Huma Rahimi, one of the first female Afghan sitar players, once hid her music in fear. Now, she performs on global stages, raising awareness about Afghan women and using her art to inspire change.   Rahimi, 27, spent years defying societal and religious barriers to pursue her passion for music. Starting in Kabul, where playing an instrument, especially as a woman, was far from common. Through resilience and determination, Rahimi rose above the challenges, eventually performing on some of the world’s most renowned stages.    Rahimi was born into a society where music was often seen as forbidden, and conservative beliefs discouraged artistic expression, especially for women. In a country where female literacy rates were low and female musicians faced harsh criticism, Rahimi’s dream of playing the intricate sitar was a bold act of defiance. At just 13, she enrolled at the Afghanistan National Institute of Music in Kabul, determined to pursue her passion despite overwhelming odds.    "My musical instrument was bigger than me," Rahimi said. "But the bigger challenge was my society, which didn’t want women to be musicians. I never could tell my neighbors I was a musician.”     Despite the skepticism and opposition from her community, Rahimi’s passion for music only grew stronger.     At ANIM, Rahimi was introduced to the world of Indian classical music, learning the sitar from Indian instructors who had been invited to teach at ANIM. At just 14 years old, she achieved a milestone that would forever change the course of her life—her first performance at Carnegie Hall in New York. The experience was a dream come true for Rahimi, a young girl from Afghanistan, standing on one of the world’s most famous stages, performing before a great audience.   Huma in the US | Photo Courtesy of Huma Rahimi Submitted to HerStory   “I can’t fully express how I felt—so happy, yet incredibly nervous. It was a moment I’ll never forget. I was feeling so proud,” Rahimi said.     As Rahimi’s reputation grew, so did the scope of her performances. Over the years, she has performed in countries such as Germany, China, the Netherlands, Switzerland, and many others.     Rahimi lived in India for three years and earned her bachelor’s degree in Eastern music with a focus on the sitar from the University of Delhi in June 2021.     "India was where I could get the best education for my music, and that’s exactly what happened," Rahimi said.     In July 2021, Rahimi returned to Afghanistan to teach at ANIM, the institution where she had received her training. However, just a month after she arrived in Kabul, the Taliban regained control of the country, shattering her sense of peace. She was not only deeply concerned for her own safety but also for the well-being of her family.     "When the Taliban took over, the first thing I did was hide my sitar at a relative's house," Rahimi said. "I was terrified that the Taliban would find me and kill me and my family because they are against music and musicians."     With help from international organizations, Rahimi was evacuated to Portugal, along with a team of fellow musicians, in October 2021.     “It was the darkest day of my life when I had to leave Afghanistan,” Rahimi said.     For nearly two years, she lived in Portugal, continuing to perform and raise awareness about the plight of Afghan musicians and women. In 2023, she finally made her way to the U.S., where she has since performed in various states, sharing her music and advocating for the rights of Afghan women.     Rahimi is grateful to be safe in Boston, but her heart remains with the women of Afghanistan, still denied their fundamental rights simply because of their gender. Rahimi recently co-founded a nonprofit organization called “Her Path to Knowledge” to provide underground classes for women who are no longer allowed to get an education.     “I am free now, but I think every day of those who are still suffering; that’s why I co-founded this organization to provide educational opportunities for a few women,” Rahimi said. “I hope that one day Afghan women can live like women in other countries.”     Rahimi’s path has taken her from fear to freedom, from hiding her instrument to sharing it with the world. Wherever she plays next, her story travels with her.

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.

Written by Atifa Annabi On August 15, 2021, Kabul didn’t fall; it collapsed in on itself. The air still carried the smell of my mother’s half-cooked rice when the TV announced the surrender of Afghanistan. Hearing the news about the Taliban, I just froze in place. The only thing that instantly crossed my mind was: There would be no more education. Not even going outside. And it wasn’t just me or my family, the entire city fell into a silence filled with screams. Every street, every home overflowed with fear and panic, echoing the same unanswered question: “What happens now?” At the Kabul Passport Office, the heat shimmered above the pavement like rising smoke. People surged toward the gates like swarming bees around a hive, desperate, confused, terrified, trying to escape a homeland that no longer felt like home. The building had become a beehive under siege. I stood in that endless line under the burning sun. Sweat soaked into my clothes. Around me were people with dreams in their hands, pressed into faded folders and ID cards. In front of me was a woman in a black burqa. I couldn’t see her face, but I saw her hands trembling like a wounded bird. They told me this was her first time wearing it, not as a symbol of faith, but as a symbol of forced silence. Three children clung to her: two girls and a boy. The youngest, a boy no older than five, held their passport folder tightly and asked her softly, “Mama, will we leave when they give us our passports?” Inside, the biometric officer’s harsh voice shattered the heavy silence: “Your husband’s brother isn’t here? He’s in Iran? Your father-in-law is dead? Go, auntie! Please don’t waste my time. Look how many people are waiting!” Then, coldly said: “Next!” She stepped back, defeated. Her silence screamed louder than words. Then it was my turn. The officer, a man in his 40s with a faded henna-dyed beard, didn't even look at me. “What year were you born, Atifa?” “2006.” He waved me off. “We can’t register you. Come back with a male relative.” Then shouted again, “Next!” A storm rose inside me. Why? Am I not human? Can I not decide my own future? I stepped aside and called my brother. As I waited, I sat near the woman and gently asked, “Khala (Aunty), why didn’t they let you move forward with your work?” She adjusted her daughter’s collar and sighed. “My husband is gone. They say my children’s uncle must come. I’m their mother, but they say a mother isn’t a legal guardian.” Then, speaking more to herself than to me, she whispered, “That’s the cruel truth in these men’s minds… ‘What’s your father’s name? Your husband’s name? We need a male guardian.’ Mother? No, a mother has no identity.” That moment cracked something in me. A mother who has carried life, who has stayed up at night, who has raised her children alone, can’t get them passports because she’s a woman? I asked gently, not wanting to disturb her, “Where is your husband?” She answered quietly, “He was a soldier in the national army. He disappeared in the war with the Taliban. We never found him. I’m alone now. I must raise my children alone.” Her eyes held back tears, but her voice carried strength. That day I was there to get a passport, but I felt the worst feeling for me, my mother, my sister and all women in my country. I walked away with more than rejection. I walked away with a deeper understanding of what it means to be a woman in Afghanistan. I realized with the depth of my heart that it’s not just about hijabs and laws. It’s about being questioned for every breath you take. If you laugh, "It's inappropriate.” If you cry, “You’re weak.” If you speak, “You’re rude.” If you don't obey, “How dare you?” While thinking to myself, I saw another woman there with her children, with a heavy heart, saying “Now I must pull a stranger off the street to sign a piece of paper saying these children are mine. I carried them, birthed them, raised them and still, that’s not enough.” Finding myself alone there waiting for my brother with a burden of bitter feelings, I felt I needed to write all my thoughts down. Or it will make me cry. I pulled out a white sheet of paper and a pen from my bag, a bag that had carried these items with me since the 10th grade. As I held them in my hands, a thought crossed my mind, one that I would later feel ashamed of: What if the Taliban sees me writing? What would they do to me? Then, I scolded myself. Don't be ridiculous. You want to write about women’s rights, and here you are, afraid to even write about it. I start my writing with these sentences: But being a woman isn’t just about being someone’s daughter or wife. It’s about fire, strength, and life. It means rising again, no matter how many times the world pushes you down. It means turning your pain into a battle cry. If you dream, “You’re shameless.” If you want more, “You’re ungrateful.” If you choose your path, “Who gave you permission?” But being a woman means building yourself, even without anyone’s permission. A woman’s body is watched, judged, and silenced. If she wears a headscarf, “She’s dangerous.” If she doesn’t, “She’s immoral.” If she’s tired, “She’s acting like a victim.” If she wants freedom, “Who do you think you are?” But to be a woman means standing tall despite it all. To rise with fire in your eyes and scars on your soul. To keep fighting even when the world pretends you don’t exist. In a world that tries to erase them, every woman who resists becomes a revolution. That woman in the burqa, her children, and thousands like them might never be mentioned in history books. But their silence, their pain, their resistance, they shake the conscience of the world. If we don’t write, we’ll be forgotten. If we stay silent, injustice will echo. I write so that women in Afghanistan, and across the globe, know: their identity, their worth, and their fight can never be erased... Lost in my writing, I didn’t notice my brother had returned. Seeing him made me feel unexpectedly happy. I wasn’t sure why, but the moment he arrived, I felt safe, as if I had stepped into a shelter after standing in the storm. Smiling, I walked toward him and greeted him. Tired but hopeful, he asked, “What did they say?” I replied, “They said I can’t get a passport. It has to be my father or my brother who signs for it.” He shook his head and said, “Fools. I swear, you’re wiser and more capable than I am. If anyone can take responsibility for herself, it’s you.” Together, we moved forward and completed what we had come for.

Nilab Saeedi, an inspiring woman from Afghanistan, transforms her journey from studying in a crowded tent school in a refugee camp to earning a PhD in Islamic history. Along the way, she masters eight languages, secures a prestigious research position in Austria, and now prepares to publish her first book with Routledge.  Saeedi was born in 1996 in a refugee camp in Peshawar, Pakistan. Her family fled Afghanistan during the civil war and found safety in Pakistan. Life in the refugee camp was difficult, resources were scarce, and opportunities were limited. Saeedi spent her early childhood surrounded by uncertainty, with limited access to basic services.  Saeedi’s early education took place in a tent school that had no proper buildings, just a worn plastic sheet on the ground, broken chalkboards, and overcrowded classes filled with refugee children, so many that they couldn’t all fit.  To encourage Afghan refugee families to send their daughters to school, Western countries supported programs that provided nutritional food to children. Saeedi was motivated by the chance to bring nutrition home and began school at the age of five.   “Even as a child, I thought about helping my family. It’s the same for every refugee child,” Saeedi said.  Saeedi saw a camera for the first time in 2001. Photo submitted by Saeedi to HerStory. A few years later, after the fall of the Taliban in 2001 and the establishment of the republican government in Afghanistan, Saeedi’s family returned to Kabul to rebuild their lives.   “It was a strange feeling, moving to my country, because I was used to Pakistan and didn’t know what to expect from Afghanistan after all the war,” Saeedi said. “Surprisingly, it was better.”  When Saeedi resumed school in Kabul, she immediately noticed a significant improvement in the teaching methods compared to those in the refugee camp schools in Pakistan. She excelled academically and found joy in learning.   In 2011, she graduated from high school. She achieved strong results on the national Kankoor exam, earning admission to the Faculty of Language and Literature at Kabul University, the most prestigious and well-known university in Afghanistan.  x “I couldn’t believe I found my way there,” Saeedi said.  After graduating in 2016, Saeedi moved to Samsun, Turkey, to pursue an MA in Turkish Literature at Ondokuz Mayıs University, graduating in 2019. She then began her PhD in Istanbul, receiving it in 2025 with a focus on Islamic Intellectual History. Her dissertation won the “Best Doctoral Thesis of the Year” award at Ibn Haldun University.    Saeedi’s research interests include early modern Ottoman history, Persian historiography, and Islamic intellectual history. She has taught courses on art and literature and worked as a translator in Turkish, English, and Persian. She is fluent in Turkish, English, Arabic, Ottoman Turkish, Persian, Uzbek, Hindi, Urdu, and Kurdish.    Her forthcoming book, Three Empires and Persian Historiography: The Thought of Muṣliḥ al-Dīn Lārī , will be published by Routledge in December 2025. The book examines Persian historiographical traditions in the context of three major empires.    Throughout her journey, Saeedi has faced many challenges, including being separated from her family and battling depression. Despite these hardships, she is happy to be publishing her book and said that she never gave up, crediting her family’s unwavering support for helping her overcome every obstacle.    “They are my strength. Without them, I wouldn’t have achieved anything,” Saeedi said.   Currently, she serves as a Research Associate at the Institute of Habsburg and Balkan Studies of the Austrian Academy of Sciences. She is deeply concerned about the situation of women and girls in Afghanistan. She hopes that one day every woman and girl in Afghanistan will be able to claim their fundamental rights, especially education, freedom, and dignity.     Reflecting on the global inequality Saeedi has witnessed, said, “The world is definitely not fair. The treatment of women in Afghanistan is cruel and unjust.”    Saeedi encourages Afghans who have had the opportunity to flee and find refuge abroad to study hard, build careers, and pursue their goals.   “We have faced many challenges, but now it’s time to use the opportunities and shine, and to be kind and helpful to everyone.”

Written by Gurdaafarid | نویسنده:‌ گردآفرید  من گردآفرید هستم، دختری از سرزمین لعل و زمرد، از جایی که کوه‌هایش سر به فلک کشیده‌اند و بادهایش حماسه‌های خاموش را میان دره‌ها نجوا می‌کنند. شمال افغانستان، زادگاه من، همواره محل پرورش اسطوره‌ها، تاریخ و خاطره‌ها بوده است. اما برای من، آن سرزمین بیش از آن‌که خانه باشد، میدان نبردی بود برای دفاع از رویاهایی که جامعه‌ام آنها را برای دختران خطرناک می‌دانست.  در خانواده‌ای سنتی و مسلمان بزرگ شدم. خانواده‌ای که مهربانی‌اش در دل مادر و سخت‌گیری‌اش در نگاه پدر جا داشت. در جامعه‌ای که نقش زن را به سکوت، حجاب، و خانه‌داری تقلیل داده بود، من دختری بودم با رویایی بزرگ: تحصیل. صدایی داشتن. روزی در دانشگاهی فراتر از مرزهای وطنم درس خواندن. این آرزوها شاید برای دیگران خیال‌پردازانه به‌نظر می‌رسید، اما برای من حکم اکسیژن را داشتند؛ بدون آن‌ها نمی‌توانستم زنده بمانم.  مادرم، زنی ساده اما عمیق، تنها پناه و مشوق من بود. با دست‌های پینه‌بسته‌اش کار می‌کرد تا چرخ زندگی‌مان بچرخد. شب‌ها کنار او می‌نشستم، و در نور کم‌سوی چراغ، به کتاب‌ها پناه می‌بردم. آن صفحات، راهی بودند به جهانی که هنوز به من تعلق نداشت اما می‌خواستم سهمی از آن داشته باشم. بارها به مؤسسات آموزشی سر زدم، اما پول نداشتم. پس روزها کار کردم، حتی در مشاغلی که برای دختران "مناسب" نبود. با پول اندکی که جمع کردم، توانستم در یک آموزشگاه ثبت‌نام کنم. این لحظه، آغاز مبارزه‌ای بود که هنوز ادامه دارد.  جامعه اما آسان نمی‌گذشت. نگاه‌های تحقیرآمیز، کنایه‌ها، و قضاوت‌هایی که تنها به دلیل "دختر بودن" بر من روا می‌شد، گاه جانم را می‌فرسود. اما من قول داده بودم؛ به خودم، به مادرم، به هزاران دختری که صدایشان خاموش شده بود. پس پیش رفتم. با پسران هم‌کلاس شدم، در رقابت‌های علمی شرکت کردم و در نهایت به دانشگاه شهرمان راه یافتم.  هیچ‌گاه آن روز را فراموش نمی‌کنم: مادرم اشک می‌ریخت و می‌خندید، پدرم با افتخار نگاهم می‌کرد، و من قلبم را لبریز از امید می‌یافتم. من نه‌تنها برای خودم، بلکه برای تمام دخترانی درس می‌خواندم که از تحصیل محروم بودند.  اما در یک شب، تاریکی فرود آمد. با بازگشت طالبان، درهای دانشگاه‌ها به روی دختران بسته شد. زنان از کار بازماندند. آموزش ممنوع شد. هزاران دختر به اجبار ازدواج داده شدند. من دیگر اجازه نداشتم تحصیل کنم. آن‌چه را با زحمت ساخته بودم، در عرض چند روز ویران شد. امیدم به آوارگی بدل شد.  در این ناامیدی، تصمیم گرفتم کشورم را ترک کنم. نه برای فرار، بلکه برای نجات آینده‌ام. برای آن‌که شاید، روزی، بتوانم بازگردم و برای عدالت بجنگم. ترک خانه و خاک، آسان نبود. اما ماندن در سکوت نیز مرگ تدریجی بود.  برادرم، پدری دو فرزند، جانش را به خطر انداخت تا مرا تا مرز ایران ببرد. در دل شب، برقعی سیاه بر تن داشتم. قلبم چنان می‌تپید که انگار می‌خواست از سینه بیرون بجهد. سکوت سنگینی بر فضای ماشین حاکم بود. هر دو می‌دانستیم ممکن است این آخرین باری باشد که یکدیگر را می‌بینیم.  به پاسگاه نزدیک می‌شدیم. هر قدم، مثل آخرین قدم زندگی بود. هوا خشک بود، بوی خاک و ترس در فضا پیچیده بود. ناگهان زنی میان‌سال با چادر سفید به سویم آمد. دستم را گرفت و گفت: «بیا دخترم.» دستانش گرم بود، نگاهش آرام، گویی شجاعت را به من تزریق می‌کرد. همراه او و دو زن دیگر، از گذرگاهی باریک عبور کردیم.  در میانه راه، برقعم اندکی کنار رفت و چند تار مو بیرون زد. فریادی از سمت طالبان بلند شد. یکی از آن‌ها برادرم را صدا زد، اسلحه‌اش را بلند کرد و فریاد زد: «ای زن بی‌شرم!» در آن لحظه می‌خواستم برگردم، فریاد بزنم، اما زن گفت: «نه! برو! حالا نوبت توست که زندگی‌ات را نجات دهی.»  اشک در چشمانم حلقه زد. پاهایم سنگین شده بودند، اما انگار روح مادرم پشت سرم می‌گفت: «فرار نکن، بجنگ.» و من، در دل تاریکی، با چشمانی خیس و قلبی شعله‌ور، عبور کردم. آن لحظه، نه فقط یک عبور فیزیکی، بلکه گذار از دختری خاموش به زنی مبارز بود. احساس گناه و اضطراب با من ماند، اما همان تصمیم شجاعانه بود که زندگی‌ام را تغییر داد. در پشت سرم، تصویر برادرم در حلقهٔ سایه‌های سنگین طالبان، تا همیشه در ذهنم حک شد. آن وداع، وداعی تلخ و جاودانه بود.  پس از عبور، سوار اتوبوسی شدم به سمت مشهد. شب بود، ترمینال شلوغ و بی‌رحم. نه پول داشتم، نه بلیت، نه آشنایی. ساعاتی طولانی را در آنجا گذراندم؛ با گریه، با دعا، با تماس‌های بی‌پاسخ. در نهایت، برادرم کسی را فرستاد تا کمکم کند. آن شب در خانه زوجی افغان ماندم که بدون هیچ شناختی از من، محبت را نثارم کردند. این محبت، مثل پناهی در طوفان بود.  روز بعد، به تهران رفتم، نزد اقوام دورمان. آنجا کارهای اداری‌ام را آغاز کردم. روزها منتظر ماندم، با اضطراب گوشی‌ام را چک می‌کردم. و بالاخره، یک صبح سرد، ایمیلی آمد: ویزایم تأیید شده بود.  فریاد زدم، اشک ریختم، در اتاق دویدم. مادرم از پشت تلفن گریه می‌کرد و می‌خندید. پدرم گفت: «برو دخترم، من به تو افتخار می‌کنم.» آن لحظه، لحظه آزادی بود. لحظه‌ای که همه زخم‌هایم به نشانه‌هایی از پیروزی بدل شدند.  اولین پروازم بود. از دل آسمان، به سرزمینی جدید رسیدم: ملبورن. وقتی وارد فرودگاه شدم، آسمان ابری بود، اما درونم روشن. زنانی با پلاکارد «Welcome» به استقبال ما آمده بودند. کسی مرا نمی‌شناخت، اما همه با محبت نگاهم می‌کردند. آن لحظه، یکی از انسانی‌ترین لحظات زندگی‌ام بود. فهمیدم که "خانه" فقط جایی نیست که در آن به دنیا آمده‌ای؛ جایی‌ست که تو را می‌پذیرد، بی‌قید و شرط.  ملبورن برایم فقط یک شهر نبود؛ آغاز جهانی تازه بود. جهانی که در آن می‌توانستم بدون ترس قدم بزنم، صدا داشته باشم، و رویاهایم را بلندتر از همیشه فریاد بزنم. با این حال، ورود به فرهنگی کاملاً متفاوت کار آسانی نبود. حس غربت، دلتنگی برای خانواده، تفاوت‌های زبانی و اجتماعی، همه و همه لحظاتی را خلق می‌کردند که در آن خودم را گم‌شده حس می‌کردم. اما هر بار که در دانشگاه ملبورن وارد کلاس می‌شدم، به خودم یادآوری می‌کردم که من نماینده نسلی از دخترانم که فرصت تحصیل از آن‌ها ربوده شد.  استرالیا برای من سرزمین فرصت‌ها بود، اما وظیفه‌ام فقط بهره‌بردن از آن‌ها نبود. من باید پلی می‌ساختم میان رنج‌هایی که پشت سر گذاشتم و جهانی که حالا در آن ایستاده بودم. تصمیم گرفتم صدای زنان افغان باشم، آنانی که پشت درهای بسته هنوز در تاریکی نفس می‌کشند. من با حضورم در جمع‌های دانشگاهی، با نوشتن، سخنرانی، و فعالیت‌های داوطلبانه، تلاش می‌کنم تصویر واقعی زنی افغان را ترسیم کنم: مقاوم، متفکر و شایسته.  هدف من تنها تحصیل نیست، بلکه ساختن است. می‌خواهم روزی به افغانستان بازگردم—شاید نه با پاهایم، اما با صدایم، با قلمم، با تاثیرم. می‌خواهم مکانی را که در آن رؤیاهای من را دفن کردند، دوباره زنده کنم برای نسل بعد. برای دخترانی که امروز در سکوت‌اند، اما فردا می‌توانند فریاد بزنند.  اکنون، در دانشگاه ملبورن تحصیل می‌کنم. کلاس‌ها، کتاب‌ها، پروژه‌ها—همه برایم لذت‌بخش‌اند، حتی اگر دشوار باشند. اما هیچ‌گاه فراموش نمی‌کنم از کجا آمده‌ام. هر گامم، هر کلمه‌ای که می‌نویسم، ادای دینی‌ست به تمام دخترانی که پشت دیوارهای ممنوعیت، با رویاهایشان تنها مانده‌اند.  من باور دارم که مهاجرت فقط یک حرکت فیزیکی نیست؛ یک تولد دوباره است. من در مسیرم درد کشیدم، ترسیدم، گریستم. اما تسلیم نشدم. حالا من اینجایم، با صدایی رساتر، با امیدی روشن‌تر. آمده‌ام که بجنگم، که بخوانم، که بسازم.  من گردآفرید هستم؛ دختری از کوه‌های بلند و دردهای عمیق. دختری که آموخت در دل تاریکی هم می‌توان چراغی روشن کرد. من صدای هزاران دختری‌ام که صدا ندارند. من امیدم.   I am Gurdaafarid, a girl from the land of rubies and emeralds, from a place where the mountains reach the sky and the winds whisper silent epics through the valleys. Northern Afghanistan—my birthplace—has always been a cradle of legends, history, and memories. But for me, that land was more than just home; it was a battlefield where I had to defend dreams considered dangerous for girls by my society.  I was raised in a traditional Muslim family. A family where kindness lived in my mother’s heart, and strictness lingered in my father’s gaze. In a society that reduced a woman's role to silence, veiling, and homemaking, I was a girl with a grand dream: to study. To have a voice. To one day study at a university beyond the borders of my homeland. These dreams may have seemed like fantasy to others, but to me, they were like oxygen—I couldn’t survive without achieving them.  My mother, a simple yet deep woman, was my only refuge and supporter. With her calloused hands, she worked tirelessly to make our lives better. At night, I would sit beside her, seeking shelter in books by the dim light of a lamp. Those pages were my window into a world that didn’t yet belong to me—but I longed for a share of it. I visited educational Centers many times, but I had no money. So I worked, at times in jobs deemed “unfit” for girls. With the little I saved, I enrolled in a training Center. That moment was the beginning of a battle that continues.  But society wasn’t kind. Disdainful looks, harsh remarks, and judgment—all simply because I was a girl- often crushed my spirit. But I had made a promise: to myself, to my mother, and to the thousands of girls whose voices had been silenced. So, I pushed forward. I studied alongside boys, participated in academic competitions, and eventually earned a place at the university in our city.  I will never forget that day: my mother cried and laughed at the same time, my father looked at me with pride, and my heart was overflowing with hope. I wasn’t studying just for myself, but for every girl who had been denied education.  But then, one night, darkness fell. With the return of the Taliban, the university gates were slammed shut for girls. Women were banned from working. Education was banned. Thousands of girls were forced into marriage. I was no longer allowed to study. Everything I had worked so hard to build was destroyed in a matter of days. My hope turned into exile.  In that despair, I decided to leave my country. Not to run away, but to save my future. So that, one day, I might return and fight for justice. Leaving my home and land was not easy. But staying silent would have been a slow death.  My brother—a father of two kids—risked his life to take me to the border of Iran. In the dead of night, I wore a black, long hijab. My heart pounded as if it wanted to leap from my chest. A heavy silence filled the car. We both knew this might be the last time we’d ever see each other.  We approached the checkpoint. Every step felt like it could be my last. The air was dry, filled with the scent of dust and fear. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman in a white chador (Hijab) approached. She took my hand and said, “Come, my daughter.” Her hands were warm, her eyes were calm, it was as if she was injecting courage into me. With her and two other women, we passed through a narrow path.  Midway, my hijab shifted slightly and moved, and a few strands of hair slipped out. A shout came out from a Taliban.  He called out to my brother, raised his weapon, and yelled towards me, “Shameless woman!” In that moment, I wanted to turn back and scream. But the woman said, “No! Keep moving! Now it’s your turn to save your life.”  Tears welled in my eyes. My legs were heavy, but it was as if my mother’s spirit behind me whispered, “Don’t run and fight.” And so, in the darkness, with tearful eyes and a burning heart, I had to cross. That moment was not just a physical crossing; it was the transformation from a silenced girl into a brave woman. The guilt and anxiety stayed with me, but it was that courageous decision that changed my life. Behind me, the image of my brother encircled by the looming shadows of the Taliban was carved into my memory forever.   After crossing, I boarded a bus to Mashhad. It was night. The terminal was crowded and merciless. I had no money, no ticket, no familiar face. I spent long hours there crying, praying, and making unanswered calls. Eventually, my brother arranged for someone to help me. That night, I stayed with an Afghan couple who, without knowing me, offered kindness. That kindness felt like shelter in a storm.  The next day, I went to Tehran to visit distant relatives. I began my paperwork. Every day I waited, checking my phone with anxiety. Then one cold morning, an email arrived: my visa had been approved.  I screamed, I cried, I ran through the room. My mother sobbed and laughed over the phone. My father said, “Go, my daughter, I’m proud of you.” That moment was freedom. A moment when all my scars turned into signs of triumph.  It was my first flight. From the heart of the sky, I landed in a new land: Melbourne. The sky at the airport was cloudy, but inside me it was bright. There were women who stood with “Welcome” signs.... No one knew me, but everyone looked at me with kindness. That moment was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I realized that “home” isn’t just where you’re born—it’s where you’re accepted, unconditionally.  Melbourne wasn’t just a city to me; it was the beginning of a new world. A world where I could walk without fear, speak out, and shout my dreams louder than ever. Still, entering a completely different culture wasn’t easy—Homesickness, cultural and language differences—all created moments where I felt lost. But every time I entered a classroom at the University of Melbourne, I reminded myself that I was representing a generation of girls whose right to education had been stolen.  Australia, to me, was a land of opportunities. But my role wasn’t just to benefit from them. I had to build a bridge between the pain I left behind and the world I now stood in. I decided to be the voice of Afghan women, those still breathing in the dark behind closed doors. Through my presence in academic spaces, through writing, speaking, and volunteering, I try to present the real image of an Afghan woman: resilient, thoughtful, and worthy.  My goal isn’t just education... It’s rebuilding. I want to return to Afghanistan one day—not necessarily with my feet, but with my voice, my pen, and my influence. I want to revive the place where my dreams were once buried for the next generation. For the girls who are silenced today but may one day rise and shout.  Currently, I am studying at the University of Melbourne. The classes, the books, the projects, all are joyful, even if they’re hard. But I never forget where I came from. Every step I take, every word I write, is a tribute to all the girls who remain alone with their dreams behind forbidden walls.  I believe that migration is not just a physical movement; it’s a rebirth. On my path, I suffered, feared, and cried. But I never gave up. Now, I am here with a louder voice and a brighter hope. I came to fight, to learn, to build.  I am Gurdaafarid! A girl from high mountains and deep sorrows.... A girl who learned that even in the darkest of times, one can light a lamp. I am the voice of thousands of girls who have none.  I am the hope!

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.

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.