Every morning, before the city fully wakes up, I sit in front of that window. The road in front of me may be an ordinary street to others, but to me, it is filled with people, each carrying away a part of my life’s memories.
An old man who slowly drags his cane across the asphalt every morning, a girl who clutches her bag tightly to her chest and walks briskly, a child chasing his ball… Sometimes, before I write my first sentence, I watch them for a few minutes. I feel as though every one of them has a story that no one has written yet.
My name is Mahtab*. I am 23 years old and from Balkh province. I began writing on my own, then joined a few online classes, where I completed short courses in storytelling, narrative writing, and concept development. My notebooks always open before my laptop does. I pick up my pen and play instrumental music. I don’t know why, but I have always believed that paper understands a person better than a screen. On paper, even crossed-out sentences carry meaning; it is as if the mistakes are part of the narrative too.
I read a few pages of the book I had left unfinished last night. These days, I have returned to Her Eyes (Chashmhayash) again. I read some sentences twice, not because they are difficult but because I don’t have the heart to pass by them too quickly.
It isn’t even nine o’clock when the notification for the first class appears on the screen. One by one, the students log in. Some of them could be my older sister or even my mother. Every time I see their faces, I think to myself how remarkable it is: in a land where the paths to learning grow narrower every day, there are still people who have not given up on learning.
Five classes are held back-to-back. Sometimes the internet disconnects, sometimes the power goes out, sometimes the video freezes, but none of this stops the class. It is as if we are all afraid that if we lose even these few hours, we will lose a part of our future.
In the afternoon, the room grows quiet and peaceful once again. The glass of tea beside my hand has gone cold, and I sit facing a page with only a single sentence written at the top: “Before It Is Too Late.” This is the title of the book I have been living with for a long time. Some days, I write only a single paragraph and then stare at it for hours. Sometimes I ask myself, “Can words truly bear the weight of pain? Is it possible to fit the suffering of a generation into a few pages?”
Let me tell you about last week when I set out for a bookstore. The little bell installed above its door chimed as it opened. The smell of paper and new books filled the entire shop. The bookseller smiled and said, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
I went straight to the fiction shelf. My fingers slid over the spines of the books until I finally found Her Eyes. I was still holding the book in my hand when, through the glass, a few men in official attire passed by the shop. Instinctively, I held my breath. Nothing happened, but fear doesn’t always need an incident to arrive; sometimes it comes back to life just by seeing an old image.
Through the glass, I saw girls walking past the shop; one was holding her little sister’s hand, another had hidden a book beneath her shawl, while a third was walking quickly, as if she wanted to get away from the street’s gaze as quickly as possible. At that moment, I thought to myself how quietly hope walks in this city — silent, unpretentious, yet wounded.
When I left the bookstore, I held the book even tighter against my chest. I felt that in a time when so much can be taken from a human being, the dream of reading, writing, and creating still cannot be stolen unless one gives it up themselves.
As night falls, I sit behind that same window where I watch the people and their stories every morning. I may not be able to change all the pain of this city, but I can remember it, write it down, and let it not be lost in silence.
For me, writing is a way to preserve what is being lost: dreams, memories, and the voices of people who are still hopeful. Perhaps one day, someone will read these writings and know that in some of the hardest days of this land, there were people who, despite all the walls, kept a window open to the future.
*Mahtab is a pseudonym. Sophia Malek is the pen name of a Zan Times journalist.
