This narrative has been published in partnership with the Guardian.
My name is Leima*. I am 24 years old. I was studying computer science at a private university in Nangarhar province. I was in my first semester. In December 2022, as the final exams were approaching, the Taliban ordered universities to close to women until further notice.
That night, I was sitting in my room, working on a project for my information and communication technology (ICT) course. It was 9 p.m. when I saw the news on my phone.
I fell into a deep shock and cried so much. The terrible thing I had always feared in my heart had finally happened.
When I came downstairs, my mother and sisters became silent when they saw me. They looked at my red, tear-filled eyes and began comforting me. For several days, my family and relatives tried to reassure me, saying that universities would reopen.
Life has reached a point where no ordinary day is truly ordinary anymore. My mind was so filled with thoughts and worries that even while cooking, tears fell from my eyes without me realizing.
Now, there is no night when I sleep peacefully. I spend each night watching over my sick and anxious sister. The moment I close my eyes, the alarm on my phone rings and wakes me up.
For me, an ordinary day begins long before sunrise. At midnight, I go into the courtyard and look at the silent sky, the moon, and the stars. It gives me a sense of comfort, and I tell myself that everything will change one day.I wake at 2 a.m. for Tahajjud prayer. I pray, recite prayers, and sit on my prayer mat, crying restlessly. Every night, I ask God to make everything right.
My unfinished education, my uncertain future, my family’s problems, and my sister’s illness have all brought me to the edge of exhaustion.
Despite feeling that everything has become too much for me, I still have to prepare breakfast for my mother, father, and sister, make tea, and put something on the table. After breakfast, my physical responsibilities begin. I roll up my sleeves and clean the entire house. Sweeping the courtyard and rooms, washing dishes, and cleaning every corner of the house are fixed parts of my daily routine.
In the middle of all this running around and working, I will completely forget myself. My own existence, my dreams, and my personal needs are buried under the weight of these heavy responsibilities.
When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror during the day and see the colour of my face and my hair, I fall silent. I see how much I have truly changed over these past few years. My skin has become pale and lifeless, as if I am fading away; the dark circles under my eyes look frightening. Sometimes I think the girl I see in the mirror is not me.
There was a time when, like a newlywed bride, I would dress up every day. I would lovingly dye and style my hair, apply my favorite bright lipstick, listen to my favorite music at full volume, and dance happily in my room. In those days, hope flowed through my veins.
This morning, after brushing my teeth, I wanted to comb my hair. So much hair had gathered on the brush that I felt as if every strand had broken and died from the weight of my worries. At that moment, my eyes fell on my old perfumes sitting beside the mirror. I picked one up and sprayed it on myself; suddenly my mood changed, and I felt completely like the person I used to be years ago.
I remembered that I needed to take my medicine on time to prevent further hair loss. I have reached a point where I have to use medication just to preserve my youth, my hair, my skin, and the faded colour of my face. If I stop even this small amount of self-care, I will look like a 35-year-old woman though I am still just 24.
But life does not stop, whether I want it or not, I still knead flour for lunch and bake fresh bread in this harsh, scorching heat. When I am cooking, my emotional state becomes so heavy that tears fall from my eyes while I stir the pot.
In the middle of my chores, I hear my sister calling. Because of her mental health condition, her husband’s family could no longer care for her and brought her to our home. For the past three-and-a-half years, I have been responsible for giving her medication and taking care of her. I look after her like a nurse and take her to the hospital for medical checkups. My sister is now 30 years old and has a son.
When universities were closed and I was left hopeless at home, my father — who was working in Kabul at the time and had always supported our education — called me and told me not to worry. He said he would find every possible way for me to continue my studies. Eventually, he decided that we should leave Afghanistan for Pakistan or Turkey so that I could continue my education. But we could not leave the country because my younger brother, who was 18 years old at the time, was paralyzed.
My brother passed away in early 2023. At that time, our financial situation also deteriorated, and my sister’s illness became more severe to the point that she and her son became part of our household. All my sisters are married, and I am the only unmarried one, which has meant that the responsibility of household work and caring for everyone has fallen on my shoulders.
Now, sometimes I study online, practice English, read independently, and listen to a good and hopeful podcast during the day. But most of the time, exhaustion and mental pressure take away even these small opportunities.
More than anything, it is the closure of universities that hurts me. If I were still going to university, perhaps many things would have been different. At least I would not have had to carry this particular pain of losing my education and the dreams attached to it. Every day, I speak with one of my former classmates, and together we grieve over our unfinished dreams and the university doors that have been closed to us. Sometimes we hold back tears; sometimes we simply cry.
My only daily source of joy is playing with my sister’s young son and giving him the feeling of childhood, so that he does not feel lonely.
In the evenings, I walk barefoot on the grass in our courtyard with a cup of tea in my hand. If my sister is feeling well, I take her out. We go to a restaurant or a market, or I take her to the river so that her mind can become calmer.
I no longer have much hope for my education or a better future, but my ordinary days are no longer ordinary. Everything changed during my time, and what makes it even harder is that each day brings new worries and new problems. I see how far away the light of my future has become.
*Leima is a pseudonym. Hosai Ismail khan is the pen name of a Zan Times journalist.
