Position: Graphic Designer & Video Editor Job Type: Volunteer, Part Time Hours: 5 Hours a Week Schedule: Flexible Location: Remote Start Date: April 1, 2024 Date Posted: Feb 19, 2024 Closing Date: Open Until Filled Position Overview and Purpose: A Graphic Designer and Video Editor will play a crucial role in supporting HerStory’s mission of creative content creation for its audience. Under the direction of the Program Director, the Graphic Designer and Video Editor will be working closely with all initiative members and actively participate in content creation, content development, and content management. Key Areas of Responsibility: Develop and maintain a consistent visual identity for HerStory across various platforms, ensuring alignment with the organization's mission and values. Design engaging graphics, photos, and videos for social media, presentations, and other digital platforms to enhance storytelling. Collaborate with the content team to visually tell the stories of Afghan women, ensuring cultural sensitivity. Demonstrate proficiency in design and editing software. Quickly adapt to changing project requirements and feedback, delivering high-quality designs within specified deadlines. Stay updated with industry trends and storytelling techniques. Qualifications: Proven experience in graphic design, video editing, and content creation, preferably for non-profit or advocacy organizations. Strong written and verbal communication skills in English and Farsi. Fluency in using different graphic design and video editing software, such as Adobe Creative Suite (including Photoshop, Illustrator, Premiere Pro, and After Effects) and Canva. Self-motivated and able to work independently under minimal supervision. Motivated to work at least 5 hours a week. Passion for women's empowerment and advocacy for Afghan women's rights. Familiarity with applications such as Canva and Adobe Suites is considered an asset. Afghan girls both inside and outside the country are highly encouraged to apply How to Apply: To apply, please send your resume along with your portfolio (samples of your works), to info@herstory-af.org. Please quote the name of the position in the subject line. Applications will be reviewed on a rolling basis until the position is filled. Shortlisted candidates will be invited for a virtual interview.

Position: Social Media Officer Job Type: Volunteer, Part Time Hours: 5 Hours a Week Schedule: Flexible Location: Remote Start Date: April 1, 2024 Date Posted: Feb 19, 2024 Closing Date: Open Until Filled Position Overview and Purpose: A Social Media Officer will play a crucial role in expanding HerStory’s reach and impact by effectively and efficiently managing and growing our presence across various social media platforms. Under the direction of the Communications Manager, the Social Media Manager will be working closely with all initiative members and actively participate in content creation, content delivery, and content management. Key Areas of Responsibility: Developing a social media strategy to increase brand awareness and engagement. Developing compelling and engaging content that highlights the stories of Afghan women, leveraging multimedia elements such as images, videos, and infographics. Monitoring social media channels for feedback, questions, and comments. Responding to comments and messages on time. Analyzing social media metrics and adjusting strategies to improve performance. Foster a sense of community and engagement by interacting with followers, responding to comments, and facilitating discussions related to the featured stories. Develop and maintain a content calendar to ensure a consistent and impactful online presence. Staying up-to-date with the latest trends and best practices in social media. Managing social media advertising campaigns. Building and maintaining relationships with influencers and other relevant parties. Qualifications: Proven experience in social media management and content creation, preferably for non-profit or advocacy organizations. Strong written and verbal communication skills both in English and Farsi. Fluency with using different social media platforms such as LinkedIn, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Self-motivated and able to work independently under minimal supervision. Motivated to work at least 5 hours a week. Passion for women's empowerment and advocacy for Afghan women's rights. Familiarity with applications such as Canva and Adobe Suites is considered an asset. Afghan girls both inside and outside the country are highly encouraged to apply. How to Apply: To apply, please send your resume along with a cover letter stating why you are interested in the position and what qualifies you for it, to info@herstory-af.org. Please quote the name of the position in the subject line. Applications will be reviewed on a rolling basis until the position is filled. Shortlisted candidates will be invited for a virtual interview.

Fatima Amiri is an education and girls' rights activist from Afghanistan who made it to the BBC’s 100 Women in 2022. She is one of the survivors of the deadly attack on the Kaaj tutoring center in the Shittee Hazara neighborhood of Dasht-e-Barchi in western Kabul, Afghanistan, in September 2022 while she and dozens of other students were taking the practice public university entrance exam. She rose amidst the blood and ashes to fight for her dreams and those of her 150 fellow students who were killed and injured. In this interview, HerStory’s Program Director, Murtaza Ibrahimi, sat with Fatima Amiri and discussed her early life, advocacy for girls' education, the attack on Kaaj, her current status, and more.  The interview is being published in three parts. Ibrahimi: You are a survivor of the brutal attack on the Kaaj Educational Center in the Hazara neighborhood of Dasht-e-Barchi. Tell us about the attack. How did it happen, and how did you survive? Amiri: The day the attack happened was just like any other day when we were taking the practice university entrance exam. However, what made it different was the prevailing happiness in the class. Why? Because we had just been informed that both male and female students would be allowed to take the university entrance exam. This announcement came on Thursday, a day before the attack. As the news spread, there was a tangible sense of hope and joy among everyone. Students were instructed to collect their prep exam cards, and it seemed like the climax of hard work and dedication throughout the week had paid off. I remember the positive vibe in the classroom, and I'm sure everyone had put in extra effort into their studies that week. I personally never sat in the classroom that was targeted during the attack. I usually took the test in another room, specifically in the "C: the classroom of elites." However, on that fateful day, everyone found themselves in the same classroom. A seminar was scheduled to follow the prep exam, focusing on choosing study fields. The atmosphere was supposed to be one of anticipation and excitement for the future, but sadly, it turned into something far more tragic. I often arrived late at the educational center, but that day I arrived as early as the center’s doors were closed, and I coincidentally arrived at the same time as the center’s principal. I was then the first student to receive the exam papers, though I was told it was too early and there were not enough students. But I did so after much requesting and stressing out. When I sat in classroom A, the room was completely dark, and there was no one. I started answering the questions, and students began to arrive gradually. We, the students, were close and friendly to each other, especially those of us in the special class for elites. We used to always study together, give each other advice, and chat. That is why I remember everyone who arrived in the classroom, and we greeted each other that day. I exactly remember who sat in which seat. I saw Nargis with her tired face, and I am sure that she had studied all night; yet, she had a smile on her face. She said that she wanted to sit next to me at the seminar, and I promised that I would make a seat for her.. I saw Wahida and Nazanin who were solving the questions while laughing with each other. I remember the faces of all the last people who were there. Read Part 1: ‘A bad choice might seem better than a worse one’: Fatima Amiri I had completed all my mathematics questions and was ready to mark the answers on the answer sheet. As I reached for the answer sheet, a loud, ominous noise reverberated around me. This sound wasn't unfamiliar; it had haunted my memories since my high school days. Just a week prior, I had encountered the same jarring noise in a math classroom – shattered windows, broken glass – the aftermath of an attack that had occurred across our educational center. I had hoped the sound I heard this time wouldn't be directed at us, but it was swiftly followed by gunfire. Panic ensued. The air was filled with screams. Some sought escape, while others stood frozen in uncertainty. Tears and cries echoed through the room, especially among the visibly frightened girls. Determined to bring calm to the chaos, I stood up, assuring everyone that we could find a way out, and urging them to remain calm. The noise was overwhelming; I couldn't hear anyone else amid the chaos of screams and cries. At one point, I turned around and saw an individual impeccably dressed. I remember his face vividly – young and neatly attired, not instilling fear. Despite his refined appearance, he was shooting relentlessly, consumed by frustration. Fear gripped me as I witnessed him shooting my friends. When he aimed at me, I instinctively sat down, bracing myself for the terrifying sounds that followed. Describing the situation doesn't capture the full weight of the adversity. In those moments, it felt like I was engulfed in flames as if I had ceased to exist. Darkness surrounded me, and I recited my Shahada ("There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah."). Unable to open my left eye and barely managing to open my right, I surveyed my surroundings. The smiling faces I had greeted just minutes ago were now lifeless bodies. Nargis, with whom I had shared a light moment, lay bleeding. We had joked about sitting next to each other, planning for a seminar, unaware that circumstances would dictate we shouldn't be sitting together at all. Everyone had been killed; there was no one left alive around me, I saw my dearest ones covered in blood, the place that had become my second home was a mess. I couldn’t find a way out. I wanted to step forward to find an exit, but I didn't dare to walk over the dead bodies of the dearest people in my life, who were all like sisters to me. It was not possible for me. I promised right there that if I survived, their dreams would not be buried with their dead bodies; I would fulfill their dreams. Somehow, I managed to navigate over the benches and make my way out. I ran towards the exit gate. The gate was locked, but despite being someone who used to fear climbing even a small height, I climbed the wall with barbed wire and jumped into the neighboring house’s yard. Unfortunately, the yard’s door was closed. I don’t know why I didn’t try to open the door; as soon as I saw it closed, I attempted to jump over the wall to enter the next house’s yard. For a moment, I couldn’t move, and I sat on the ground, unable to see perfectly and feeling dizzy. After a few seconds, when I noticed a bike parked next to the wall, I stood up on the bike and jumped into the next yard. The door was open, and I successfully made my way out. When I was outside, I didn't know how to judge the people around me, as my situation might have been dire. As I approached them, seeking help to get to the hospital because I couldn't see well, they screamed and ran away from me. It was very strange; I thought maybe I didn't have my head on my body, as everyone seemed terrified. I couldn't comprehend their fear, and their screams only intensified my fear. Despite the numerous people present, no one helped me in getting to the hospital. What surprised me even more was that people were afraid to lend a helping hand, but none hesitated to take my photo and video. Watan Hospital was across the Kaaj, and somehow, I managed to reach there. Upon arrival, the doctors appeared anxious because a few more wounded students had arrived before me. Those with less severe injuries had managed to reach the hospital earlier than I did. The only thing I recall is pleading with them to provide something to numb the pain; and inject me with a painkiller, as the agony was unbearable. Fortunately, I had memorized my father’s phone number and had it in my mind, and asked a few people there to call him, but none did. I clung to the doctor's skirt, begging her not to leave me alone, but she explained that I wasn't the only patient and she had to attend to everyone. Eventually, she called my father. The doctors could not remove my scarf from my head as it had burned together with my hair. As soon as my sisters and father arrived, they took me to the Estiqlal Hospital. When the doctors saw me, they said they couldn’t do anything for me. I then moved to the next Hospital. We went to 5 hospitals that day. All I wanted was to get a painkiller as I could not bear the pain, but all the doctors were doing in each hospital was seeing me and saying they could not do anything for me, asking us to go to another hospital. I went through two medical operations involving my eye and jaw that day. What was interesting even for me was that I was not becoming unconscious. I saw everything and felt: the attack, my pain, and the medical operations. One saying of the doctors that my family has teased me for some time now was that the doctor was asking my father what drug I was addicted to so that they would not make me unconscious. May it be because of the heavy shock I was going through. I was hospitalized for two days after the operation. Ibrahimi: I'm sorry for what you went through and for making you bring back terrifying and sad memories of the attack. Amiri: It is fine. I hope it was only me going through this. What is more painful for me is that I am not the only one experiencing such a situation. There were and are so many people going through the same experience. When I hear about their stories, they tell me that I was lucky that at least I survived the attack. But it may be easy for those who didn't make it, as for those of us who survived, recalling those memories is more painful. This is war, and war always has its casualties and sorrows. I am hopeful that, at the end of many of us being victimized and martyred, there will be peace. That the new generation does not inherit the darkness we did from our previous generations. I am hopeful that we strive for education and enlightenment so that the next generations don't become ignorant like our previous generations. Ibrahimi: What was inspiring, interesting, and encouraging was that you, along with many other students, took the real university entrance exam shortly after the attack, even while your wounds were still fresh and you had not fully recovered. What motivated you to do it, and did your family and friends try to dissuade you from doing so? Amiri: I couldn't get up from bed on the scheduled exam day, and missing the exam was incredibly difficult for me. Despite doctors advising against crying due to my wounded eye, I spent the entire day in tears, pondering on the promises I had made to my friends and the hard work I had put in. Fortunately, as soon as I could leave my bed, I managed to make it to the final university entrance exam for miscellaneous students. As fate would have it, I scored 313 on the exam. While some might see it as a great score, it fell short of my expectations. In practice exams, even the challenging ones for elite students, I had never scored below 340, except for that one time when I scored 313. There's a saying that students usually score 20 marks higher in the real exam than in practice because the real exam is easier. However, given my situation on the exam day, sometimes I wonder if what I scored is not less. I had lost many dear people, and my psychological and physical state was far from optimal—I had just undergone ear surgery, my head was bandaged, and my eye was freshly bandaged and occasionally bleeding. During the exam, there was no special accommodation or treatment for me, and no extra time was given. Despite being advised to be full of energy on the exam day, to have a good night's rest, and to bring snacks, I couldn't comply like other healthy students. Since the attack, I hadn't eaten anything substantial because of my broken jaw, making it difficult to open my mouth or speak. I could only consume liquids through a pipe. Despite the limited time, I had to lower my head during the exam as my eyes would start to ache while solving each question. Yet, against all odds, I passed the exam. Although I believe I could have performed better without the attack, I am satisfied with my score. The motivation to take the exam stemmed from being a survivor among my friends who did not make it. I couldn't let go of the dreams we had all worked so hard for, nor could I forget the promise I made to them on the day of the attack. Despite my lack of interest in medicine, I chose it as my first option in honor of Nargis, who was passionate about the field. Teachers persistently advised against taking the exam, offering to find scholarships instead. However, I insisted on taking the exam. Ibrahimi: When the results of the university entrance exams were announced that year, none of the top 10 students were girls. Do you believe that the regime in power had tampered with the results, just like many other things? Amiri: This is crystal clear; they did it, 100 percent. Is it even possible for not a single girl to be among the top 10? Girls used to be the first position holders in recent years. Okay, so they eliminated many of them in the Kaaj Education center so they couldn't make it to the top 10. Weren't there others in different educational centers? I knew many friends who scored excellently in practice exams, so why weren't they in the top 10? It was surprising for me that all the top 10 were boys, and I'm sure they tampered with the results.

Fatima Amiri is an education and girls' rights activist from Afghanistan who made it to the BBC’s 100 Women in 2022. She is one of the survivors of the deadly attack on the Kaaj tutoring center in the Shittee Hazara neighborhood of Dasht-e-Barchi in western Kabul, Afghanistan, in September 2022 while she and dozens of other students were taking the practice public university entrance exam. She rose amidst the blood and ashes to fight for her dreams and those of her 150 fellow students who were killed and injured. In this interview, HerStory’s Program Director, Murtaza Ibrahimi, sat with Fatima Amiri and discussed her early life, advocacy for girls' education, the attack on Kaaj, her current status, and more.  The interview is being published in three parts. Part 1: ‘A bad choice might seem better than a worse one’: Fatima Amiri Part 2: ‘People were afraid to lend a helping hand, but none hesitated to take my photo and video’: Fatima Amiri Ibrahimi: Farhad Darya, a well-known singer from Afghanistan, started a fundraising campaign to assist you with your treatment abroad. Could you please tell us how he learned about you? How did it all start, and how did the process work? Amiri: This was one of the positive outcomes after the attack. Many people came together to support the wounded of Kaaj. The attack brought about significant changes, leading to the creation of the #StopHazaraGenocide movement, aimed at raising awareness about the ongoing plight of Hazaras in Afghanistan. To provide context from the beginning, I should mention that no country was issuing me visas. This problem may have been a result of my advocacy work for girls before the attack or, perhaps, intensified after the attack as I persisted in standing up for our rights I remember that many of the wounded girls went to Iran for treatment. My name was at the top of the list of wounded students eligible to go abroad for treatment due to my deteriorated situation and pain—I couldn't even sleep at night. However, I was consistently rejected, and they moved on to the next person on the list. Many girls went to Pakistan, and the day I went to say goodbye to them was incredibly difficult for me because they were going to receive treatment, while I was left behind with my situation. I desperately wanted to begin my treatment. With the help of one of my relatives, an Indian doctor sent me an invitation letter to commence my treatment. It was said that if I could urgently make it to India, they could restore my eye’s vision. However, when I went to the Indian embassy, even though I wore sunglasses, I was recognized and not allowed inside because Taliban fighters were stationed at the first gate. The same process continued until Farhad Darya learned about me from my media interviews and articles. He decided to start the fundraising campaign, and I am grateful to the people who contributed, no matter how small or big. Many of them chipped in, and the needed funds were raised quickly. However, obtaining a visa became a significant issue. No countries were issuing me visas. The embassies had no problem with me, but the Taliban did. Their fighters didn't allow me into the embassies. I applied for a Pakistani visa in my absence, but even it was rejected. I became disappointed and hopeless about receiving treatment. I was being threatened due to my advocacy and media presence, speaking out about the facts. Finally, I successfully connected with a Turkish organization and went to a branch of the Turkish Embassy in Kabul, where the Taliban were not as aware. There, I applied for my visa. Otherwise, they wouldn't have allowed me into the Turkish embassy, just like other embassies. I didn't let anyone know about leaving the country until I was at the airport to avoid potential problems. Ibrahimi: What is your status in Turkey? And how are you doing there? Amiri: I'm currently in Turkey, dealing with an uncertain status. The challenge is they won't grant me permanent residency. My journey in Turkey has been quite a ride. I initially came here on a three-month visa, and of course, had to go through the process of extending it. The doctors insist that I need more time for treatment, but getting the government on board with that has been a struggle. I've been in touch with various authorities here, including the Turkish government, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Public Health, and the Afghan Embassy in Turkey. Despite the ongoing conversations, getting permanent residency seems to be an elusive goal. For those initial three months, it was a routine of hospital visits in the mornings and navigating the bureaucratic maze at the Ministry of Refugees to extend my visa for another six months. This routine repeated itself each time. There were even fines thrown into the mix for visa-related matters. It's been a bumpy road, but here I am, still holding on. Ibrahimi: Is your treatment finished in Turkey? Amiri: I don't have a clear sense of how well my treatment is progressing. To be honest, it hasn't been very effective. The shrapnel is still in my face, my ear's hearing hasn't fully recovered, and they mockingly suggest that my eye's vision is irrecoverable due to the delayed medical attention. They claim it could have been restored if I sought help earlier, but unfortunately, I went to Turkey three months after the attack. I've lost vision entirely in my eye, and currently, we are only focusing on improving its external appearance. One significant issue was the contamination of my blood with microbes from the smoke and gunpowder during the attack, and we consulted three public hospitals for this concern. The visit to the third hospital has shown some positive results. It's exhausting to repeatedly explain this when people inquire, but yes, my treatment is still ongoing. Ibrahimi: When did you start your advocacy work for girls? Can you walk us through this journey? Amiri: My advocacy work started before the attack but may have gained notice after it. It began when the school doors closed for girls. Although my friends were telling me that I would receive my high school diploma when I graduated and not to worry about it, it was very heartbreaking for me. I envisioned myself as a girl in the 11th grade, eager to study her 12th grade and go to university. She had studied for 11 years and then was confined at home. Or a girl who had graduated in the sixth grade and couldn't continue. I advocated sometimes anonymously, sometimes revealing my identity, and occasionally appearing with a face mask. I also attended some protests. But after the attack, I could not stop and stay silent because of the friends I lost in the attack. Unfortunately, something that is agonizing, and I am reminded sometimes, is that they tell me that I was not the only wounded individual in the attack, and there were so many others who were not saying anything. But after the attack, the media reached out to all wounded people, and no one wanted to speak out; I don't blame any of them because it was really a bad situation. They couldn't and did not want to get out of the hospital bed and talk, also because of security threats. They survived the attack and did not want to put their and their family's lives at risk again by speaking out. For me, I have not had any personal benefit in my advocacy work. Wherever I have gone and spoken, I have even paid for my transportation. I remember going to TV channels, and our house was in Dasht-e-Barchi, and none were there, and I was spending 500-1000 Afs for each trip while I could hardly pay for my medication. I spent money with no intention for personal benefit, only speaking for what was happening. It even put my life and my family's lives at risk, but I was not giving up on speaking out. I felt that I was responsible; I had lost many things and could not be silent anymore. And I had made a promise to my friends: this was the most important thing that made me not give up. Though my advocacy work puts my family members' lives at risk, I am stuck between two ways. I can neither stay silent nor can I speak out. Girls in Afghanistan contact me, crying and saying, "Fatima, you have to speak for us; no one is there to do it for us." I got a call saying, "Education was the only thing I had, which I don't have anymore." I get a call saying they are forcing me into a marriage. I can't hear all of this and stay silent only because of risks. Though I know no one would pay attention or listen to what I say, I can't stay silent either. Ibrahimi: What is your message to women who are home-imprisoned in Afghanistan? For those who are not giving up even in this situation? Amiri: The current situation is truly frightening, especially here in Afghanistan, unlike anywhere else in the world. When I look at the struggles faced by girls in Afghanistan and compare them to girls in other countries, it's disheartening. I'm convinced that if girls elsewhere were dealing with the same challenges as Afghan girls, they might not show half the resilience and determination. I recall an interview I had with a Spanish media outlet where I highlighted that even though Afghan girls are forbidden from receiving an education, they refuse to give up. They find alternatives, a fact that surprised the journalist. She mentioned that if her daughter encountered something negative on her way to school, she would skip it, and she wouldn't allow her to go because they felt too vulnerable. The journalist was amazed that Afghan girls, despite having all paths closed to them, managed to find a way. To all the girls out there, I want to express my happiness at being an Afghan girl, standing in solidarity with those for whom all doors are shut. Every time I hear about an Afghan girl achieving something, it fills my heart with joy. Despite facing stiff competition, Afghan girls have secured scholarships that seemed almost impossible. Yes, I understand the struggles of all girls in Afghanistan because I'm in the same boat, no different from them. I, too,  was in the twelfth grade when the Taliban came and I was the one whose school was closed and was denied access to university shortly after acceptance. I've experienced being banned from work. However, giving up is not the solution; it's what they want us to do. They want us uneducated to mold the next generation into terrorists. In this challenging situation, we must make use of the limited opportunities we have. We might be forbidden from attending school, but we can still study with the textbooks we have, without needing the internet or any device. If there's no light at night, we have sunshine during the day. If we lack school textbooks, we can borrow books from friends, but we should never stop learning. If learning is halted even in our homes, it would be a catastrophic loss. Ibrahimi: The situation will not remain the same, and those who don't do anything will lose valuable time. Everyone should make use of their time so that they will be prepared when everything changes. Amiri: When the situation changes, the winners are those who have made efforts and not given up today. We had a similar experience previously as well. During the first Taliban period, some people gave up on learning and became uneducated. However, some individuals continued their education in some way, and they became successful people following the first period of the Taliban.

Fatima Amiri is an education and girls' rights activist from Afghanistan who made it to the BBC’s 100 Women in 2022. She is one of the survivors of the deadly attack on the Kaaj tutoring center in the Shittee Hazara neighborhood of Dasht-e-Barchi in western Kabul, Afghanistan, in September 2022 while she and dozens of other students were taking the practice public university entrance exam. She rose amidst the blood and ashes to fight for her dreams and those of her 150 fellow students who were killed and injured. In this interview, HerStory’s Program Director, Murtaza Ibrahimi, sat with Fatima Amiri and discussed her early life, advocacy for girls' education, the attack on Kaaj, her current status, and more.  The interview is being published in three parts. Ibrahimi: Can you share a bit about your background, family, and the role your family has played in supporting your education? Amiri: I'm 18 years old, born in Ghazni province, which is next to Kabul. Education holds significant importance in my family, prompting us to relocate to Kabul from Ghazni for better educational opportunities a few years after I was born. I am the youngest among my five siblings, including two sisters and three brothers. Despite the challenging security situation in Kabul in recent years, my family remained committed to my education. While concerns for my safety arose, they continued to encourage me, occasionally suggesting that skipping school might be safer. However, they never insisted on it. What's remarkable is that my mom, despite having the least formal education in our family, turned out to be my biggest supporter. I really cherish her constant encouragement; especially given the challenges we've faced in recent times. Ibrahimi: Which school did you attend for your primary, secondary, and high school? Amiri: When my family moved from Ghazni to Kabul, my sisters started attending Rabia-e-Balkhi Girls High School. My parents picked that school because we were always on the move within the city, and Rabia-e-Balkhi was in a spot that worked well for us, reaching different neighborhoods easily. Because of my strong interest, I joined with my sisters and started school before my legal age at six years old, and it made sense – I got to go to school with my sisters, making our daily routine much simpler and safer. As time went on and my sisters finished high school when I was in 4th grade, I had to figure out the daily commute on my own. Even though my family thought it might be easier for me to switch to a school closer to our home in Dasht-e-Barchi, I stuck with Rabia-e-Balkhi. The familiar faces, the friendships I had built, and the feeling of belonging were more important to me than the hassle of a two-hour commute each day. In the end, I graduated from Rabia-e-Balkhi, holding onto the special connections I had made and appreciating the unique journey that shaped my school years. Ibrahimi: You mentioned that your daily commute to and from school took around 2 hours. What made Rabia-e-Balkhi special for you? Is there a standout memory that you still carry with you? Amiri: Rabia-e-Balkhi was different from other public schools because it had a sufficient number of teachers for its students – a rarity in public schools at the time. I vividly recall my brothers, who attended a public school in the Dasht-e-Barchi neighborhood, often complaining about the lack of teachers in their classes. What set Rabia-e-Balkhi apart was not only its curriculum, which mostly matched up to private schools but also the existence of extracurricular activities. We frequently had cultural events for various occasions, and I actively participated, delivering speeches and reciting poetry. One lasting memory from my time at Rabia-e-Balkhi is the discovery of my talent for reciting and writing poems. It all began in the sixth grade when my teachers noticed my potential and started encouraging me. Until then, I had thought I was just like everyone else when it came to reciting poems. However, when I started reciting poems in the classroom and during school events, it turned out to be a pleasant surprise for everyone, and they truly enjoyed it. I owe my success as a dedicated student to the excellent teachers and wonderful friends I had at Rabia-e-Balkhi. Ibrahimi: Rabia-e-Balkhi was one of the prominent public schools with students from diverse ethnicities and languages. Did you experience any form of discrimination at the school? Amiri: When I first joined the school, discrimination was unfortunately quite prevalent. Despite my deep affection for my school, I cannot deny the existence of discrimination among the students, even if it wasn't originating from the teachers. Perhaps it was just the nature of kids, but these instances of discrimination were widespread across the country. Allow me to share a memory that might shed light on your question. In the 4th grade, during breaks, students would gather for prayer as we attended the afternoon shift, leaving no time for prayers after I returned home. There was a small room we referred to as the mosque where we conducted our prayers. Most students were Sunni Muslims, praying with open hands, but I noticed one of my Shiite friends abstaining from prayer. Despite facing insults and criticism for my way of praying, I continued without being bothered. One day, when I asked my Shiite friend why she avoided prayer, she said that she feared revealing her sect of being a Shittee Muslim. While I may have been resilient, other students felt the impact of such discrimination. As mentioned, discrimination was prevalent in the early years, including language differences. The school had both Pashto and Farsi-speaking students. However, I believe it was a part of our childhood, and it gradually diminished as we grew older. By the time I graduated, I had formed strong friendships with Hazara, Pashtun, and Tajik friends, many of whom I am still in contact with today. Ibrahimi: When did you figure out what you wanted to study, and when did you start making moves to pursue that dream? Amiri: Back in 9th and 10th grade, my classmates and I used to chat about our future. It was during those conversations that I confidently declared my interest in computer science. Despite the concerns from some about my eyes and the constant computer work, my decision stayed firm. I couldn't ignore the reality of our country lagging in technology, which became obvious whenever we had to deal with things like applying for a national identity card or a passport. My love for mathematics played a big role in steering me towards computer science. I was pretty good at it, and I had great relationships with my math teachers throughout high school and in the prep classes for university entrance exams. During those practice exams, you could always find me acing the math questions, even if I stumbled a bit on chemistry or social subjects. The combination of my math passion and the clear need for tech progress in our country made computer science the perfect fit for me. Ibrahimi: When did you start taking prep classes for the university entrance exam? Amiri: My journey to prepare for the university entrance exam took a unique path. I began by studying at a madrasa, a religious school, and didn't attend a tutoring center, unlike my sisters. My routine revolved around going to both school and madrasa, with additional basic classes during the winter. I saved money specifically for these winter basic classes to ensure I was well-prepared for the upcoming academic year. When I considered enrolling in prep classes, seeking advice from experienced individuals, including my cousins, initially discouraged me. They emphasized the importance of foundation courses, a step I hadn't taken. Despite feeling discouraged, I stood my ground, citing my strong foundation in school subjects. Starting the prep courses was tough—I had regular school, English classes, and university entrance exam prep all crammed into one busy day. My daily schedule was a whirlwind – leaving for school at 6 am, returning at 1 pm, attending English classes until 3 pm, and then moving to another tutoring center for the university entrance exam prep until 7 pm. Throughout the day, I used breaks for assignments and quick study sessions. Evenings were allocated to reviewing the lessons from prep courses. The announcement of a special class for elite students in my tutoring center urged me to challenge myself, despite not having taken foundation courses. Persisting through late nights and firm determination, I surpassed expectations in my first practice exam. Securing a spot in the special class was a victory, especially considering the competitive requirement to maintain top scores in practice exams – a challenge I met, even with my hectic schedule. As my journey progressed, I and my fellows faced numerous challenges, including the disruptions caused by the COVID-19 pandemic and the political changes in the country, marked by the Taliban takeover. Ibrahimi: Could you share how life was for you before and after the fall of Kabul in August 2021? What noticeable changes have you experienced, especially regarding the challenges faced by women in Afghanistan? Amiri: You know, life in Afghanistan wasn't perfect even before the Taliban came back. Back then, when we went to school, there was this constant fear of terrorist attacks, even though the Taliban wasn't officially in power. The education quality wasn't top-notch, but at least we could attend school. It was something, you know? A sort of freedom, even if it wasn't perfect but we were making progress and everything was getting better. We could go to public places, breathe freely, and just live our lives. But now, everything has turned upside down. We don't even have the right to go to school anymore. People, especially women, can't even learn how to read and write, and that's a basic right we had even with the imperfect education before the Taliban. Despite the flaws, many of us managed to achieve things. Now, security is a mess, and hopes for the future are shattered. Forced marriages, restrictions on work and education, and even going to a park – it's all controlled. Women are told what to wear, and extremism has taken over, all in the name of Islam. Before the Taliban, education might not have been great, but talented individuals could get scholarships to study abroad. Now, women can't even leave Afghanistan without a Mahram. It's a nightmare. The situation in Afghanistan is heartbreaking, not just for women but for everyone. People are struggling economically, big time. In the past, even if you couldn't find a job, you could sell something as a street vendor. Now, even those who manage to earn a bit must give a huge chunk of it as taxes. It's tough to find anything positive in the stories my friends tell me from Afghanistan. Male students can still go to school, but who are their teachers? This is the question! It makes me wonder if it's better for girls not to go to school, to avoid being exposed to extremist ideas. If this situation continues, I wouldn't be surprised if women end up resorting to suicide attacks because what is being taught is even more dangerous and worse than being illiterate. In such a grim situation, a bad choice might seem better than a worse one. Afghanistan is in a league of its own – you can't compare it to anywhere else in the world.

Parwana was 15 when she was deprived of going to school under the Taliban’s regime, which took power back in August 2021 in Afghanistan. At such a young age, Parwana started to stand against the regime’s restrictions on Afghan women by recording herself dancing Sama and posting it on social media. For her safety, we use Parwana as her pseudonym and an AI-generated photo as her image in this feature article. The Sama dance, also called Sufi whirling, is a spiritual practice associated with the Mevlevi Order in Sufism. Practitioners, known as dervishes, perform circular spins symbolizing a mystical journey toward spiritual enlightenment. While women in Afghanistan are deprived of their basic rights, such as choosing what to wear, going out in public freely, studying, and working, Parwana began to dance Sama in public to criticize the restrictions on herself and millions of other women in Afghanistan. Following threats from unknown sources and the Taliban, she did not stop but turned to an alternative: recording herself dancing while covering her face and posting her videos on social media through media outlets. “It is really hard to do it here. After sharing my videos on social media, it has a lot of problems and challenges for me,” she describes how she was impacted by the threats. Schoolgirls in Afghanistan, including Parwana, who are now imprisoned in their homes, have started to spend their days learning new skills and thinking of pursuing a different path for their dreams and passions. Parwana was 17 when she discovered her passion for photography. Soon, she found herself in this beautiful art as a skillful photographer, using photography to showcase the unseen beauty of Afghanistan and Afghan women to the world. “At first, I started photography as my hobby, but after some time, I realized I was not doing this for myself anymore. I am doing it for my people,” committing to capturing things through the lens of her camera that often goes unnoticed in Afghanistan. Parwana stresses that the difficult circumstances and moments that millions of Afghan girls and women are going through should be captured. “I think with myself that there should be someone who captures these moments to show the world the lives of millions of girls at this time—that women and girls are still doing [their best] with this much pain and this much problem.” Parwana tries to reach out to as many girls as possible to talk to them, listen to what they have to say, and bring it to life through her camera. The photos she takes go into her photo collection called "Egyptian Lotus," which implies the concept of flowers growing up in swamps—comparing Afghan girls to flowers that have to live under difficult circumstances. As Parwana grows, she learns more about herself, and life, and shapes her beliefs by exploring different books from well-known authors. “When I read those stories, I think that if they could survive those times, then maybe I can too,” adds Parwana after sharing that she has been reading narratives and stories of Afghan women under the first period of the Taliban regime back in the 1990s. Khaled Hosseini, Lillias Hamilton, Elif Shafak, and Michelle Obama are some of her favorite authors. For Parwana, it is highly significant to keep her dreams alive and not give up despite all the challenges she and her fellows are facing in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. “My dreams are very important to me, and I will do anything to achieve them, I know that one day I will have a speech at the United Nations, and I will talk about all of these women and say that I am only a teenage girl, and what is happening is not fair.” In her last statement in the interview with HerStory, Parwana stresses again the importance of continuing to introduce Afghan women to the world, “I want to show that women and girls in Afghanistan are so beautiful—their dresses, their hair, their homes, and all of their traditions—but at this time, they’re all trapped in their homes.”

Kimia is a 24-year-old artist, book lover, and university student. Before the fall of Kabul in 2021, Kimia would spend her days learning journalism at the university, reading books like Emma by Jane Austin, and watching movies. After the fall, she said she was uncertain if she could continue her education. For safety reasons, we will use "Kimia" as a pseudonym and an AI-generated image as her photo. “I was a university student when the Taliban came to power, and the universities were closed. After August 15th, we could finish one or two semesters during their period, but after the Taliban banned us from going to university, most girls have started studying on their own at home,” said Kimia in an interview with HerStory. On December 20th, 2022, according to NPRNews, girls were banned from attending university, which led to many girls being forced to stay at home. While most would imagine this would stop girls from wanting to grow and flourish, Kimia proves us otherwise. “Most of the girls I know have found something for themselves to be busy with; they try to attend online classes or start business projects.” Kimia herself has also changed since the fall. “I am one of those women who does not want to just keep thinking about marriage and stay in the corner of my room for the rest of my life, and that is it. In my opinion, the thought of a life like that is horrifying. I think that for the time we have left on this earth, we should go to school and university [get an education], and it is very important. But now that we have no access to it, we will still keep searching for a way to improve and not accept failure,” said Kimia. Passion for Art Kimia has been making art ever since she has known herself. She says she has used art as a way to express herself, and it is very dear to her. “Since I was a kid, I liked to draw a lot. I remember when I was in my second or first year of school, my dad was traveling to Moscow, and I tried to have filled multiple sketchbooks by the time he came back so that he would give me a gift/prize.” Now, art has changed its meaning and value for her. From drawing to getting a reward, she now holds drawing as a way to share her world, soul, and thoughts with others. “I think the most beautiful and meaningful pieces of art are created when the artists are going through a difficult part of their lives, like during the world wars or times when people were sorrowful.” Kimia also finds inspiration and motivation through art. “For me, if I did not have art, I would get very depressed, and I could not get along with all this amount of sorrow. Art is not only helping me through these times, but I also try to make an influence, be creative, keep myself busy, and survive.” What Kimia Says About Girl’s Education “I will tell the world that all of the people living in Afghanistan, especially the girls, are all warriors. You cannot only call someone who goes to war and takes up arms a warrior but what also makes us warriors is how we do not let our dreams die. Most of the girls in Afghanistan are now trying to keep their hopes alive in different ways and not destroy them. This is a fight in and of itself. We are warriors because we don't let the darkness conquer our lives in any way, and every single day we try to get ourselves out of this darkness. In my opinion, the world should know that the girls of Afghanistan are like warriors who are trying every day and can grow a lot if they have the chance to.” Future hopes and dreams “My hope for myself is to achieve all of my goals one day, and I am sure that I will, InshaAllah. For Afghan girls, I hope that one day they can get an education so that they can know their worth and capabilities and the world around them and have the right to choose the life they want to live. For my country, like everybody else, I want freedom. All of the people of Afghanistan are very hopeful that one day we could see our country free while we are still alive.” In her last remark, Kimia emphasizes the power of education. “The most important thing for the world to do is to help create educational opportunities for girls.” Showing us that it is only with education that a society can transform. Images Courtesy of Kimia | Submitted to HerStory