STORIES FROM AFGHANISTAN

Zuhal was 16 years old. In the dusty alleys of Kabul, she lived in a small, worn-down house with her mother and two younger sisters. Her father had been killed years earlier by a roadside mine explosion. All that reminded of him was a black-and-white photo in a broken wooden frame above the shelf. Zuhal was an intelligent, book-loving girl passionate about writing and dreaming of becoming an author. Before the Taliban returned, she went to school , participated in essay competition and dreamed of one day becoming a voice for the silenced women of her homeland. But the world changed. Suddenly, school gates were locked, a curtain of fear fell across the city, and Zuhal's dreams were buried beneath the dark veils that were now forced onto her. One day, the scorched the streets of Kabul. Zuhal stepped out of her house to get medicine for her sick mother. She wore a long grey chador, but her face was not fully covered. Her steps were slow but her heart beat anxiously. The pharmacy was only two alleys away. On her way back, the rumble of a black vehicle echoed through the narrow

street. Two men in Taliban uniforms got out. 

One of them shouted:

“Shameless girl! Why is our face uncovered?”

Zuhal tried to speak but her voice got caught in her throat. The other man grabbed her harshly by the arm. People watched. Some turned away. But no one said anything. They forced her into the car and took her away. They confiscated her phone number and blindfolded her. For hours, they interrogated her in a dark room. They accused her of violating “Sharia" , warning her that if she was ever seen again without full hajab, her punishment would be harsher. They humiliated her, insulted her and she cried. No out of fear, but out of rage, out of a

stifled scream, out of helplessness. Late that night, they released her quietly. When she returned home, her mother opened

the door with tearful eyes. Her sister embraced her. 

But Zuhal was no longer the same girl.

Her voice trembled, her gaze dimmed and her heart was filled with a silent fear. The next morning she opened her old notebook and write:

“ They may have thrown a chador over my head, They may have silenced my voice, They may have tried to break me, But they don’t know that my mind is still free that I can fight back with words. I am alive, and as long as I live, I will write our story.”

Her name is Zahra, a fifteen years old girl from Herat.

She used to wake up every morning with the sound of birds outside her window, put on her school uniform and run to class with a smile. She dreamed of becoming a teacher, so that one day she could light the path of knowledge for other girls.

But one morning, her world collapsed..

The gates of her school were locked. The blackboard were erased. Her books, once full of hope, were left abandoned in the corner of her room. From that day on, Zahra’s life turned into silence. No more laughter with her classmates. No running through the school yard. Instead, she sat by the window, watching the boys walk to school while she clutched her books against her chest, tears falling silently down her face.

Her father told her:

"Daughter, the world has become too cruel for your dreams.

Bur Zahra refused to let her dreams die. At night, under the dim light of a lantern, she would read the same pages over and over again, as of to keep her hope alive.

Her mother often found her crying over her notebooks, whispering:

"Why was I born a girl in a land where my wings must be broken?"

Now, Zahra’s voice cannot be heard in her own country. But if you listen closely, her silent cry, travels beyond the mountains of Afghanistan. It is the cry of thousands Afghan girls who gave robbed of their childhood, their education and future.

They are not asking for pity, They are asking for justice, They are asking for the simple right to read, to learn, and to dream.

Nala was only eighteen. But her eyes, tired and heavy, carried the sorrow of a woman thrice her age. She leaved in West Kabul- a district where, over the few days, dozens of young girls have been arrested by the Taliban’s morality police, dragged from shopping centers, cafés,

and busy streets- accused only of “bad hajab” . Many of them vanished into detention, their families left with no answers, just silence.

One afternoon, the sun blazed over the cracked concrete of Kabul. Nala, coveted in a black Chador and face mask, walked with a friend through a crowded market. Her hair was fully tucked away, her body hidden under layers, but it was not enough. A few strands of hair accidentally poked from the edge of her scarf. And that was enough.

A white van screeched to a halt. Two Taliban agents steeped out:

“you, Girl! Why is your hair showing? Are you trying to case fitna? One of them baked. Nala froze. Her friend trembled. The men did not wait for an answer. One grabbed Nala's wrist violently, the other pushed her toward the van. Passerby stood frozen. Some averted their eyes. Others sighed. No one intervened. The fear was too loud. Inside the van, the air was thick with silence. Nala’s heart pounded in her chest. She did not know where they were going- no one did. That was the horror.

They took her to unknown location- cold grey, Nameless. Interrogation began. 

“Why was your scarf too loose? Why did you came out without a male guardian?" 

They humiliate her, called her immoral, accused her of endangering society. She was made to sign a statement swearing she would never again “violate Sharia” . Some girls were released after their families paid money. Some were not released at all.When Nala finally returned home late that night, she did not cry in front of anyone. But her smile was gone. Her laughter had vanished. She sat in silence, her schoolbooks gathering dust in the corner. She did not touch her math notes. She did not look outside the window for days. But one night, while everyone was asleep, she pulled an old notebook. From. Beneath her pillow. The paper was yellowed, the pen nearly dry. 

She wrote:

Maybe they found fault with my scarf, Maybe they judged my mask to be imperfect, Maybe they saw me as a threat, But they don’t know , my mind is still free, My voice is still alive in my heart. I am Nala, And you, you are my witness, As long as words can build bridges between silence and truth, I will write. I will tell our story.