Bashria Sarwari is an inspiring Afghan woman whose journey is marked by courage, determination, and a deep commitment to helping others. From her early days in Kabul to her current pursuit of a PhD in Social Psychology in France, Bashria has dedicated her life to empowering displaced people—especially Afghan women—through education and humanitarian work.  Born and raised in Kabul; after completing her high school, Sarwari began her higher education in 2012, enrolling in a bachelor's degree program in English Literature at Ustad Rabbani University. Even as a young student, she dreamed of making a difference. In 2015, she began working with Jesuit Refugee Services (JRS)—a humanitarian organization supporting victims of war, natural disasters, and displacement.    At JRS, Sarwari played a crucial role in the lives of internally displaced people who had fled their provinces for Kabul. She taught them English and basic literacy, many of whom were illiterate and had never attended school.    “I felt very good to be a part of this organization where I got to teach English to these people,”   Sarwari said.       With support from JRS, Sarwari earned a scholarship in late 2016 to pursue a master’s degree in social work in India. While doing school, she also enrolled in courses in Human Resources and Management to better equip herself for her ultimate goal: founding her organization to continue helping people back home.    “I wanted to work hard and prepare myself to establish an organization with the same mission as JRS—to help people in need,”   Sarwari said.       In 2019, after completing her master’s degree, Sarwari returned to Afghanistan. In 2020, she co-founded “Ostak”, a nonprofit organization focused on assisting flood victims, internally displaced people, and others affected by war and disaster. Under her leadership, Ostak carried out meaningful humanitarian projects, supported by donors and international partners.  “I was always looking for projects and donors who could help people in Afghanistan—and I was able to find some,” Sarwari said. “We helped so many people. That’s what I wanted to do with my life: help my people.”    In early 2021, she planned to begin her PhD studies in Social Psychology at Bangalore University in India. Balancing her academic aspirations with her work at Ostak, Sarwari travelled back and forth between the two countries. But her life and the lives of millions of Afghans changed drastically when Kabul fell to the Taliban in August 2021.  “Before the fall, I returned to Afghanistan for my engagement party. I had planned to go back to India, but everything collapsed while I was there.”    Like countless others, Sarwari desperately sought a way out. Despite holding a valid Indian visa, her multiple attempts to leave the country failed. On one terrifying occasion, she escaped an explosion at the airport.   “It was one of the most difficult times of my life. I was so lucky nothing happened to me during that explosion,”   Sarwari said.    Eventually, Sarwari, her fiancé, and her siblings were able to flee with the help of JRS, making their way to safety in Italy. Though she found refuge, starting over wasn’t easy.    “I found it a bit challenging to live in Italy. It’s hard to build a stable life there,”   Sarwari said.  Though grateful for safety, Sarwari struggled to find a PhD opportunity, as most scholarships available were only for master’s programs. Still determined, she spent her time learning Italian, integrating into society, and exploring her next steps.    After eight months in Italy, she moved to France in May 2022, marking the beginning of a new chapter in her life. Sarwari was accepted into the University of Toulouse, where she is now completing her PhD in Social Psychology. In her PhD program, Sarwari focuses on how Afghan refugees adjust to new countries and how forced migration affects their identity.     She currently holds a visa that allows her to work and study, and her husband has recently joined her. Together, they are building a new life in France.    Despite the challenges she has faced, she has never given up on her dream.    “One day, I hope to restart my organization and continue helping people in Afghanistan—especially women,”   Sarwari said.    To Afghan women facing adversity, her message is simple yet powerful:    “Don’t lose hope. There is always light after dark. Stay strong—nothing stays the same forever.” Sarwari said.     Despite everything Sarwari has endured—from war and displacement to the challenge of starting over in foreign lands- she continues to carry her mission forward. With unwavering hope and a heart rooted in service, she is not only building a life in France but also preparing for the day she can return to empower Afghan women once again.

Written by Raihaneh Karimi As I walked out of my house, the city felt emptier than it ever had before. Maybe rainy days always feel this way—people postponing their plans, waiting for the sun to return. But is it so terrible to get caught in the soft drizzle?    I’m only a few steps away from my destination, with Mohammad Motamedi’s song playing again. Along the way, I pass by two people with their hats pulled low over their eyes and hands shielding their faces, as if the raindrops were something far heavier falling from the sky. They hurry past.    When they cross the street, they glance over at me, my hands tucked into my pockets, walking calmly as if I have all the time in the world. And in their minds, I can hear them think: “Where is she going? No university. No classes. Not even a café with space for a girl.”    I ignore it and keep walking, Motamedi’s voice filling my ears: “Now only tears truly understand my sorrow…”    I walk down the last alley, each step heavier than the last. When I finally reach my destination, I lean against the damp wall, not caring if my coat gets dirty. From here, I can see the university gate. It feels like time has stopped. I shake my head, struggling to believe what I’m seeing. The sight pulls me back into a memory from which I can’t escape. I close my eyes, and when I open them, it’s as if I’ve been carried to another time and place—a time when dreams came alive, and voices promised brighter days ahead.    In my hand is a book on the foundations of the visual arts, and in the other, a flask of iced water with a few fresh lime slices, which my mother prepared to keep me cool.     I lift my head and feel the sunlight on my face. Jamila and Zahra are smiling beside me, looking at their photos, criticizing their shots. They glance at me, saying something I can’t quite catch, while pointing to the alley behind us.  It’s full of students walking toward the university. They must be pointing at Niloofar, who’s weaving through the crowd to join us. Everyone is smiling, even Niloofar, despite being late. A contented smile lingers on my lips.  Then, I hear it:  “What are you doing here, girl?”  A raindrop hits my face. I open my eyes, and suddenly, everything fades—the books, my friends, even the sunlight. A man with a rifle slung over his shoulder stands in front of me, his voice full of anger.   “Can’t you hear me? What are you doing here? What are you checking?” I turn and walk away, retracing my steps, heading back toward home.  He stays where he is, still shouting questions I can’t hear anymore.  “What are you doing here?”  I wish I could answer him, but I know better than to engage.    I wish I could say: “I was checking the dream that was stolen from us on August 15, 2021. I was trying to make sense of the way we woke up one day and found our rights erased; Our right to education, our future. I was mourning the loss of everything we fought for.”    The rain keeps falling, but now, I can’t tell if the wetness on my face is from the rain or the tears I can’t stop shedding.    Yes, dear reader, this is Afghanistan—the only place where women are denied the right to dream, to learn, and to build their future.

When the Taliban returned to power in Afghanistan in 2021, many dreams were crushed especially for girls and women. One of those dreams belonged to Armaghan Ekhlas Nangarhari, a talented young woman who was studying medicine. But instead of giving up, she found a new path forward and is now continuing her medical education in Pakistan.  Born in 2002, Nangarhari is originally from Nangarhar province and raised in Jowzjan, she was known in her family as “the star.” Her father gave her that name and always encouraged her to study and become a doctor.   “Calling me the star was the reason I kept going to become a star that shines brightly,” she said.   In 9th grade, Nangarhari lost her father. It was the most difficult moment of her life, but she stayed strong for her mother, who is a teacher and her biggest role model.  During her final year of high school, Nangarhari devoted herself completely to preparing for Afghanistan’s national university entrance exam—the Kankoor. She often studied late into the night, driven by determination and a dream to become a doctor. One of her teachers noticed her dedication and began calling her “the girl who never gives up.” His words of encouragement became a light during her most difficult days.  “One day after class,” Nangarhari said, “he told me, ‘You’ll not only pass this exam—you’ll inspire others."   His belief in her gave her the strength to keep pushing forward. Her persistence paid off. Nangarhari passed the Kankoor exam in 2020 and was accepted into Balkh Medical School. Her lifelong dream of becoming a doctor—and fulfilling her father’s vision—was finally beginning to come true. As a result of her hard work, she was also invited to speak on a local TV program, where she shared her journey and encouraged other Afghan girls to fight for their right to education.    Nangarhari moved to Balkh, lived in a dorm, and began her medical education, taking her first real steps toward becoming a doctor. But her journey was interrupted in 2021 when the Taliban regained control of Afghanistan. Like millions of Afghan women and girls, Nangarhari was suddenly banned from continuing her education.  Nangarhari poses for a photo with her friends in front of the Balkh University Dormitory in Afghanistan. | Photo submitted by Nangarhari to HerStory.   “It was not easy for me to be forced to stop learning,” she said.    Stuck at home, she refused to give up. She enrolled in online Arabic and English courses. At the same time, she searched for opportunities to continue her medical education outside Afghanistan.  Eventually, two fully funded scholarships opened one in Pakistan, another in Bangladesh. She was accepted into both.  “I chose Allama Iqbal University in Lahore, Pakistan, because it had the option for medical studies.” Nangarhari said.  In 2024, she received her visa and left Afghanistan, beginning a new chapter far from her family. But her challenges were far from over. She had just one month to prepare for the “zero semester” entrance exam before starting medical school in Pakistan. Still, she pushed through and passed.  Now, she has officially begun her medical studies again and is grateful for the opportunity. But she really feels fortunate for Afghan girls to not have the same right as other people in the world.     “Sometimes I feel strange being in a new country. I wonder why Afghan women don’t have the same rights as women here. If we did, I would be in my own country.” Nangarhari  said   Nangarhari also dreams beyond medicine. She’s deeply interested in space and hopes to one day work in NASA’s medical division.    “I’ve connected with someone who works at NASA,” she said. “They encouraged me to keep going and told me that to work with them, I need to become a U.S. citizen. I’m hopeful that one day I’ll go to the U.S. and work with them.”    In Pakistan, Nangarhari didn’t just focus on her medical studies she also found ways to grow as a leader, learner, and voice for Afghan girls. She became a member of the university’s photography society, where she used her camera not just to capture light, but to tell untold stories. She participated in peace programs, academic seminars, and even represented Afghan youth in international webinars.  Nangarhari took part in meaningful platforms such as Women Ascension, EcoRevival Pakistan, Mover to Climate, and the World Youth Talent Astronomy Program. Each opportunity allowed her to raise her voice for Afghan girls who can no longer speak freely. She also contributed to international events like IAAC, Istanbul Eğitim Zirvesi, and the International Youth Conference, showing the world that Afghan women still have dreams worth hearing.  Despite the pain, setbacks, and loss she endured, Nangarhari believes her struggles have shaped her into the strong, resilient woman she is today. As she worked to rebuild her own life, she also found ways to uplift others—especially Afghan girls who, like her, were left behind in a world of uncertainty.  To support herself and continue making an impact, she began teaching English online.    Nangarhari with two street children in Afghanistan. | Photo submitted by Nangarhari to HerStory. “Every word I teach is like planting a seed of hope,” she said. “Even if I can’t change the whole world, I could change someone’s world.”  Nangarhari dreams of one day returning to Afghanistan—not just as a doctor, but as a symbol of what Afghan girls can achieve when given even the smallest chance.    “My biggest wish is to light a path for the girls still in the dark,” she said. “If I can become a doctor, a space scientist, or anything I dream of—then so can they.”

Written by Halima Zia  | نویسند ه :   حلیمه ضیاء 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. یک روز آفتابی، آخرین روز امتحان چهار و نیم‌ماهه، با جمعی از دوستان در حال صحبت، خندیدن، برنامه‌ریزی برای آینده‌مان و آماده‌گی برای روز فراغت بودیم. دوستم نیلوفر گفت: «من سرود می‌خوانم.» زهرا و نازنین گفتند: «ما نطاق می‌شویم.» مهدیه و سحر با چهره‌هایی شاد گفتند: «ما هم در گروه سرود خواهیم بود.» من اما، آرام و ساکت در حال درس خواندن بودم و در دل می‌اندیشیدم که آیا تا آن‌زمان زنده خواهیم بود تا به برنامه‌های دوستانم برسیم؟ در همان حال که می‌خندیدیم و صحبت می‌کردیم، ناگهان معلم گفت: «دخترها بیایید، حاضری گرفته می‌شود و برای امتحان به تالار می‌روید.» زمان امتحان فرا رسید. شاگردان یکی‌یکی وارد تالار شدند. همه در هیاهو بودند. حرف‌هایی ناخوشایند می‌زدند؛ اینکه جاهلان وارد کابل شده‌اند. اما من گوش‌هایم را سنگین کرده بودم و در ذهنم تکرار می‌کردم: امکان ندارد! ما تا همین چند لحظه پیش برای آینده‌مان برنامه می‌ریختیم... در حین بالا رفتن از پله‌های مکتب، حس می‌کردم پاهایم یاری نمی‌کنند. ذهنم درگیر جنگی درونی بود. دلم آشوب داشت و زبانم بند آمده بود. به تالار رسیدیم و در چوکی‌ها نشستیم تا همه شاگردان حاضر شوند. برگه‌های امتحان توزیع شد و همه مشغول پاسخ‌گویی به سوالات شدند. در حال نوشتن جواب‌ها بودم که ناگهان صدای مادر دوستم سمیه آمد. با صدایی لرزان می‌گفت: «کجایی دخترم؟ بیا برویم! دخترم بیا! سمیه، کجا نشسته‌ای؟ لطفاً بیا برویم خانه!» لحظاتی بعد، معلم گفت: «لطفاً مادر جان، شاگردان در حال امتحان هستند، لطفاً بروید تا تمرکزشان به هم نخورد.» اما مادر سمیه پاسخ داد: «نه خیر! تا وقتی دخترم نیاید، اینجا را ترک نمی‌کنم. چون وحشی‌ها حمله کرده‌اند و قرار است کابل را به دریای خون تبدیل کنند!» دستانم بی‌جان شده بود. گوش‌هایم دیگر نمی‌توانستند صدایی بشنوند و چشمانم غرق اشک بودند؛ اما باز هم مشغول پاسخ دادن به سوالات امتحان بودم. چند لحظه بعد صدای تیراندازی آمد و همه با جیغ‌ و فریاد تالار را ترک کردند. با آن‌حال، من باز هم تلاش کردم امتحانم را به پایان برسانم. وقتی به اطرافم نگاه کردم، دیدم هیچ‌کس جز من آنجا نمانده است. با چشمانی اشک‌بار به خود گفتم:تا چند لحظه پیش همه به فکر درس بودند، رویاهایی در سر داشتند، با هم بودیم...چه شد؟ چرا این‌طور شد؟ از تالار پایین آمدم و ناگهان به یاد آوردم که برادرم نیز با من بود. نکند اتفاقی برایش افتاده باشد؟ با هق‌هق گفتم: «ابوالفضل، کجایی؟» به سمت زینه‌ها رفتم؛ کسی نبود. هر پله‌ای برایم به اندازه‌ سه ساعت طول کشید تا به حویلی مکتب برسم. آنجا هم کسی نبود. صدایم همه‌جا را پر کرده بود: «ابوالفضل، کجایی؟ جانِ خواهر، کجایی؟» فکرهای بدی به ذهنم هجوم می‌آوردند. نکند گم شده باشد؟ یا از ترس پنهان شده؟ چشمانم آن‌قدر خیس بود که هیچ‌چیز نمی‌دیدم. همه‌جا تار شده بود. در یکی از پله‌های طبقه اول نشستم. چند لحظه بعد صدایی آمد: «حلیمه! حلیمه! بلند شو، باید برویم!» چشم باز کردم، دیدم زهرا دخترخاله‌ام است. گفت: «نمی‌شنوی؟ صدای تفنگ است! باید برویم!» برخاستم و ماجرای برادرم را برایش گفتم. او گفت: «با خانواده تماس بگیر، شاید ابوالفضل به خانه رفته باشد.» تماس گرفتم. مادرم تلفن را جواب داد. با صدایی پر از بغض پرسیدم: «مادر، برادرم خانه آمده؟» مادرم گفت: «آری دخترم، او خانه است.» نفسی عمیق کشیدم و گفتم: «خدایا شکرت!» مادرم گفت: «حلیمه جان، مواظب خودت باش. قوی باش. زودتر برگرد خانه.» با شنیدن صدای مادرم دیگر نتوانستم اشکم را پنهان کنم و گریان از مکتب خارج شدم. در راه با خود می‌گفتم: یعنی دیگر به مکتب نخواهم رفت؟ دیگر دوستانم را نمی‌بینم؟ آینده‌ای نخواهم داشت؟ حتی تصورش هم برایم سنگین بود. آه خدایا... در مسیر به سوی خانه خاله‌ام بودم، چون خانه‌شان نزدیک مکتب بود. تصمیم گرفتم تا آرام‌تر شدن اوضاع آنجا بمانم. در راه، انگار قیامت شده بود. همه در حال فرار، همه از سایه‌ خود نیز می‌ترسیدند. به خانه خاله‌ام رسیدم. در گوشه‌ای از اتاق، آرام اما با گلویی پر از بغض و دلی پر از درد نشستم. خاله‌ام گفت باید به جای دورتری برویم؛ چون این منطقه به طالبان نزدیک است. دوباره راه افتادیم. خاله‌ام و دخترخاله‌ام به خانه پدرکلانم رفتند و من به خانه‌ خودمان برگشتم. در مسیر، با خود فکر می‌کردم: مردمانش گریختند،دخترانش نابود شدند،قلب‌ها زخمی،گلوها پر از بغض...آری! این کابل بود. کابل من سقوط کرد، دوباره نابود شد. نمی‌دانم آیا واقعاً خودم شاهد این رویدادها بودم یا شخصی دیگر؛ زیرا هنوز هم باورم نمی‌شود. حالا هم با چشمانی اشک‌بار، دستانی لرزان و قلبی پر از درد، این خاطره را نوشتم. اما خودم را هرگز از دست ندادم. بلکه قوی‌تر از دیروز، به راهم ادامه دادم و خواهم داد. حکومت سقوط کرد، دیگر نتوانستم به مکتب بروم و به آرزوهایم برسم؛ اما هرگز ناامید نشدم و نخواهم شد. من در هر شرایطی قوی ماندم و خواهم ماند. بیشتر از قبل یاد گرفتم، بیشتر از قبل معنای واقعی زندگی را درک کردم و شجاع‌تر شدم. چون به خودم باور دارم که می‌توانم هر آنچه را بخواهم، به دست آورم. در من، قدرتی نهفته به نام «دختر بودن» وجود دارد که هیچ‌کس نمی‌تواند آن را از من بگیرد. حلیمه هرگز شکست را نمی‌پذیرد. It was a sunny day—the last day of our four-and-a-half-month exam period. I was sitting with a group of friends, chatting, laughing, planning for our futures, and getting excited about graduation day. Nilofar said, “I’ll sing in the school choir.” Zahra and Nazanin added, “We’ll be the MCs.” Mahdia and Sahar, with joyful faces, chimed in, “We’ll also join the choir.” But I stayed quiet, studying my notes. In my heart, I wondered: Will we even live long enough to make it to these plans? While we were still laughing and talking, our teacher called out, “Girls, come in. I’m taking attendance before the exam. Go to the hall.” It was time. The students entered the hall one by one, everyone murmuring, many voices mixing with rumors that the extremists had entered Kabul. But I blocked out the noise. It can’t be true,  I kept repeating to myself. Just moments ago, we were making plans for our future... As I climbed the stairs to the hall, my legs felt heavy, my mind was a storm of thoughts, and my heart was uneasy. We reached the exam hall and took our seats. Once everyone arrived, the teacher handed out the exam papers. I started writing my answers. But then, I heard a trembling voice—it was the mother of my friend, Somaya. “Where are you, my daughter? Please come out! Let’s go home, my child. Somaya, where are you sitting? Please come, let’s go!” The teacher tried to calm her down: “Mother dear, the students are taking an exam. Please let them finish so they can focus.” But she replied, “No! I won’t leave until my daughter comes out. The militants have invaded and plan to turn Kabul into a river of blood!” My hands went numb. My ears couldn’t process sounds anymore. My eyes welled up with tears. Yet still, I kept writing. Moments later, the sound of gunfire echoed through the hall. Screams filled the air. Students dropped their pens and ran. Despite it all, I stayed and tried to finish my exam. But when I looked around, I realized—no one was left. I was the only one still there. With tearful eyes, I thought to myself:Just a moment ago, we were all dreaming, planning, together...What happened? How did it all change so quickly? I left the hall, and suddenly I remembered—my brother was with me. What if something happened to him? Sobbing, I called out: “Abolfazl, where are you?” I ran toward the stairs, but there was no one. Each step felt like it took three hours as I made my way to the school courtyard. Still, no sign of him. My cries echoed through the halls: “Abolfazl, where are you? For your sister’s sake, where are you?” Dark thoughts clouded my mind— What if he’s lost? What if he’s hiding in fear? My eyes were so filled with tears I could hardly see. Everything around me turned blurry. I sat on one of the stairs, overwhelmed. Then a voice called out, “Halima! Halima! Get up—we have to go!” I opened my eyes and saw my cousin Zahra. She said, “Can’t you hear the gunshots? We have to leave, now!” I stood up and explained what had happened to my brother. She said, “Call your family. Maybe he’s already home.” I dialed. My mother answered. With a shaky voice, I asked, “Mom, is my brother home?” She replied, “Yes, my daughter. He’s home.” I took a deep breath. “Thank God.” She added, “Be careful, Halima. Be strong. Come home quickly.” Hearing her voice made me cry even harder. Tears streaming down my face, I left the school. On the way, I wondered: Will I ever go back to school? See my friends again? Have a future?  Even thinking about it was unbearable. Oh God… I decided to go to my aunt’s house nearby to wait until things calmed down. The streets were chaotic. It felt like the Day of Judgment. People were running in all directions, scared even of their own shadows. I reached my aunt’s house. Quietly, I sat in the corner of a room, filled with grief, holding back tears. My aunt said we needed to leave. The area was too close to where the Taliban were moving in. So we set out again. My aunt and cousin went to my grandfather’s house. I went back to our home. Along the way, I thought to myself: The people fled, The girls’ dreams were crushed, Hearts shattered,Throats heavy with grief… Yes, this was Kabul. My Kabul had fallen—destroyed once again. I still don’t know if I truly lived through it all, or if it was someone else. It’s still hard to believe. Even now, with teary eyes, trembling hands, and a heart full of pain, I write this story. But I never gave up on myself. I became stronger than before—and I will keep moving forward. The government collapsed. I couldn’t go back to school. I was blocked from reaching my dreams. But I never gave up, and I never will. I stayed strong in every situation. I learned more than ever. I understood the true meaning of life. And I became braver. Because I believe in myself. I believe I can achieve anything I set my mind to. There is a power inside me—a power called being a girl —and no one can take that away from me. Halima never accepts defeat.

Written by Benafsha | نویسنده:‌بنفشه 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. آن روزها، بعد از تمام کردن کارخانه گی هایم، شبها با آرامش و شادی عمیقی به خواب می‌رفتم. صبح‌ها با انگیزه از خواب بیدار می‌شدم و به سرعت آماده می‌شدم تا دیر نشود. ناگهان، صدای تک تک دروازه می‌آمد. مادرم می‌رفت تا ببیند کیست و با صدای بلند می‌گفت: زود باش! همصنفیت آمده پشتت، عجله کو.     زود آماده می‌شدم و با مادرم خداحافظی می‌کردم. بعد از احوالپرسی با همصنفیم، طرف مکتب می‌رفتیم. در طول مسیر، درباره کارخانه گی هایمان صحبت می‌کردیم و پرسش و پاسخ می‌کردیم تا ببینیم برای ارزیابی و درس آن روز آماده‌ایم یا نه. سپس به مکتب می‌رسیدیم. آن چند ساعت در مکتب، لحظات بسیار خوشایندی بودن. درس می‌خواندیم و با انبوهی از وظایف خانه گی جدید به سمت خانه بازمی‌گشتیم. مسیر برگشت هم پر بود از گفت‌وگو و رویا پردازی در مورد آینده و این‌که می‌خواستیم چه کاره شویم.   یادش بخیر! چه روزهای خوبی بودن! اما حالا، مثل خاطره‌ای دور و دست نیافتنی به نظر می‌رسند. باورکردنی نیست که فقط پنج سال پیش، زندگی‌ام تا این اندازه خوشایند بود و روزهایم با امید و هدف سپری می‌شد. در طول این پنج سال، زندگی‌ام به کلی تغییر کرده است. دیگر راحت نمی‌خوابم و تا دیروقت بیدار می‌مانم، با اینکه تلاش می‌کنم بخوابم. دیگر آن انگیزه ها را ندارم وقتی صبح از خواب بیدار می‌شدم. روزها هم دیگر خوشایند نیستند و فقط سعی می‌کنم آنها را سپری کنم. اصلا یادم نمی‌آید آخرین بار کی با کسی در مورد آرزوهایم حرف زده‌ام.   یعنی فقط پنج سال پیش، دختران در افغانستان زندگی خوشی داشتند؟ آن دوره مثل چشم به هم زدن گذشت، اما این دوره بی سرنوشتی و درس نخواندن، هر چه می‌گذرد، طولانی‌تر می‌شود. چرا؟  زمان هم چیز عجیبی است؛ وقتی خوش‌حالی، زود می‌گذرد، اما وقتی اوضاع به سختی اوضاع امروز ما باشد، هرگز نمی‌گذرد. Those days, after finishing my homework, I would fall asleep at night with deep peace and joy. In the morning, I would wake up with motivation and quickly get ready so I wouldn’t be late. Suddenly, the sound of knocking at the gate would come. My mother would go to see who it was and shout loudly, “Hurry up! Your classmate is at the door, hurry!” I would quickly get ready and say goodbye to my mother. After greeting my classmate, we would head toward school. Along the way, we talked about our homework and asked each other questions to see whether we were ready for the day’s quiz and lesson. Then we would arrive at school. Those few hours at school were truly pleasant moments. We studied and returned home with lots of new homework. The way back was also full of conversations and daydreams about the future and what we wanted to become. What sweet memories! But now, they seem like a distant, unreachable dream. It’s unbelievable that just five years ago, my life was this pleasant, and my days passed with hope and purpose. Over these five years, my life has completely changed. I no longer sleep easily. I stay up late, even though I try to fall asleep early. I no longer have that motivation when I wake up. The days are no longer pleasant—I just try to get through them at home. I honestly don’t remember the last time I talked to someone about my dreams. Does that mean that only five years ago, girls in Afghanistan had a happy life? That time passed like the blink of an eye, but this era of uncertainty and being denied an education keeps stretching endlessly—only getting longer and longer. Why? Time is a strange thing: when you're happy, it flies by, but when life is as heavy as it is now, it refuses to move.

#NexusTalk | Episode #6 Shukria Ganji is an Afghan-Canadian real estate agent in the Greater Vancouver area. Shukria and her family were forced to flee her home country, Afghanistan, during the first Taliban regime and moved to Pakistan and eventually to Canada, where she now calls home. In her conversation with Nila Ibrahimi at HerStory's NexusTalk, she shared her journey of becoming a refugee, facing challenges and hardships, and how they helped shape her life, the role of education, her career change from hospitality to real estate, her insights into the real estate industry and market in the Lower Mainland, and her advice to young Afghan women who are taking steps toward their future.

In 2023, Fazilat Hameedi, a bright and ambitious young woman from Afghanistan, fled to Pakistan in search of the one thing she has always longed for-education. Today, she lives in fear of being deported back to a country where girls are banned from attending school.  Before the fall of Afghanistan in August 2021, Hameedi lived in Kabul and was already making an impact in her community. Alongside her own high school studies, she volunteered at the Omid Organization which was founded by her brother to empower women through education. There, she taught literacy to illiterate women and offered English and chemistry classes to young girls.  Her dream was to become a dentist. After years of preparation, she passed Afghanistan’s national Kankoor exam with an impressive score of 322 and earned admission to Kabul medical school’s dentistry program one of the most competitive in the country. But when the Taliban took control, her dream was shattered. Girls and women were banned from higher education.  “I still cannot believe that I could not go to dentistry school,” Hameedi said. “I had a picture of Kabul Medical School under my pillow to keep me motivated. I studied so hard for this.”  Refusing to accept a future without education, she searched for opportunities to study abroad. She was accepted to schools in China and Bangladesh but was unable to afford the tuition. Finally, in 2023, she made the difficult decision to leave her family and move alone to Rawalpindi, Pakistan. There, she began teach ing English to fellow Afghan refugees at a local language center.  “I was happy to be teach ing English. In one of my classes, I had 45 students. It was very motivating,” Hameedi said.  Hameedi also reached out to several universities in the United States and received multiple admissions offers. However, none came with scholarships, and the cost of tuition remains far beyond her means.  “I cannot afford to pay for university, and it’s heartbreaking to see that there is nobody willing to help,” Hameedi said.  Her situation has grown even more precarious in recent months. The Pakistani government has ramped up deportations of Afghan refugees including those with legal documents. Afraid for her safety, Hameedi fled from Rawalpindi to Karachi in hopes of avoiding deportation.  “I saw police deporting people with my own eyes. I couldn’t imagine being sent back to Afghanistan in this situation,” Hameedi said. “So, I fled to Karachi.”  Now living alone in fear, with no steady income and no clear path forward, Hameedi is urgently seeking a scholarship and a safe country where she can pursue her education and live without the constant threat of deportation.    “Living alone in Pakistan is not easy. I used to have an income from teach ing English in Rawalpindi, but now I don’t know what’s going to happen to me,” Hameedi said.  Despite everything, Hameedi remains hopeful and determined. She is calling on the world to stand with Afghan women during one of the darkest times in their history.  “Please do not forget us. Support us. We will shine brightly if a chance is given to us,” Hameedi said.

Written by Samira Kohdamani Greetings, I am Samira Kohdamani, a girl from the beautiful city of Kabul. My life, like the life of many Afghan girls, has been full of ups and downs.  I started my primary education in Kabul, but due to the unstable situation in my country, my family and I moved to Tajikistan, where I completed high school. Afghanistan has never been a safe place for young girls, and I was fortunate to spend my teenage years in Tajikistan, where I had better opportunities for growth and education.  However, after 2021, life changed drastically for all Afghans—especially for families like mine, who had always been targeted by terrorist groups such as the Taliban. The fall of the country forced us to begin a dangerous journey. Our destination was uncertain, but one thing was clear. There was no place left for us in Afghanistan.  Escaping Kabul: Through Checkpoints and Chaos  We decided to go to Albania, but leaving Afghanistan was not easy. We were supposed to fly from Mazar-e-Sharif airport, but reaching it was a challenge. My family and I had to travel from Kabul to Mazar while wearing burqas to avoid being recognized. At every Taliban checkpoint, our vehicle was stopped, and we were questioned: “Where are you going? Why? With whom?” Every moment felt like a risk of being turned back.  After lots of fear and uncertainty, we finally reached Mazar-e-Sharif airport. But the biggest challenge was yet to come. The Taliban refused to let us board the flight, insisting that we couldn’t travel without a male guardian. We pleaded with them, but they wouldn’t allow us to leave. Just when we started losing hope, an earthquake struck. The Taliban forces abandoned the airport in panic, and we seized the opportunity to board the plane. As the aircraft took off, I realized we had overcome the most difficult part of our journey—yet the future remained uncertain.  A New Life in Canada: Hopes, Hardships, and New Beginnings  After spending some time in Albania, we finally arrived in Canada. It has now been two years since I started my new life here. However, even in Canada, life has not been without challenges. Initially, the government supported us financially for a year, but after that, we had to find jobs and become independent. Finding work was tough, but fortunately, I managed to get a job. Now, I work while continuing my education, knowing that studying is the key to a better future.  This journey has been full of challenges, but it has also taught me valuable lessons. I have learned to fight for my future, never give up, and keep hoping for the day when Afghanistan will be safe again.  This is my story—the story of a girl who walked through darkness but continues to strive for a brighter future.

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.