The Voice of an Afghan Girl

The human heart can grow so strong that it carries every pain in silence, yet still stands tall. Fear, despair, injustice, voicelessness—can a single soul bear them all at once? How much strength does it take to fight even for the smallest of rights? To fight simply because we are girls, demanding the same rights that boys are given without question.

This is the voice of an Afghan girl. The voice of pain, the voice of injustice. The voice of a girl who has walked through endless struggles, who still lives with a broken heart, eyes heavy with sorrow and bitter memories, yet she continues to fight. On the surface, she shows no sign of despair. She stands like a mountain—firm, unshaken—so that no storm can tear her down.

But where does such courage come from? From a girl so young, who had barely begun her life, and yet was forced to endure so much. The burning sun above her, the winding roads filled with fear and uncertainty, the chaos of a restless world, a heart burdened with anxiety, running toward a future she could not even see. Like falling into a deep, dark pit, her voice caught in her throat, unheard by the world.

Since 1996, my mother would tell me stories of how the Taliban came and stripped girls of their rights. In their eyes, a woman was nothing more than a servant, bound to obey. I watched my mother as she spoke. Her voice trembled, her eyes filled with tears. She carried those memories in silence, yet the fear of those days lived within her words.

I often wondered: why should such a vision of women even exist? Are we not part of society? Are we not human too? My mind could never accept it. My mother, who raised me with such strength through countless struggles—could it be that God had not granted her the right to choose her own life? Yet God Himself has said: Paradise lies at the feet of your mother. Woman is paradise.

For the first time, I felt the difference. I felt the weight of being less. My heart trembled.

My mother always dreamed of being a teacher. Her eyes would shine whenever she spoke of teaching, filled with hope and joy. From her, I took my inspiration. If she could not continue her path, then I would. I would study. I would carry her dream.

Then came August 15, 2021. By then, I had finished school. I was a young girl, strong and hopeful, ready to begin my journey at Kabul University. I had plans, dreams, and ambitions. Yes, there were challenges, but I was grateful for them, because they shaped me. I worked tirelessly, day and night, to build my future.

But when the Taliban returned, the world shifted. Everything grew dark again. Fear took hold of us once more. Almost immediately, the gates of schools were closed. I still hear the cries of girls, their voices heavy with grief—but no one heard them. Fear and silence swept across the land.

I was there, standing at the gates of Kabul University. I had walked that path with pride, but now, I was stopped. Soldiers stood before me, and the doors were shut because I was a girl. A girl not allowed to learn. In that moment, I felt as though I no longer existed. As though someone had erased me from the world. As though I had never been.

My sister, Mursal, a worthy daughter of this land, who with countless dreams wished to finish her school and one day become a doctor. But they told her, “You can no longer go to school.” With a heart full of despair, she returned home. When I asked her about it, she could not speak. Her eyes spoke instead, and in that silence I felt as though my heart had shattered into pieces.

How can a child bear so much pain? I understood the agony she carried inside—the pain she tried to hide, the hurt she did not want to show. But I knew what was tearing her apart within.

Why must we witness all of this suffering? What crime have these children and girls committed to deserve such deprivation? Life has become so suffocating that we can hardly breathe. How can we escape such ignorance? How can we prove that we, too, are part of society, that we have rights over this country as well? Yet here, the very name of woman is erased from books, and laws are written across her hungry body.

The four walls of a house may not be a prison, yet they have become one. A woman weeps alone in her room—not from shame, but from injustice and oppression. It is not choice, it is not sin—only tears, falling from a throat that cannot even swallow bread without choking on its own humanity.

Even in the midst of destruction and despair, a voice still remains—one that does not seek sympathy or material needs, but instead calls for change, justice, and the courage to stand against oppression.

A small plant had grown in the garden of our home—thirsty, weak, and hopeless, as if it could never live again. It had fallen, its condition poor, with no one to water it. Because it was so small, no one noticed it, no one cared. The light of its heart was slowly fading, and it wished to disappear.

But deep within, it still had faith that one day, it would stand tall again, green and strong. A tiny spark of hope in its heart kept it alive, for this is the law of nature: whatever you truly desire, it will be drawn to you.

My eyes fell upon this little plant. I whispered to it, “You are brave. You must become green again, grow tall, and be beautiful.” Every day I watered it, cared for it, until the weak and dying plant blossomed into a beautiful flower. It smiled at me in its own way, and when I looked at it, my heart found peace.

Human beings, too, live by hope. If hope is taken away, what remains of us? The light is already within us. We only need to make sure we never give up. We must breathe hope the way we breathe air. We are like fallen plants, in need of strong faith to rise again. And only we ourselves can make this happen. We must turn our pain into our strength.

We are the strong daughters of our land—no storm can ever destroy us. I started again, stronger than before. My faith that I could rise from this darkness grew, and no ignorance could ever stop us. Like a plant that begins to grow again, slowly lifting its head toward the sky. We are not weak. We begin again, we fall again, but our hope never dies because it lives in our hearts, and no ignorance can ever take it away.

We continue our studies, even if there are no books or pens. We write with our hearts, with our faith, with our hope. And when the next generation sees that we did not fall, that our books did not gather dust, and our pens never stopped, perhaps they too will find inspiration.

I want to tell them: Hold on. The world is heavy, but so are you. You are made of strength, and one day your voice will matter. Even if the whole world gives up on us, we will never give up on ourselves or on God. One day, it will be better. Until then, I will keep writing. I will keep dreaming. And I will keep fighting for myself, for my mother, for Mursal, and for every girl who was ever told to stay silent.

We are not hopeless. Every broken piece of us will rise again.