I wake up to the sound of my parents’ laughter. Along with my two sisters, I leave our room and walk toward the living room. Like every morning, my mother lovingly spreads out her flower-patterned tablecloth and prepares each of our favourite breakfasts. For me, she always makes a boiled egg because she knows how much I love it.
For many people, this may be just a simple breakfast. But for us, these laughs, this table, and these few minutes sitting together have become our only source of happiness during the five years of Taliban rule. My name is Zahra*.
After breakfast, my father leaves for his shop. These days, it is less a symbol of hope than an effort to keep our family alive. My mother, thinking about the rent, water and electricity bills, and hundreds of other expenses, turns to household chores, but the worry never leaves her face.
My sisters and I go to the room that has witnessed the quiet disappearance of our dreams for years.
My older sister becomes lost among old books and notebooks, studying and writing. She dreamed of becoming a writer after finishing high school but the Taliban buried that dream inside her before her pen could flourish.
My other sister, who was a tenth grade student, spends hours searching social media for scholarships and journalism training programs. She still hopes to find that someone has not forgotten Afghan girls somewhere in this world.
At a desk worn down by years of witnessing tears and waiting for freedom, I sit as a 12-year-old girl preparing for my final sixth grade exams, while slowly burying my dream of becoming a heart surgeon.
I review the lessons that I studied the night before. I take a sip of water and, after a deep breath, walk toward the shelf where we keep our clothes. It is a place where there is no colour left except black.
One by one, I put on my black dress, scarf, mask, and chador. One thought haunts me: Is my clothing what the Taliban want?
If I do not wear my chador in this scorching heat, will my fate become like that of my two classmates, who were arrested and expelled from school because they did not follow the Taliban’s preferred form of hijab?
I close the door of our house and step into a dusty alley. Every day, the street fills with the sounds of a blacksmith’s hammer, men talking in line at the bakery, ambulance sirens, and patients coming and going from the nearby hospital.
None of these sounds hurt my spirit as much as the catcalls and degrading looks from men who do not care whether a woman is elderly or a 12-year-old girl. To them, it does not matter whether a woman wears a hijab or not. It is enough that she is a woman to become a target of humiliation.
These looks and these words turn the roads I walk every day into a suffocating prison.
Finally, I reach the school, which is filled with girls whose faces carry the exhaustion of studying and the anxiety of an uncertain future. Soon, I and my classmates will no longer be allowed to enter its doors.
I walk into a classroom whose walls are decorated with poems and motivational quotes, where my classmates and I spent years studying together, laughing together, and building dreams for our futures.
Today, everything feels different. One girl says she no longer has the motivation to study and will only write her name on the exam paper. Another has placed her head on her schoolbag and books, asleep from exhaustion. Others, with tears in their eyes, speak about their uncertain futures.
The teacher enters the classroom. Seeing the sadness on each of our faces, sorrow fills her eyes. She tries to smile and gently says, “Girls, everything will be alright. Stay hopeful.” Then she places the exam papers in front of us.
I take my pen in my hand, but it feels as though it no longer has the strength to write. From first grade until today, I have spent countless nights studying. I always dreamed that one day I would become a doctor and serve the people of my country.
But now I can only stare at the exam paper and ask myself, “What should I write? What future am I studying for? Which seventh grade am I trying to reach when that path no longer exists for girls?”
The Taliban did not just close the door to one classroom. They blocked the road leading to my dreams and my future.
A lump forms in my throat, and tears slowly gather in my eyes. These tears are not only for one exam. They are tears that the Taliban have planted in my eyes and continue to water every day through their restrictions and prohibitions, allowing them to grow stronger.
At the same time, they are burying my hopes, my goals, and my dreams one by one in a corner of my heart.
At that moment, I wanted to scream so loudly that my voice would pass beyond the walls of the school, beyond the streets of the city, and beyond Afghanistan’s borders, so the whole world could hear it.
I want to cry for each and every dream I have lost, but what would it change?
I know that sooner or later, the same fate that came to my sisters will come for me, too. Perhaps one day I will also remain trapped in the same room that has become our forced refuge for years though even at night we do not dare pull back the curtains to let fresh air in, fearing the Taliban and sometimes suspicious neighbours.
We worry that someone may note, “Three young girls live in this house and move around freely inside it.”
By the time I return home, I no longer even have an appetite to eat. I go straight to that same room that for three years has witnessed the pain of being deprived of education, and other struggles.
Here, I blog, recite poetry, and speak about the pain of half of my society. I speak about girls whose books have remained closed for years, women who have been deprived of opportunities to work, study, and live normal lives, and children who, before even discovering the world, have been confronted with walls of restriction.
Every day, I set aside the exhaustion of the day to write down the words I want to say. Then, I ask my mother to record me on her phone, while helping arrange my clothes so that my videos look more presentable and polished. Despite all these efforts, creating each video is not easy. My mother’s phone is a simple one, and its low quality makes both recording and professionally editing videos difficult. But I still thank God that I have this opportunity, and I do not allow these limitations to stop me from continuing.
I chose this path to escape depression and isolation, and to defend the rights of women in my country. When I was not allowed to freely go outside or continue my education, I wanted at least my voice to pass through the walls of my home and reach girls who, like me, are living in silence and deprivation.
Today, nearly 2,000 people follow my page. Most of the encouraging messages I receive come from women and girls who relate to my words and videos. These messages give me hope that my voice, even though it comes from a small room and through a simple phone, has managed to reach many hearts.
But I quickly learned that this path, like education, comes with fear, threats, and restrictions.
Whenever I publish a video, relatives and family members come to our home and fill my father’s ears with criticism:
“Your daughter has grown up. She must wear a chador. Do not allow her image to be published. The honor and dignity of the family will be destroyed. Why is she blogging? Why is she speaking out against the Taliban and defending women’s rights? She is still a child. What does defending the rights of girls and women have to do with her?”
Every time I hear these words, I feel as though more walls are being built around my life — with walls made by the fear and judgment of others adding to the walls made by the Taliban.
Despite all these worries, one greater fear always stays with me: that one day someone might reveal my identity and location to the Taliban. What will happen if they find me? What happens if I am arrested for writing, speaking, and defending the right to education?
Despite everything, I have not put my books aside.
At night, I walk around our courtyard. Sometimes I write, sometimes I think, and sometimes, in the darkness of the night, I hang a banner inscribed with the slogan “Woman, Life, Freedom” on a wall as a silent cry.
Sometimes I imagine going into seventh grade. On that day when I can place my books on a desk again and hold my pen without fear, the first thing I will write will be the story of these days. My childhood may be passing within the walls of our home, but they cannot take away my hope.
I do not want anyone else to decide who I should become. I do not want my dream of becoming a doctor, my sister’s dream of becoming a writer, and my other sister’s dream of becoming a journalist to disappear.
I am only a 12-year-old girl who wants to study, grow, serve her people, and think about her future without fear.
Today, in Afghanistan, many girls share the same dream: to be allowed to be children again, to be students again, and to have dreams again.
We are still here — with books that remain closed, with pens waiting to write, and with hope that, although wounded, is still alive.
* Zahra is a pseudonym. Awa Nikyar is the pen name of a Zan Times journalist in Afghanistan.
