Written by Frishta Mohammadi | نویسنده فرشته محمدی نسخه‌ی ترجمه‌شده‌ی این نوشته توسط هوش مصنوعی در ادامه‌ی نسخه‌ی فارسی موجود است. The AI-generated translation of this text follows the Farsi version below. اگر بگويم ۶ ماه می‌شود که پا از خانه بيرون نگذاشته‌ام، آيا باور می‌کنی؟ من همان دختری هستم که صدای خنده‌هايش در کوچه می‌پيچيد، همانی که با هر قدمش کوچه و بازار رنگ بهار می‌گرفت؛ حتی در هوای پاييزی، برگ‌ها با صدای قهقهه‌هايم به رقص می‌آمدند. اسم من بهار است، همچنان بهار بوده‌ام، نه تنها در زندگی خودم بلکه در زندگی اطرافيانم هم. من در خانواده‌ای کوچک چهار نفره بزرگ شده‌ام. البته برای جامعه‌مان، خانواده‌ای کوچک به حساب می‌آيد. خواهری دارم، همچون قرص ماه که هر چه به سویش بنگری، مجذوبش می‌شوی و دلت می‌خواهد ساعت‌ها نگاهت را از او ندزدی، و پدر و مادرم که حاميان زندگی من‌اند؛ از يک نگاه می‌توان گفت دليل ادامه دادن زندگی من. خانه‌مان هميشه پر از حس صميميت بوده و هيچ‌گاه خودت را بی‌ارزش فکر نمی‌کردی، حتی اگر اشتباهی انجام می‌دادی، باز هم حمايت‌شان از تو دريغ نمی‌شد. اما در زندگی من يک دوره آغاز شد که هيچ‌وقت حتی در ذهنم خطور نمی‌کرد اين دوره وجود داشته باشد. همش فکر می‌کنم يا که من بدبختم يا که تاوان آن خنده‌های از ته دل را پس می‌دهم. زمانی که حکومت تغيير کرد، آن روز بود که کم‌کم بهار من به خزان تبديل شد. هر روز که سپری می‌شد، بيشتر رنگ پاييزی به خود می‌گرفتم؛ حتی مقاومت هم کردم، ولی نشد. در بعضی چيزها هر چقدر هم تلاش بکنی، به آن نمی‌رسی. در اوايل که حکومت تغيير کرد، افسردگی گرفتم، نه‌چندان شديد؛ می‌توانستم سرپا باشم و از سوی ديگر حمايت خانواده‌ام را مثل هميشه داشتم. هر روز که سپری می‌کردم، دلم بيشتر و بيشتر می‌گرفت. بعد از بسته شدن درب مکاتب، کورس زبان می‌رفتم. دوست‌های خوبی داشتم؛ با تمام غم‌ها، بهانه‌ای برای خنديدن پيدا می‌کرديم، نه آن خنده‌هایی که قبل داشتيم، ديگر خبری از آن خنده‌ها که حس بهار را می‌آورد نبود، ولی خوب، همين هم برای آن شرايط کافی بود. امسال که سال ۱۴۰۳ است، دردناک‌ترين سال در طول عمرم است. از همان شروع اين سال دلم گرفته بود. خوب يادم است روزهای اول حمل، زمانی که مکاتب شروع می‌شود، آن روزی که زنگ مکتب به صدا درآمد، چنان صدای شکستن قلبم به گوشم آمد که چند روز گوش‌هايم سوييت می‌کشيد. از آن روز به بعد، باز هم با پاهای ناتوان و قلب شکسته به راه خود ادامه دادم. هر روز که پا از خانه بيرون می‌گذاشتم، مثل يک شکنجه بود. هم می‌خواستم از چهار ديواری خانه خلاص شوم و هم زمانی که از خانه بيرون می‌زدم، در کوچه و بازار شهر با افراد طالبان برخورد می‌کردم. با هر بار رد شدن از کنار آن‌ها، چند بار قلبم می‌ايستاد. در آن لحظه هم حس نفرت داشتم و هم حس ترس. می‌گفتم که نکند من را ايستاد کند؛ آن زمان چه خاکی بر سرم بريزم؟ هرچند حجاب سياه دراز می‌پوشيدم، ولی هيچ چيز ترسم را کم نمی‌کرد. يکی از روزهای تابستانی سوزان بود. چنان هوا گرم بود که راه رفتن در سرک مانند راه رفتن روی آتش بود. آن روز حجاب سياه پوشيده بودم با چادر سياه. چادرم را کمی آزادتر کرده بودم که بادی به صورتم بخورد تا گرما‌زده نشوم. به سمت کورس می‌رفتم که در راه، از چيزی که می‌ترسيدم سرم آمد. آن روز به خاطر اينکه چادرم را آن‌طور پوشيده بودم، ايستادم کردند. در آن لحظه لرزه به تنم افتاده بود. فکر می‌کردم آفتاب چنان وجودم را به آتش کشيده است که با هيچ چيز نمی‌شود خاموشش کرد، و هيچ پناهگاهی برای پناه بردن ندارم. بعد از آن، ديگر خانه را پناهگاهی برایم ساختم؛ خانه‌ای که ديوارهايش سکوت می‌کند و همه جا را سکوت فرا گرفته است. بعد از آن روز، خانواده‌ام هر چه کوشش کرد، قادر به بيرون ساختن من از پناهگاهی که ساخته بودم نشدند. به گفته مرد بزرگ که می‌گفت: «خانه تنها برای خواب کردن است و نبايد هميشه در خانه ماند، چون افسردگی به سراغت می‌آيد.» زمانی که همچو بهار بوده‌ام، هميشه اين شعار من بود. ولی حالا چه؟ حالا ديگر شعاری برای من نمانده است. ديگر افسردگی در من رخنه کرده است. ديگر نمی‌توانم بهار خودم باشم، چه بسا که بهار اطرافيانم باشم. حالا فهميدم تا چه وقت می‌توان با بال‌های شکسته پرواز کرد. بعد از آن، حتی همان بال‌های شکسته هم برای ما باقی نمی‌ماند. حالا ۶ ماه است که صورتم نور خورشيد را در کوچه لمس نکرده است. ديگر نه آن بهار سابق در من زنده است و نه آن خنده‌های از ته دل. حالا حتی نمی‌دانم کوچه‌مان مثل ۶ ماه قبل است يا تغيير کرده است. من در پناهگاه خود تا زمانی پناه می‌گيرم که ديگر نيازی به پناهگاه نباشد. تنها اميد من همين و بس. بعضی اوقات از خودم می‌پرسم آيا روزی دوباره خواهم توانست به کوچه و بازار پا بگذارم؟ آيا در زمان شادی، خوشحالی را کلاً از ياد نبرده‌ام؟ If I say it’s been six months since I last stepped out of the house, would you believe me? I am the same girl whose laughter once echoed through the alleyways, the one whose every step brought the colors of spring to the streets and markets—even in the autumn air, the leaves would dance to the sound of my giggles. My name is Bahar, and just like spring, I have been a source of life, not only for myself but also for those around me. I grew up in a small family of four—small, at least, by the standards of our society. I have a sister, radiant like the full moon; the more you gaze at her, the more captivated you become, unwilling to steal your eyes away even for a moment. And my parents, the pillars of my life—one could say, in a way, the very reason I keep going. Our home was always filled with a sense of warmth and intimacy. You never felt worthless there, even when you made a mistake; their support never wavered. But a chapter began in my life that I never imagined could exist. I keep wondering if I’m cursed or if I’m paying the price for those heartfelt laughs. The day the government changed was the day my spring began to fade into autumn. With each passing day, I took on more of a fall-like hue. I resisted, I tried, but some things, no matter how hard you strive, remain out of reach. In the early days of the regime change, I fell into depression—not too severe; I could still stand on my feet. And, as always, I had my family’s support. But with each day that passed, my heart grew heavier. After the schools shut down, I started attending a language course. I had good friends there; despite all the sorrow, we’d find reasons to laugh—not the kind of laughter I once had, the kind that carried the essence of spring, but it was enough for those circumstances. This year, 1403 (2024-2025 in the Persian calendar), has been the most painful of my life. From the very start, my heart felt heavy. I vividly remember those early days of Hamal (March-April), when schools would normally begin. The day the school bell rang, I heard the sound of my heart breaking so clearly that my ears rang for days. From that day on, I pressed forward with frail legs and a shattered heart. Every time I stepped outside, it felt like torture. I longed to escape the four walls of my home, yet the moment I did, I’d encounter Taliban members in the streets and markets of the city. Each time I passed by them, my heart stopped several times over. In those moments, I felt both hatred and fear. I’d think, “What if they stop me? What would I do then?” Though I wore a long black hijab, nothing eased my terror. One scorching summer day, the heat was so intense that walking down the street felt like treading over fire. I was dressed in my black hijab and a black chador. I had loosened my chador slightly to let a breeze touch my face, hoping to avoid heatstroke. I was on my way to the language course when the thing I dreaded most happened. That day, because of how I’d worn my chador, they stopped me. My body trembled; it felt as though the sun had set my very being ablaze, a fire nothing could extinguish. I had no refuge to turn to. After that, I turned my home into a sanctuary—a place where the walls stand silent and silence envelops everything. Since that day, no matter how hard my family tried, they couldn’t pull me out of the refuge I’d built for myself. As a wise man once said, “A house is only for sleeping; you shouldn’t stay inside forever, or depression will find you.” When I was like spring, that had always been my motto. But now what? Now, I have no motto left. Depression has taken root in me. I can no longer be my own spring, let alone the spring for those around me. Now I understand how long one can fly with broken wings. After that, even those broken wings are no longer left to us. It’s been six months since my face last felt the sunlight in the streets. The old Bahar is no longer alive in me, nor are those heartfelt laughs. I don’t even know if our alley is the same as it was six months ago or if it’s changed. I remain in my sanctuary until the day I no longer need one. That is my only hope, and nothing more. Sometimes I ask myself: Will I ever again be able to step into the streets and markets? In moments of joy, have I completely forgotten what happiness feels like?

When the Taliban took power in Afghanistan in 2021, they closed the doors of education for millions of Afghan girls. But Mohaddesa Hassani refused to accept this fate. In a country where the pursuit of knowledge was becoming a distant dream, she defied the odds by launching Daricha. This online education platform connects Afghan girls with teachers worldwide, offering them a lifeline to education despite the oppressive regime. At the time, Hassani was an enthusiastic student at Marefat High School, where education was a vital part of her life. She loved reading, writing short stories, and learning new languages, such as English. But everything changed when she was in 10th grade, and the Taliban seized control of Afghanistan, stripping millions of girls, including Hassani, of their right to education.  On the day the Taliban entered Kabul in 2021, Hassani was sitting in the middle of an exam at school. Suddenly, her teacher rushed into the classroom, frantic, urging the students to leave immediately.    "It felt like a movie, and I was just an audience member watching it unfold," Hassani said. "We ran home, urged by everyone to move faster, but I was confused, unable to understand what was happening."    Hassani stayed indoors for the next week, overwhelmed by the chaos and uncertainty. As her friends began leaving the country, Hassani felt an intense loneliness, unsure of what her future would hold.  "In those moments, it felt like the world was moving on without me, and I was stuck in a place where nothing made sense," Hassani said.  Hassani refused to give up on her dream of learning. Determined to continue her education, she discovered a program called "Transition to Success," supported by the American University of Afghanistan. This initiative offered online courses for girls who could no longer attend school. Upon completing the courses, participants received a certificate that allowed them to apply to universities, even without a high school diploma.   Mohaddessa Hassani with her friends in Kabul, Afghanistan. Their faces have been blurred for safety reasons. | Photo Submitted to HerStory. “I was lucky enough to be participating in this program and continuing my education in the darkest days of my life,” Hassani said. “It helped me get a certification that gave me hope for my future.”    As she completed her studies with the Transition to Success program, Hassani recognized the immense need for educational opportunities for other girls in Afghanistan. Through her involvement in a youth ambassador program for sustainable development and leadership, supported by The HundrED organization, she connected with people from around the world, which inspired her to help other Afghan girls access education. Reaching out to her two friends in India and England, she co-founded Daricha , an online education platform that connects Afghan girls with volunteer tutors from around the globe.   Despite being a small team with limited experience, they created the platform, quickly growing it to reach over 450 students and offering a crucial lifeline to education for those living under the Taliban’s rule.    "Even though we were just three young people with little experience, we created these classes and were able to give hope to so many girls," Hassani said. "It showed me that even the smallest efforts can make a big difference in someone's life."    Through the Daricha  program, Hassani and her team are continuing to work to secure scholarships and opportunities for students to leave Afghanistan, offering them a chance to continue their education abroad.  A girl attending Daricha's online class. | Photo submitted by Mohaddessa Hassani to HerStory. Two months ago, Hassani herself fled the country, helped by her American teacher, and was accepted into Porterville College in California. She is now pursuing her education in safety.  “I am so happy to have gotten out of Afghanistan and been accepted into college,” Hasani said. “I can’t believe I’m finally in real classrooms after three years.”    Though Hassani is now in a safer place, Hassani’s heart is still with the girls she left behind in Afghanistan. She hopes to return one day to work in the education sector and help make her country a more literate and educated society.     "One day, I want to return and be part of the change that brings education and opportunity to every girl in my country," Hassani said.

Written by Hawa | نویسنده حوا نسخه‌ی ترجمه‌شده‌ی این نوشته توسط هوش مصنوعی در ادامه‌ی نسخه‌ی فارسی موجود است. The AI-generated translation of this text follows the Farsi version below. آفتاب نیمروز، گرمایی دلپذیر داشت. نور طلایی بر پوستم می‌تابید، اما درونم سرد و یخ‌زده بود. بعد از سال‌ها جدایی، دوباره در آغوش خانواده، در کنار مادروپدر، قرار گرفتم. لبخندهایی که سال‌ها در خاطر نگه داشته بودم، در کنار اشک‌های خاموشِ دلتنگی، جای خود را پیدا کردند. هر لحظه شکرگزاری می‌کردم، اما در گوشه‌ای از قلبم، اندوهِ دیرینِ جدایی و دردِ دختران و زنانی که سرنوشت‌شان را رها نکرده بودم، هنوز زنده بود.    از کودکی که عاشق دکلمه شعر بودم، هر بیتی چون گنجینه‌ای در قلبم جای داشت. اکنون، دستم به سوی گوشی کشیده شد؛ صفحه‌ای که داستانی از شعر «دست هایش را از عقب بسته بودن» مصطفی خیام را به نمایش می‌گذاشت، ناخواسته در ذهنم نقش بست. انگشت لرزانم بر گزینه‌ی ضبط صدا حرکت کرد و صدای من، همچون زمزمه‌ای نرم در خلوتِ اتاق، شعر را جاری ساخت. هنوز در عمق داستان فرو نرفته بودم که بغضی تلخ گلویم را گرفت. صدام می‌لرزید، اشک‌هایم بی‌اجازه جاری می‌شدند. در همان لحظه، خاطراتِ تاریکی که پشت درهای بسته زندگی گذرانده بودم، از پس زمان سر برآوردند؛ لحظاتی که آینده‌ام تنها سایه‌ای محو بود و دخترانی که هنوز در همان قفسِ خاموشِ سرنوشت نشسته بودند.    سر نوشتی که من را یاری کرد تا از آن چاله‌ی بی‌پایان بیرون بیایم، اما برای آن‌ها چه؟    ناگهان مادرم با شنیدن هم هم من با نگاهی نگران در را باز کرد:       « عزیز دل مادر، چیزی شده؟ چرا گریه می‌کنی؟»    در برابر چشمان مهربانش، چگونه می‌توانستم تمام دردهای درونم را به زبان بیاورم؟ فقط سرم را روی شانه‌اش انداختم وآهی از دل بیرون آوردم:        «مادر… آن‌ها هنوز آنجا هستند.»    سکوت مادر، همراه با نوازش گرمش، اما به هیچ عنوان نتوانست ترمیم‌کننده‌ی این زخم‌های عمیق باشد. آن لحظه، تصمیم گرفتم که دیگر نمی‌توانم سکوت را بپذیرم.    قلم م را برداشتم و نوشتم…      اگر   چند   قلم  برای بیان بغض هایم ضعیفی می کرد  نمی‌توانست تمام آن واژه های که در دل من پیچ می خورد را به جمله ببندد، و نکته‌ی برای پایان این درد دریابد.   قلم   تمام   دل‌شوره‌هایم   را   توصیف   نمی‌تواند .       باز   هم   به   حد   توانم   می‌نویسم،     شاید   دردی   را   روی   دفترچه‌ی   گوشی‌ام   جا   بگذارم .     دل من شور می‌زند برای تمام زنانی  که با هزاران سختی و بدبختی تحصیل کردند،  اما امروز، در خانه‌ی خود شان   اجازه‌ی هیچ کاری به آن‌ها داده نمی‌شود؛  در سرزمینشان، هر روز حس خطر و ناتوانی موج می‌زند.    مگر تقصیر آن‌ها چیست؟    دلم می‌سوزد برای دخترانی  که منتظر هفت‌سالگی‌شان بودند تا به مکتب، ثبت نام کند؛  برای آن‌هایی که با هزار امید، آمادگی امتحان کانکور را می گرفت   شب و روز خود را در میان خط‌های سیاهِ  تاریخ دروغین و جنگ‌های داخلی افغانستان گم کرده بودند.    دخترانی که با هزاران مشقت،  در میان فقر و محدودیت،  در کورس‌های ریاضی، فیزیک و مثلثات ثبت نام می‌کردند.    پس معادله‌ی زندگی آن‌ها چه؟  گذشته از دل‌شکستگی‌هایشان،  آینده‌ی آن‌ها چگونه رقم خواهد خورد؟    معمایی که نه با فرمول‌های خوارزمی حل می‌شود،  نه با تکنیک‌های پیچیده‌ی معادلات فیزیکی انیشتین.  حتی در جدول تناوبی عناصر،  هیچ عنصری برای محاسبه‌ی سرنوشت آن‌ها وجود ندارد.    آیا سرنوشت‌شان را هم مانند ژن‌های آزمایشگاهی مندل،  به دست تقدیر و تصادف می‌سپارند؟    یا شاید، درست مثل من،  تنها یک قلم، تنها یک فریاد،  بتواند معادله‌ی زندگی‌شان را تغییر دهد؟  The midday sun carried a pleasant warmth. Its golden light bathed my skin, yet inside, I was cold and frozen. After years of separation, I was finally reunited with my family, embraced once more by my mother and father. The smiles I had preserved in my memory for so long now stood alongside the silent tears of longing. I whispered my gratitude with every passing moment, but in a quiet corner of my heart, the old sorrow of separation and the pain of the girls and women whose fates I had not abandoned still lingered.  From childhood, I had been in love with reciting poetry, cherishing every verse as a treasure in my heart. Now, my hand reached for my phone; a page displaying the poem "They Had Tied His Hands Behind Him"  by Mostafa Khayyam appeared before me, unbidden. My trembling finger moved toward the record button, and my voice, like a soft whisper in the solitude of my room, began to weave the poem into the air. I had barely immersed myself in the words when a bitter lump rose in my throat. My voice trembled, and my tears, uninvited, began to fall. In that very moment, the dark memories of a life spent behind closed doors surged from the depths of time—moments when my future was nothing more than a faint shadow and girls just like me still sat in the silent cage of fate.  Fate had granted me the strength to climb out of that bottomless pit, but what about them?  Suddenly, my mother, hearing my hushed sobs, opened the door with a worried look.      "My dear, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"  How could I possibly put into words all the pain buried within me, staring into her kind eyes? I simply rested my head on her shoulder and let out a deep sigh.    "Mother… they are still there."  Her silence, accompanied by her warm caresses, could never truly heal these deep wounds. In that moment, I realized I could no longer remain silent.  I picked up my pen and began to write…  If countless pens faltered under the weight of my sorrow, they could never bind into sentences all the words that twist and turn within my heart, nor could they find an end to this pain.  No pen can fully capture my anxiety.      Yet, I write to the best of my ability,     Perhaps leaving some of this pain behind on the pages of my phone.  My heart aches for all the women   Who fought through endless hardships to receive an education,   Only to be denied the right to do anything with it in their own homes,   In a land where fear and powerlessness rise like waves each day.  What crime have they committed?  My heart breaks for the girls   Who longed for their seventh birthday just to enroll in school,   For those who, with boundless hope, prepared for university entrance exams,   Dedicating their days and nights to the black lines   Of a history tainted by lies and Afghanistan’s endless wars.  For the girls who, despite poverty and restrictions,   Struggled to enroll in mathematics, physics, and trigonometry courses.  But what of the equation of their lives?  Beyond their shattered dreams,   What does their future hold?  A riddle that neither Khwarizmi’s formulas can solve   Nor Einstein’s complex equations can decipher.   Even within the periodic table,   No element exists to calculate their fate.  Will their destiny, like Mendel’s experimental genes,   Be left to chance and coincidence?  Or perhaps, like me,   A single pen, a single cry,   Could rewrite the equation of their lives?

Written by Maryam Samim | نویسنده مریم صمیم نسخه‌ی ترجمه‌شده‌ی این نوشته توسط هوش مصنوعی در ادامه‌ی نسخه‌ی فارسی موجود است. The AI-generated translation of this text follows the Farsi version below. با دو دوستم که از صنف انگلیسی رخصت شده بودیم، به‌سوی خانه روان شدیم. قدم‌هایمان محکم و هدفمند بود، اما دل‌هایمان چندان شادمان نبود. چند روزی می‌شد که خبر ربوده شدن دختران توسط طالبان پخش شده بود. در شهر و میان کوچه‌ها ترس و وحشت زوزه می‌کشید! ما که در عطش علم مانده بودیم و تنها امیدمان پس از بسته شدن دروازه‌های دانشگاه همان صنف انگلیسی بود، با وجود ترس و دلهره‌های فراوان، باز هم راهی آموزش می‌شدیم. در طول راه، از آنچه در صنف آموخته بودیم صحبت می‌کردیم. از این‌که به آموخته‌هایمان افزوده شده بود خوشنود بودیم و این خود تسکینی بود برای دغدغه‌هایی که با آن‌ها روبه‌رو بودیم!  در جریان صحبت بودیم که ناگهان صدایی هولناک از پشت سر به گوشمان رسید: «خاموش شوید! حرف نزنید! صدای زن محرم است. زن باید در خانه بنشیند. شما حق آموزش، بیرون رفتن از خانه و زندگی کردن ندارید!» مردی با اسلحه‌ای بر دوش و ظاهری ناپاک در برابرمان ظاهر شد. ترس در وجودمان رخنه کرد و دل‌هایمان چون بید از وحشت می‌لرزید، اما این را نمایان نکردیم و با شهامت ایستادیم. می‌خواستم از حقمان دفاع کنم و بگویم که ما نیز حق آموزش و زندگی داریم، اما از این‌که ممکن بود مرا با خود ببرند و با خشونت و رفتارهایی به‌دور از انسانیت روبه‌رو شوم، محکوم به خاموشی شدم!  مگر اشتباه ما چیست؟ در کدام عصر زندگی می‌کنیم؟!  کاش ما هم به حقوق خود دسترسی داشتیم، کاش می‌توانستیم با امنیت کامل از خانه بیرون شویم، کاش به جرم دختر بودن مجازات نمی‌شدیم و این‌گونه حق خود را آرزو نمی‌کردیم!  کاش...  اما آن‌ها نمی‌دانند که هیچ مانعی نمی‌تواند مرا از مبارزه با ناعدالتی‌ها بازدارد. با آن‌که ترس و ناامنی بر زندگی‌مان سایه افکنده و آزادی‌مان رخت بسته است، اما نتوانسته اراده قوی ما دختران افغان را برای آموزش نابود کند. من به دنبال تحقق عدالت و آرزوهایم برای خودم و دیگر دختران وطنم که از تحصیل محروم‌اند، خواهم رفت.  Together with two friends from our English class, we headed homeward. Our strides were steady and deliberate, yet our hearts carried a quiet heaviness. For days, whispers of girls being snatched by the Taliban had rippled through the city. Fear and dread prowled the streets and alleys, an ever-present howl in the air. We, parched for knowledge, clung to that English class as our last lifeline after the university doors slammed shut. Despite the gnawing fear and restless unease, we pressed on toward education. As we walked, we shared what we’d learned that day, finding solace in the growth of our minds—a fragile balm for the troubles pressing in around us.  Lost in our conversation, we were jolted by a chilling shout from behind: “Silence! No talking! A woman’s voice is sacred and forbidden. Women belong at home. You have no right to learn, to step outside, to live!” A man loomed before us, rifle slung over his shoulder, his ragged appearance as menacing as his words. Terror clawed its way into us; our hearts quaked like leaves in a storm. Yet we stood tall, hiding our fear with defiance. I ached to speak, to claim our right to education and existence, but the dread of being dragged away—of facing brutality beyond humanity—silenced me.  What have we done wrong? In what era are we living? If only we could claim our rights. If only we could leave home without dread. If only being born a girl didn’t mark us for punishment, didn’t reduce our rights to mere wishes.  If only…  But they don’t understand: no barrier can crush my resolve to fight injustice. Fear and insecurity may shadow our days, our freedoms stripped bare, but they cannot shatter the fierce determination of Afghan girls like me to learn. I will chase justice and dreams—not just for myself, but for every daughter of this land denied an education.

Written by Tahera Khademi | نویسنده طاهر خادمی Photo Credit: Tribune.com نسخه‌ی ترجمه‌شده‌ی این نوشته توسط هوش مصنوعی در ادامه‌ی نسخه‌ی فارسی موجود است. The AI-generated translation of this text follows the Farsi version below.  چند وقت پیش بود که سریالی پاکستانی تماشا کردم. نام سریال از اسم شخصیت اصلی آن گرفته شده بود: «بخت‌آور».    «بخت‌آور» داستان دختری در یکی از روستاهای پاکستان است. پدر معتادش، خواهر بزرگ‌تر او را در ازای بدهی‌هایش به ازدواج مردی پیر درمی‌آورد. هنگام خروج، خواهرش حرف‌هایی به بخت‌آور می‌زند که زندگی او را متحول می‌کند. بخت‌آور سخت تلاش می‌کند تا درس بخواند و خود و مادرش را از بند محدودیت‌ها آزاد کند، اما پس از مدتی، او را مجبور به ازدواج با پسر مامایش می‌کنند. به همین دلیل، او با پول‌هایی که ذخیره کرده بود، شبانگاه همراه مادرش روستا را به مقصد بزرگ‌ترین شهر پاکستان، کراچی، ترک می‌کند تا بتواند تحصیل کند و زندگی بهتری بسازد. اما به محض ورود به کراچی، با مردانی بدجنس روبه‌رو می‌شود که به او، به عنوان یک دختر، نگاهی غیرانسانی دارند. به او و مادرش خانه اجاره نمی‌دهند، چون مردی همراه خود ندارند؛ مردی که به اصطلاح حامی و سرپرست آن‌ها باشد. بخت‌آور هنگام اجاره کردن خانه، دروغی می‌گوید که سرنوشتش را تغییر می‌دهد. او می‌گوید برادری به نام «بختیار» دارد که دو روز بعد از شهری دیگر می‌آید و به آن‌ها ملحق می‌شود. به این ترتیب، خانه‌ای اجاره می‌کند و در شب اول متوجه می‌شود که صاحب‌خانه، دختری ۱۶ ساله را در ازای بدهی‌های پدرش به عقد خود درآورده است. با دیدن این دختر، به یاد خواهر خودش می‌افتد که مجبور به ازدواج با پیرمردی شده بود. همان روز، بخت‌آور موهایش را کوتاه و پسرانه می‌کند، لباس پسرانه می‌پوشد و این بار به عنوان «بختیار» بیرون می‌رود و دنیا را از دیدی دیگر می‌بیند، نه به عنوان «بخت‌آور».  او از نگاه‌های آزاردهنده مردان در امان است، آزاد است، می‌تواند راحت راه برود و به بازار برود. می‌گوید: «امروز دنیا را از دیدگاه دیگری می‌بینم، از دید کس دیگری، بختیار.» او کاری پاره‌وقت پیدا می‌کند و به عنوان بختیار کار می‌کند، به دانشگاه هم می‌رود، اما به عنوان بخت‌آور به خانه بازمی‌گردد. برای اینکه کسی نفهمد بختیار و بخت‌آور یکی هستند، وقتی به عنوان بخت‌آور بیرون می‌رود، صورتش را جز چشمانش می‌پوشاند. اما با این حال، با انواع آزارها روبه‌رو می‌شود؛ از همسایه‌ها، پسرهای ولگرد منطقه و حتی دکانداران. بختیار زندگی آزاد و خوبی دارد، اما بخت‌آور محدود و سرکوب می‌شود.    او تأمل می‌کند: وقتی بدون حجاب و روپوش، آزاد و راحت از خانه بیرون می‌رود، کسی به او کاری ندارد و نگاه بدی به او نمی‌اندازد، چون او بختیار است، مرد. اما وقتی با پوشاندن بدن و صورتش و با احتیاط کامل برای درس خواندن بیرون می‌رود، با هر نوع آزاری روبه‌رو می‌شود، به دلیلی بسیار ساده: چون بخت‌آور است، زن. این سریال به همین منوال ادامه دارد تا روزی که بخت‌آور توسط پلیس دستگیر و هویتش فاش می‌شود. او در جهان آوازه‌ای برپا می‌کند و برای حقوقش می‌جنگد.    چیزی که برایم تأمل‌برانگیز بود این است: آیا فرقی میان بختیار و بخت‌آور وجود دارد؟ مگر هر دو انسان نیستند؟ چرا باید فقط به خاطر زن بودن، دختر بودن، و ساده‌تر از همه، نوعی از انسان بودن، جرم شمرده شویم؟    جواب این سؤالم را هر روز پیدا می‌کنم: نه، ما جرم نیستیم و نمی‌خواهیم مجرمانی بی‌گناه باشیم. می‌خواهم یک‌بار برای همیشه به این سؤال‌ها پاسخ دهم و به رویاهایم دست یابم.    بله، دیگر نمی‌خواهیم تفاوتی میان «بخت‌آور» و «بختیار» وجود داشته باشد، چون «بختیار» اقبال و بخت را با خود به همراه دارد، اما «بخت‌آور» با خود اقبال، بخت و نیکویی می‌آورد.  A while ago, I watched a Pakistani series named after its main character: Bakhtawar. Bakhtawar tells the story of a girl from a village in Pakistan. Her addicted father forces her older sister into marrying an elderly man to settle his debts. As she departs, her sister shares words with Bakhtawar that transform her life. Determined to break free from the shackles of limitation, Bakhtawar works tirelessly to pursue her education and liberate both herself and her mother. However, after some time, she is coerced into marrying her cousin. Refusing to accept this fate, she takes the money she has saved and, under the cover of night, flees the village with her mother, heading to Pakistan’s largest city, Karachi, in pursuit of education and a better life. Yet, upon arriving in Karachi, she encounters malicious men who view her, as a girl, with dehumanizing eyes. They refuse to rent a house to her and her mother because they lack a male companion—a so-called protector or guardian. While trying to secure a place to live, Bakhtawar tells a lie that alters her destiny: she claims she has a brother named Bakhtiar, who will join them in two days from another city. With this ruse, she rents a house, only to discover on the first night that the landlord has taken a 16-year-old girl as a bride in exchange for her father’s debts. Seeing this girl reminds Bakhtawar of her own sister, who was forced into a similar marriage with an old man. That same day, Bakhtawar cuts her hair short in a boyish style, dons male clothing, and steps out as Bakhtiar, seeing the world through a new lens—not as Bakhtawar. As Bakhtiar, she is shielded from the harassing gazes of men. She feels free, able to walk comfortably and explore the market. She says, “Today, I see the world from a different perspective, through someone else’s eyes—Bakhtiar’s.” She finds part-time work and lives as Bakhtiar, even attending university, but returns home as Bakhtawar. To ensure no one realizes that Bakhtiar and Bakhtawar are the same person, she covers her face—save for her eyes—whenever she steps out as Bakhtawar. Despite this, she faces all manner of harassment from neighbors, local delinquents, and even shopkeepers. Bakhtiar enjoys a free and fulfilling life, while Bakhtawar remains confined and oppressed. She reflects: when she leaves the house without a veil or cover, free and at ease, no one bothers her or casts a leering glance—because she is Bakhtiar, a man. But when she steps out fully covered, with utmost caution, to pursue her studies, she encounters every form of harassment for one simple reason: she is Bakhtawar, a woman. The series continues in this vein until the day Bakhtawar is caught by the police, and her true identity is revealed. Her story gains worldwide attention as she fights for her rights. What struck me as thought-provoking was this: Is there truly a difference between Bakhtiar and Bakhtawar? Aren’t they both human? Why should being a woman, a girl—or, more simply, a type of human—be considered a crime? I find the answer to these questions every day: No, we are not criminals, nor do we wish to be innocent culprits. I want to answer these questions once and for all and achieve my dreams. Yes, we no longer want there to be a divide between Bakhtawar and Bakhtiar. For while Bakhtiar brings fortune and luck, Bakhtawar carries fortune, luck, and goodness.

In Afghanistan where women’s participation in sports was often considered taboo, Shafiqa Rezai carved her own path, embracing skateboarding as both a personal passion and a powerful tool for social change. Now living as a refugee in Canada, she continues to advocate for the rights of Afghan women and raise awareness about their struggles. Rezai, born in Bamyan and raised in Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan, was introduced to Skateistan, a nonprofit organization designed to encourage children, especially girls, to get involved in physical activities. When she joined at age 12, skateboarding was still an uncommon activity in Afghanistan, and the idea of girls participating was even rarer. “I was one of the few girls who wanted to learn skateboarding,” Rezai said. “Many girls wanted to join, but their families didn’t let them because they thought it was wrong for girls to do sports.” For Rezai, skateboarding became an escape from the struggles women in Afghanistan faced. As she skated, she found a sense of happiness and peace. Despite the cultural barriers, Rezai’s determination paid off. After just a year of practice, she not only became proficient in skateboarding but also took on the role of a volunteer at Skateistan. There, she taught students aged 7 to 26, sharing her passion for skateboarding while empowering others through the freedom and confidence it gave her. It was during this time that Rezai also began playing football, expanding her involvement in sports. Rezai’s passion extended beyond just learning and teaching skateboarding; she became a dedicated advocate for physical activity among Afghan girls, working to change societal views on women in sports. She often spoke directly to families, persuading them to let their daughters join Skateistan. For Rezai, it wasn’t just about skateboarding—it was about challenging the belief that sports were only for boys. She reassured parents, telling them that their daughters would learn a valuable skill that was good for their health and well-being. Her efforts inspired many girls to take up skateboarding, challenging societal barriers and paving the way for future generations. “I wanted to make a difference, normalize sports for girls, and show that they deserve the same opportunities as boys,” Rezai said. As Afghanistan's political climate grew more unstable and the Taliban’s rise to power loomed, Skateistan and other organizations supporting girls’ sports faced increasing threats. Eventually, the schools had to shut down, and Rezai was forced to leave Afghanistan in 2021. She fled to Pakistan before finally resettling in Canada. For Rezai, fleeing Afghanistan was the hardest thing she ever had to do. “Talking about fleeing Afghanistan feels like reopening an old wound—each time I mention it, the pain resurfaces as if it just happened,” Rezai said. I miss my family, friends, and the students I worked with. I never thought I’d have to leave them behind.” Now in Canada, Rezai has found a new home and a renewed purpose. Supported by organizations like Right to Skate, Skateistan, and the Thirty Birds Foundation, she coaches young children in skateboarding, continuing the mission she began in Afghanistan. Alongside coaching, she is pursuing her dream of becoming a commercial pilot—another field where women’s participation is rare in Afghanistan. When she's not teaching or studying, she channels her creativity into painting. Rezai with her students learning skating in Saskatoon, SK, Canada. | Photo Submitted to HerStory Rezai uses skateboarding to raise awareness about the basic rights denied to Afghan women, including education, sports, and work. She wants the world to remember Afghan girls, who are denied these freedoms and many others. Looking to the future, Rezai dreams of returning to Afghanistan when it’s safe, to create an organization that offers a space for everyone to learn skateboarding and engage in physical activities. She also envisions returning as a powerful female pilot, showing Afghan women that gender has no limits and that they, too, can pursue careers in fields where they have been traditionally excluded. “If we give Afghan girls the chance to dream, they will break barriers and change the world,” Rezai said.

Written by Parastou Ashori Photo Submitted by Parastou Ashori to HerStory My name is Parastou Ashori, and I am a women's rights activist and the co-founder of HerPathToKnowledge, an organization that provides underground education to Afghan girls who have been denied the right to learn. I continue my passion for journalism as a student at Suffolk University in the United States. But my story begins far away, in a beautiful small village of Badakhshan, Afghanistan.   I was born in 2003, in a place so remote that until 2006, it had no roads. The villagers had never seen a car, and there was no clinic to care for the sick. For medical help, families had to travel for days on the backs of donkeys to reach the nearest city. We lived without electricity, and most children in our village didn’t even know what electricity was. Technology was limited to the radio and a tape recorder that ran on batteries. Television was a foreign concept.   Education for girls was nearly impossible in this isolated region. There was no school for girls in our village, and few families saw the value in educating their daughters. I was just three years old when my family, seeking a better future for me and my siblings, made the difficult decision to leave our village and move to a city (Kunduz). This decision marked the beginning of a new chapter for us as the first educated family in our village.   I began school at the age of four, which was somewhat unusual in my community. But very quickly, I discovered a deep passion for learning. I was eager to absorb everything I could, and within a short time, I was able to read and write. From the very beginning, I felt the power of education and its potential to change lives. This spark of curiosity and determination became the foundation for my future work as a journalist and women's rights advocate.   As I grew older, I became increasingly aware of the barriers that Afghan girls face when it comes to education. In eighth grade, I organized a small class for girls in my community who were denied an education due to their families' cultural restrictions. This experience cemented my commitment to gender equality, and I realized how deeply entrenched the disparities were between the opportunities available to Afghan girls and those available to boys.   I graduated from high school at the age of 15, but by then, the political and security situation in Afghanistan had become increasingly dire. The ongoing war, coupled with rising violence, made it clear that I could not stay in Afghanistan if I wanted to continue my education and work for women’s rights. In 2021, I moved to India, where I continued my studies in journalism, while continuing to fight for Afghan women through writing and activism. I wrote extensively about the struggles Afghan women face, particularly their right to education and the barriers imposed by both culture and conflict.   In 2022, I arrived in the United States, where I now pursue my studies in journalism. Throughout my journey, Afghan women have always been at the forefront of my thoughts. The recent events in Afghanistan, where girls and women have been denied access to education and basic freedoms under the Taliban regime, have only strengthened my resolve to fight for gender equality.   In response to this ongoing crisis, I co-founded HerPathToKnowledge alongside Afghan musician Huma Rahimi. Our mission is simple: to provide underground education to Afghan girls who are denied the opportunity to learn. Through this initiative, we are empowering a new generation of Afghan women to pursue their dreams, despite the challenges they face.   I envision an Afghanistan where no woman is deprived of her basic human rights simply because of her gender. I dream of a country where every girl can go to school, where women have equal opportunities in all areas of life, and where their voices are heard and valued. My journey is just one story among many, but it is a story, driven by hope, by the belief that change is possible, and by the unwavering commitment to a future where Afghan women no longer have to fight for the rights they deserve.

Written by AmnaYousufi Photo Submitted by Amana Yousufi to HerStory نسخه‌ی فارسی این نوشته در پایان این صفحه موجود است The Farsi version of this writing is available at the bottom. I was in Kabul when Badakhshan fell. I traveled to Badakhshan and then heard that Kabul had also fallen.   We set off from Kabul to Badakhshan. Along the way, we faced numerous challenges: armed robbers emptying travelers' pockets, landmines planted on the roads, and the constant fear of clashes. After much difficulty, we finally reached Faizabad.   But Faizabad was no longer the familiar city it once was. It had turned into a militarized zone filled with armed men carrying heavy weapons, their hair and beards unkempt and faces intimidating. Homes, streets, and even the lives of people had drastically changed. I went home, but it was no better than the city itself—schools and educational centers were closed, and people were drowning in grief and mourning.   For a while, I kept myself busy with books and my art supplies, but I couldn’t remain indifferent. Along with two friends, I decided to take action. In the freezing cold of Ishkashim, we set up a small educational center. Girls deprived of education eagerly attended the classes, preparing for exams with determination every week. This effort continued for three months until universities reopened, and the three of us went to city centers to continue our studies.   During those days, I painted my first oil painting in Faizabad. It depicted a Taliban member holding an axe and a schoolgirl who was forbidden from going to school. Her pen was broken on a piece of wood, from which blood was flowing. From the beginning, most of my artwork has been about the women and girls of my homeland, each piece carrying the sorrow of their stories.   A few months later, in collaboration with the Department of Information and Culture in Badakhshan, an art exhibition of mine and my friend's works was organized. The exhibition showcased fifty pieces but was held under two strict conditions: first, we had to wear full hijab and masks, and second, no depictions of living beings were allowed in the paintings. Only one bird was permitted, and even that risked removal by order of the head of the religious police. Despite these restrictions, the exhibition was well received, especially by women.   We organized other exhibitions as well—book and art displays held at universities, on streets, and in places where access for women was easier. Yet, Faizabad remained a militarized city. Even in educational offices, managers and directors carried weapons.   At university, mandatory hijab rules were enforced, which I frequently opposed. I believed that forcing religion or dress codes on people wouldn’t make them more devout; instead, it would drive them further away. For me, it was essential that anyone who wanted to wear hijab could do so freely and securely, while those who didn’t could live without fear or pressure.   One day, as always, the moral police stood at the university entrance, carefully inspecting students and only allowing women in burqas to enter. Many girls, including myself, were barred from entering. Eventually, we began a protest with the slogan: “Education is our right.”   This protest led to ten of us, including myself, being blacklisted by the university administration.   Afghanistan remains the only country today where women and girls are deprived of their most basic rights, including education. I believe that indifference to this issue could destroy an entire generation. Women, who are the foundation of life, must not remain uneducated. Their knowledge is vital for shaping families, cities, and ultimately the nation.   I have always strived to play my part, no matter how small. I hope for a day when we can live and study in safety. My enduring slogan:  Education is our humanity's right.   کابل بودم که بدخشان سقوط کرد. به بدخشان رفتم و شنیدم که کابل هم سقوط کرده است.  از کابل به سمت بدخشان حرکت کردیم. در مسیر، با دشواری‌های زیادی روبه‌رو شدیم: دزدان مسلح که جیب مسافران را خالی می‌کردند، مین‌های کار گذاشته شده در جاده، و ترس دائمی از درگیری‌ها. با سختی‌های بسیار به فیض‌آباد رسیدیم.   فیض‌آباد اما دیگر آن شهر آشنای سابق نبود. به شهری نظامی تبدیل شده بود؛ پر از مردان مسلح با سلاح‌های سنگین و چهره‌ و‌موهای ژولیده و ریش های بلند . خانه‌ها، کوچه‌ها، و حتی زندگی مردم تغییر کرده بود. به خانه رفتم، اما آنجا نیز چیزی بهتر از شهر نبود؛ مکاتب و کورس‌ها تعطیل بودند، و مردم در غم و ماتم فرو رفته بودند.   مدتی با کتاب‌ها و وسایل رسامی‌ام خود را مشغول کردم، اما نمی‌توانستم بی‌تفاوت بمانم. با دو نفر از دوستانم تصمیم گرفتیم حرکتی کنیم. در سرمای اشکاشم، یک آموزشگاه کوچک راه‌اندازی کردیم و دخترانی که از تحصیل محروم بودند، با علاقه در کلاس‌ها شرکت می‌کردند. هر هفته با انگیزه برای امتحان آماده می‌شدند. این روند تا سه ماه ادامه پیدا کرد، تا زمانی که دانشگاه‌ها باز شدند و هر سه نفر ما برای ادامه تحصیل به مرکزشهرهای رفتیم.   اولین نقاشی رنگ روغنی‌ام را همان روزها در فیض‌آباد کشیدم؛ تصویری از یک ط‌.الب با تبر در دست و دختری مکتبی که اجازه رفتن به مکتب را نداشت. قلم او روی یک کنده چوب شکسته بود و از آن خون جاری می‌شد. از همان ابتدا، بیشتر آثارم درباره زنان و دختران سرزمینم بود، و هرکدام حاوی غمی بود که آنها را نشان می‌داد.   چند ماه بعد، با همکاری اطلاعات و فرهنگ بدخشان، نمایشگاهی از آثار من و دوستم برگزار کردیم. این نمایشگاه شامل پنجاه اثر بود، اما با دو شرط سخت‌گیرانه انجام شد: اول اینکه ما باید حجاب کامل همراه با ماسک داشته باشیم، و دوم اینکه هیچ اثری از موجودات زنده در نقاشی‌ها نباشد. تنها یک پرنده اجازه نمایش داشت، و حتی آن هم ممکن بود به دستور رئیس امر به معروف حذف شود. با وجود این محدودیت‌ها، نمایشگاه با استقبال خوبی، به‌ویژه از سوی زنان، روبه‌رو شد.   نمایشگاه‌های دیگری نیز برگزار کردیم؛ نمایشگاه‌های کتاب و نقاشی که در دانشگاه‌ها، خیابان‌ها، و مکان‌هایی که دسترسی برای زنان آسان‌تر بود، اجرا می‌شد. اما همچنان شهر فیض‌آباد یک شهر نظامی بود. حتی در دفاتر آموزشی، مدیران و رؤسا مسلح بودند.  در دانشگاه نیز حجاب اجباری بود و من بارها با این مسئله مخالفت کردم. اعتقاد داشتم که اجبار در حجاب یا دین‌داری، نه‌تنها مردم را مسلمان‌تر نمی‌کند، بلکه آنها را از دین دورتر می‌سازد. برای من مهم بود که هرکسی که حجاب را دوست دارد، آن را در امنیت و آزادی بپوشد، و هرکسی که نمی‌خواهد، بتواند بدون فشار زندگی کند.   یک روز، مانند همیشه، مأموران امر به معروف در ورودی دانشگاه ایستاده بودند. آنها دانشجویان را به‌دقت بررسی می‌کردند و تنها به دخترانی که برقه پوشیده بودند، اجازه ورود می‌دادند. تعداد زیادی از دختران پشت در مانده بودند، و من هم جزو آنها بودم. در نهایت، اعتراض ما با شعار "تحصیل حق ماست" آغاز شد.   این اعتراض باعث شد که نام ده نفر از دختران معترض، از جمله من، در لیست سیاه دانشگاه قرار گیرد.   افغانستان تنها کشوری است که در عصر حاضر زنان و دختران از ابتدایی‌ترین حق خودکه‌شامل حق تحصیل نیز است، محروم هستند. من معتقدم که بی‌تفاوتی به این مسئله می‌تواند یک نسل را نابود کند. زنان، که نقطه آغاز زندگی هستند، اگر بی‌سواد بمانند، تمام خانواده‌ها، شهرها، و در نهایت وطن بی‌سواد خواهند ماند.   من همیشه تلاش کرده‌ام سهم خود را، هرچند کوچک، در این مسیر ادا کنم. امیدوارم روزی برسد که بتوانیم در امنیت زندگی کنیم و درس بخوانیم، و شعار من تا ابد:  تحصیل حق ماست.

Born and raised in Afghanistan, Mursalina Amin is an advocate and education activist for Afghan youth and a senior student pursuing Political Science at the University of Tulsa in the United States. She founded the non-profit organization Girls Toward Leadership (G2L) in 2020, and along with her team, has impacted the lives of over 1,500 girls. During her leisure time, Mursalina is interested in martial arts such as Taekwondo and kickboxing, as well as arts and reading. In a conversation with HerStory’s Communications Manager, Sahar Maqsoodi, Mursalina shares her journey as a young Afghan activist, her experience founding G2L, and the challenges she faced being forced to flee Afghanistan. Mursalina founded Girls Toward Leadership at the age of 18 during the pandemic to address the education crisis faced by Afghan girls. “I started by leveraging my connections to organize virtual programs. We offered capacity-building sessions, leadership training, and educational workshops, helping Afghan girls learn and grow even while confined to their homes,” she explains. Sahar: What inspired you the most to become an activist, particularly focusing on education, and establish the Girls Toward Leadership organization? Mursalina: The main idea and inspiration behind founding Girls Toward Leadership (G2L) came to me in 2020, right after I graduated high school. It was during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, a time when education had become inaccessible to many around the world due to restrictions. I witnessed how this situation was affecting not just myself but also the girls around me, particularly their mental well-being. Many were left feeling lost, isolated, and uncertain about their futures. At that time, I was fortunate to have a strong network of peers and mentors. I had been organizing events, participating in international youth conferences, and collaborating with organizations such as the United Nations and UN Women. This network, along with the opportunities I had been given, became a resource I could tap into. I realized that while I had access to these opportunities, many other girls my age did not. I felt a responsibility to use what I had to create something meaningful—not just for myself, but for others. Mursalina began building a team of like-minded individuals to design online programs focused on capacity building and knowledge sharing. They reached out to talented young people in Afghanistan who were experts in various fields, asking for their help to teach and inspire Afghan girls. “G2L aims to empower Afghan girls, including myself, to break free from societal limitations and barriers through both online and in-person programs,” she says. Sahar: What are some of the biggest challenges Afghan girls face in accessing education, and how does G2L address these challenges today? Mursalina: The challenges girls face in accessing education are immense, both during and after the pandemic. G2L focuses on online initiatives such as campaigns for girls’ education, leadership programs, and capacity-building workshops. One of our recent initiatives, in partnership with BTIL Academy from Pakistan, involved training Afghan girls in leadership skills over two months. We are also working on equipping girls with skills for online employment, including coding, web development, and freelancing, so they can achieve financial independence. By focusing on educational programs and employment skills, we are addressing critical challenges Afghan girls face today. Sahar: Can you share your experience during the Taliban takeover in 2021 and how it affected your life and education? Mursalina: Same as the pandemic, the Taliban’s return to power was a new and unprecedented experience for me and all Afghans. Personally, I was deeply affected, and I know that everyone around me, including you, probably felt the same. Most of us had heard about the Taliban regime from our parents or elder siblings—stories of oppression, fear, and violence. It was difficult to imagine those stories becoming a reality. I had always been optimistic about the future as I grew up in Afghanistan. Our country was developing, and I never dreamed of leaving it permanently. At most, I thought about studying abroad temporarily, but my ultimate goal was to live and work in Afghanistan. When rumors started circulating on social media about the Taliban returning, I dismissed them. I thought, “How could that happen? We have a government, even if it’s corrupt. We have an army, and the people in our cities are educated and have progressive mindsets. We’re nothing like the Afghanistan of the past.” I couldn’t fathom how the Taliban could take control of a modern, developing country like ours. The Taliban’s rapid takeover of Afghanistan left me numb, unable to process the drastic change. My dreams and hopes were shattered, and I couldn’t see any future for myself or my country. During my two months in Afghanistan, I rarely went outside due to overwhelming fear. One day, I encountered a group of Taliban fighters, armed with large guns, near my home. It was my first time seeing them face-to-face. I remember struggling to breathe, my heart racing with fear. I avoided eye contact and walked past them, but I was trembling the entire time. That moment was deeply shocking and left an indelible mark on me. Even though I left Afghanistan, the trauma of those days will always stay with me. It was one of the most difficult experiences of my life. After leaving Afghanistan, Mursalina was evacuated to Kyrgyzstan, where she continued her studies at the American University of Central Asia. Despite the trauma of displacement, she describes her time in Bishkek as transformative: “It was a resourceful university with incredible people. That experience gave me hope and prepared me to continue my advocacy work.” In 2023, Mursalina represented Afghan girls at the 68th session of the Commission on the Status of Women (CSW68) at the United Nations. She presented data and testimonials from Afghan girls, calling for action beyond words and tangible support for grassroots organizations like G2L. Sahar: What was your experience at CSW68, and what message did you hope to convey? Mursalina: Thank you for the great question. Attending the 68th session of the Commission on the Status of Women (CSW) at the UN was a powerful experience. My primary aim was to represent Afghan girls and ensure their struggles and voices were heard. With less than five minutes to speak, I worked meticulously to include as much as I could, using a survey of Afghan girls to support my points. I highlighted their restricted rights, the need for scholarships and opportunities, and the importance of taking tangible actions beyond statements and events. I advocated for grassroots initiatives like HerStory and Girls Toward Leadership, which are doing essential work but lack sufficient support. It felt like a moral responsibility to be there and speak for Afghan girls at such a critical time. I hope my efforts inspire real action to help Afghan women and girls move forward. Sahar: Let’s talk about your interests. What are your hobbies and interests during your free time? Mursalina: I have a variety of hobbies, but my favorites are centered around sports and creativity. I particularly enjoy martial arts, including Taekwondo and kickboxing. I started practicing Taekwondo when I was around 15 and have earned belts in it. While I also enjoy kickboxing, my overall interest lies in mixed martial arts (MMA). I’m not a fan of sports like football or baseball, but martial arts truly captivate me. Beyond sports, I enjoy sketching, drawing, and reading during my free time. Lately, I’ve also taken an interest in watching movies. Spending time with family and friends is something I deeply value, and I love meeting new people, sharing my story, and hearing theirs. These connections bring me a lot of joy and fulfillment. Mursalina is advocating for Afghan women and girls, focusing on education, skill development, and employment opportunities. Despite challenges, she remains hopeful, stating that education is the key to reclaiming power. She urges Afghan girls to seek opportunities and persevere, as their resilience is their greatest strength. Mursalina calls for action to support Afghan women and girls, especially in education, to create a future where their voices are heard and celebrated. “Together, we can create a future where our voices are not just heard but celebrated.”

Written by Zainab Ahmadi Today is Thursday, November 7th. I reached for my notebook, my loyal companion, flipping through the pages, a record of each small hope and goal I’ve tried to hold on to in this endless, silent waiting. As I looked at the plans I had listed for this week, my mind drifted to the life I had before, the life I would have had if only things had stayed normal. What would these past three years have looked like if I had been able to walk through the gates of my school, surrounded by friends, full of laughter, and a future filled with possibility? I can almost see it—a life where I’d be waking up with purpose, putting on my uniform with pride, rushing to catch the bus, my books in hand, and my heart racing with excitement over the day ahead. I remember the feeling of sitting at my desk, surrounded by the warmth of a place that made me feel alive, that gave me hope. Now, all of that is just a distant memory, a faint echo. My dreams feel like they’ve been locked away, placed on a shelf I cannot reach, yet still so painfully close. I hold onto them, though the path to fulfilling them seems lost. My notebook has become my confidant, a place where I pour out all my broken dreams, all the little fragments of who I once was and who I still hope to be. If only I could turn back time, and return to those days that seem to have slipped away like sand through my fingers. It hurts to remember, yet I cannot forget. These dreams are unfinished, but they’re still here, whispering to me, urging me to keep going. Maybe one day I’ll find my way back to them. Until then, I’ll keep writing, letting my words carry the weight of dreams that refuse to be forgotten.

نویسنده: دیانا احمدی دخترکی با آرزوهای بلندش با گلوی پر بغض، چشمان اشکبار و با صداهای دیوانه کننده توی ذهن اش رو به ماه نشسته یک چشمش به ماه و چشم دیگرش به گوشی دستش دنبال کانال های خبری با قلب شکسته شده، و با آرزوهای دود شده به ماه مینالد، از درد سقوط یک وطن، یک آرزو ، از شکستن پر و بال دختران سرزمینش، چون ماه تنها شاهد بغض و شنونده حرف‌های قلبی دختران سرزمینش بوده است. چی شد؟ این سکوت از چیست؟   از سقوط پر سر و صداست؟                                              دردی را که دختران را به خانه حبس کرد، خانواده‌ها را از هم پاشاند، و هر کسی را به یک طرفی برد، دردی که دخترک‌هایمان را پشت در مکتب در حسرت نگه داشت، من و هم سن و سال‌هایم را به حسرت یک روز دانشگاه رفتن گذاشت، دردی که دوران غلبه ظلم بر انسانیت شد، دردی که به پرپر کردن شایسته ترین گل‌هایمان بسنده نکرد و خود وطن مان را پرپر کرد، حتی جاده ها هم پی بردند. چی شد؟ همه می‌خواستند بروند هر جایی جز اینجا، اما من اینجا به خودم قول دوام آوردن در طوفان و درد های تدریجی دادم و دوباره خواه یا نخواه همه با هم در اوج متلاشی شدن خندیدیم دوباره خواندیم دوباره رقصیدیم اما خندیدن رقصیدن و خواندن قدیم می‌شود؟  نه! اما حداقل دیگر من، من قدیم نبود دختر با اراده پولادین که توانسته بود با زمانه سازگار شود، لیست آرزو هایش را نه بلکه طریقه رسیدن به آرزو هایش را عوض کند و پی برد با نرفتن به دانشگاه یا حتی مکتب نباخته بلکه همین که مسیر علاقه‌ اش را دنبال میکند برنده شده است!  آنها نمی‌دانند که با گرفتن وطن از ما بزرگترین درس‌ را برایمان داده است دیگر در گلویمان بغض نیست شجاعته در چشمانمان اشک نیست قدرته در قلبمان درد نیست همته، دیگر دختران سرزمینم با قلب شکسته، قلب آهنی شدند و  مانند گل لاله در نادر ترین شرایط هم سرخ ماندند. اشتباه نکنید! طوفان همان طوفان همیشه گی است، دیگر لاله های سرزمینم استوار شدند. از همینجا با زبان نوشتن از دخترک هایمان که قوی بودند ضعیف شدند شکسته شدند و دوباره جوانه زدند و دوباره حال دل شان را خوب کردند تشکر میکنم، شما باعث شده اید افغانستان الگو زنان در هر قسمت کره خاکی و الهام بخش برای همه باشید شما در اوج طوفان مستحکم ماندید.

#NexusTalk | Episode #5 Arezo Safari is a young, emerging artist who recently settled in Vancouver, Canada, with her family after living as refugees in Tajikistan for many years, where they fled due to security threats in Afghanistan. In conversation with HerStory, Arezo shares her life story, reflecting on her journey of discovering a love for the arts—primarily in drawing, painting, and nail art—while navigating life as a refugee in two countries. She discusses the challenges of adjusting to a new culture and language in Canada. This conversation, conducted in Farsi, provides a rich insight into her artistic vision, with English subtitles and auto-translation available in multiple languages.