This narrative has been published in partnership with the Guardian.
My name is Marwa*. I am 23 years old. My days usually revolve around studying, working at a clinic, and doing household chores. I live in northern Afghanistan.
I wake up at five o’clock every morning. I begin by saying my prayers, then try not to fall back asleep so I can finish the housework before my studies.
My classes are online, and I attend them on my mobile phone through my university’s SLMS platform. The university is supported by an international organization. Classes usually start at 8 a.m. and continue until around 11:30 a.m.
After class, I eat lunch, pray, and get ready to leave for the clinic. I have to wear a hijab and a burqa; without them, I am not allowed to enter the clinic. I usually leave home around 1:30 or 2 p.m. On some days, I stay at the clinic until 7 p.m., but when there are many patients or work runs late, I sometimes do not finish until 8 or even 9 at night.
When my shift ends, my father or brother comes to pick me up, and we return home together, either by taxi or on foot.
When I return home, my day is still not over. I have to study again or take care of household chores. In our family, as in many Afghan families, daughters are expected to manage the house in addition to studying or working outside the home. As a result, my entire day is divided between my studies, the clinic, and housework.
Getting to the clinic is never easy. On my way, I pass several mosques and a Taliban-run religious school. Sometimes, when the young men come out, the way they look at me makes me feel unsafe. Their stares reveal how deeply they resent women leaving their homes. They look at me in a way that makes it clear they have embraced Taliban ideology — the same beliefs they are taught in their religious schools.
Every time I walk that route, I wonder whether I could end up like Farkhunda — killed for no reason, with a false accusation invented to justify my death.
My fears grow whenever I see Taliban members in the city or near the clinic. Sometimes they enter the clinic carrying weapons, and their presence makes the atmosphere heavy and intimidating.
I have to push that fear aside and focus on my work when I am at the clinic. There are only two women working there; almost everyone else is a man. Some patients treat me with respect, but others refuse to listen when a young woman explains something to them. At times, they behave as if a woman could not possibly know what she is talking about.
Once, a man who had previously been a teacher came to the clinic. When he saw me, he kindly said, “You are capable of much more than being a nurse or an assistant. I know that if circumstances had been different, you could have become a better doctor than many of the doctors practicing today.” His words meant a great deal to me because I do not often receive that kind of encouragement.
Some days, the work is emotionally exhausting. Officials from the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, Taliban commanders, and Taliban soldiers all come to the clinic. Once, a Taliban commander arrived to have a tooth extracted. He asked the dentist about the anesthetic injection. The soldier accompanying him laughed and said to the dentist, “Doctor, don’t numb the commander. Our commander has spilled so much blood — let him lose a little blood from his tooth as well.”
When I heard that, I found myself wondering how many innocent people this man had helped kill, how many families he had left without loved ones, and how many women and children had suffered because of him. Seeing him was both frightening and heartbreaking as I worried that he might suddenly become angry or create trouble for us.
On another occasion, a Pashtun man came to the clinic with his companion. He asked the dentist, “Has this girl studied dentistry?” The dentist replied, “Yes, she is studying online.”
The man looked at me, smirked, and said, “If she’s studying online, then she should treat patients online, too.” His remark cut deeply. I wanted to respond, but I remained silent. Instead, the dentist answered, “Because of people like yours, she has been unable to continue her education.”
Officials from the virtue and vice ministry inspect the clinic every month or two. They always ask about my mahram, saying, “Who is this young woman’s guardian, and why is she working alone?”
Often, I go to the clinic without a male guardian. The clinic’s doctor knew my father personally and hired me as a nurse’s assistant. Every time they ask about my mahram, I worry that they might shut down the clinic or create problems for us. That is why I hide so they do not see me.
There is only one female doctor at the clinic, and she does not work full-time. Most of the doctors are men. I have seen many occasions when some of the male doctors do not take women’s pain seriously.
There is also a clear difference in how women and men are treated at work. Certain tasks are assigned mostly to the women. We stay at the clinic longer and do most of the work inside, while the men usually have more time to eat, pray, or rest. We are expected to prepare the equipment, bring supplies, and handle much of the manual work.
I do not want to spend my whole life simply bringing instruments and assisting others. I want to treat patients myself and take responsibility for their care. I want the opportunity to put into practice everything I have learned.
This is not the future I imagined for myself as a child. When I was 17 and began preparing for the Kankor, Afghanistan’s national university entrance exam, I had big dreams. I told myself that I would earn the highest score in my province. Once, a teacher asked us about our goals, and I said, “I want to be the top scorer in the Kankor.”
At the time, I dreamed of becoming a surgeon, perhaps even a heart or brain surgeon. By the time the exam results were announced, the political system had changed, and I was no longer able to continue my education in the field I had dreamed of pursuing.
Three years ago, women were still allowed to study in certain fields. I was admitted to a midwifery program and completed four semesters. Only my final exam remained when the Taliban closed the institutes to female students. I could not graduate as we were never allowed to sit for our final examinations. I received only a certificate of attendance, not a diploma. Without an official qualification, I could not find stable employment.
After that, I began studying online, choosing from the few programs still available.
I enrolled in dental prosthetics rather than psychology because I felt that Afghan women today have to pursue whatever opportunities remain open to them. Dental prosthetics suited me better. We are not always free to choose our own path. Sometimes only one narrow door is left open, and we have no choice but to walk through it.
At the same time, I started looking for work. I wanted to gain practical experience and earn my own income. Every girl dreams of standing on her own feet, regardless of whether she earns a little or a lot.
I also looked for work in midwifery, but without an official diploma I could not secure a permanent position. Some clinics and hospitals required trainees to pay 3,000 afghani a month. Because of that, I could not build the career in midwifery that I had hoped for.
Things were slightly better in dental prosthetics. Since I could not afford the fees that clinics and public hospitals charged for internships, I approached a private clinic. The doctor there knew my father personally and hired me as a nurse’s assistant.
Even so, I still feel that the place I occupy today is far below the future I once imagined for myself.
Sometimes I become extremely tired. During months when I feel hopeless and think that nothing is left for me, I ask myself: “I was someone who dreamed of becoming a doctor and a surgeon—so why am I now only working as an assistant?”
Then a small sense of hope returns to my heart. I still want to grow. I want to prove my abilities and reach the position I truly deserve. Maybe the circumstances are not right today, but no one knows what tomorrow will bring. That hope is what keeps me going.
Some girls have lost hope and are searching for a refuge in life. They think that if they get married, they can find that refuge in their husbands. But I want to be my own refuge. I want to stand on my own feet, and that is why I continue to struggle to achieve my dreams.
People say that behind every dark night, there is light.
I live with that same hope. Every morning, I study; then I go to the clinic, face my fears and the pressures I carry, and return home exhausted at night. Despite everything, I still believe that one day circumstances will change and that I will be able to achieve at least some of the dreams I have carried in my heart for years.
Atousa Azar is the pen name of a Zan Times journalist based in Afghanistan.
