didn’t answer. Most of my family members were out, and it was difficult to reach any of them. That cursed day dragged on until late afternoon, when every member of my family finally made it home.
The next year and some months under the Taliban’s flag marked the most miserable period of my life — a time when hope lost its meaning and every path led into a valley of silence. My only real achievement had been gaining admission to Kabul University, but as the universities remained closed, that accomplishment began to gather dust.
Eventually, they reopened, but the question remained: Why were only the universities reopened and not the schools? In December 2022, the universities closed again, and the answer became clear: We female students had been nothing but pawns in the Taliban’s self-serving game.
The weeks ahead of that closure were dominated by the autumn semester exams. Only one exam was left for me. The night before I sat for it, we heard unconfirmed reports that it would not be held and that the universities were going to be shut down. No one fully believed it, though it was not beyond our imagination.
The next morning, they were not letting anyone inside the university. I headed for the engineering gate, which usually drew little attention. Pleading with the guards, I managed to get inside. A few girls could be seen scattered around the campus. In my classroom, only seven or eight students were present. The professor had already given the exam ahead of schedule. I quickly grabbed a test paper and finished in under 10 minutes. During the exam, the professor kept repeating, “Just hurry. I’ll give marks even for a blank sheet. The only thing that matters is avoiding trouble if they catch us.”
Today, most of my classmates are married and have lost hope they’ll ever be able to continue their studies. Some left for Iran, where they work in sewing workshops for meager wages.
After enduring a year in a society where time had stopped for half its population, I decided to try my luck in Pakistan. The most challenging part of this migration was collecting my educational documents and certificates.
In November 2022, I left Kabul with my family for Islamabad, hoping that I might reach a safe country through the help of the international community. But once I arrived in Pakistan, I realized that my immigration case was of little interest to aid agencies, especially the United Nations. I had never been imprisoned by the Taliban, nor had I been a prominent figure in society before the collapse.
I wanted to rescue my life from the swamp of wasted time as quickly as possible and breathe new life into my dust-covered dreams. I imagined that I could focus on my short-term goals: learn a second language, become more familiar with technology and how to use it effectively, and work on my mental and physical skills. Now, after nearly three years of living in Pakistan, I see that everything in this foreign city is the opposite of what I had imagined.
I volunteered several times for online educational organizations, thinking it might ease the heaviness of these days. But I know all too well that the combination of Pakistan’s strict laws for refugees, its own economic crises, and social hardships have conspired to leave me behind in time once again. I feel the ache of backwardness down to my bones and have taken refuge in books, immersing myself in words and turning their pages over and over again, hoping they might make up for these lost years.
Time has not healed the wounds of being deprived of freedom, education, and a normal life; it has only turned them into festering sores that burn through my whole being. I know that the wounds I have endured as an Afghan girl and student will never truly heal. I will never get those years back. I also know that no one will take responsibility for making up for this lost time. On the contrary, the Taliban, who are responsible for all this misery in my life, believe that I am to blame because of my gender.
I am not the only girl left behind by time. Thousands of Afghan girls, both in Afghanistan and in neighbouring countries, are bound by the passage of time. We breathe like the living dead. And the misery extends to daily harassment by the police, economic hardship, uncertainty about the future, and separation from school and education. I live with those wounds every day. They are for which I have no remedy but patience and endurance.
Mahnaz is a pen name.
Originally published on August 18, this story was briefly lost during our website transition and is now republished.
