For a long time, I have been thinking about my girlhood heroine. People often speak of their early inspirations with a kind of certainty, names of women who shaped them, guided them, or lit a spark in their hearts. I wanted that, too. I searched my memory for someone whose footsteps I had followed, someone whose courage I had borrowed. There are many women who shaped me in many ways, but every time I tried to choose a name, it felt incomplete, as if I were forcing myself to honour a story was not true.
And then, slowly, an unexpected answer surfaced. The girl I had been looking for was not out there. She was within me. My girlhood heroine was me, Tahera.
I met her again in my memories of the first year of the Taliban, when everything became limiting. Schools were shut, streets grew suspicious, and fear became a constant visitor in our lives. Yet there she was: a younger me, sitting in a secret classroom, determined to learn even when learning became an act of defiance. She inspired me then, though I did not realise it. She kept me going when the world outside insisted that girls should disappear into silence.
Later, when I left my home country, that same girl walked beside me. She steadied my hands as
I packed my life into a few bags. She whispered courage into my ears when borders felt too wide and futures too uncertain. She carried hope. She was there for me, when I tried to fight for women’s education through opening a literacy centre for them. In those hard days, she stood strongly. And when a student of mine came crying in the office, she held her hand and gave her strength. In the cold days of winter, early in the morning, I saw her teaching women. She kept her spirit high, no matter what.
Now, when I think of the women we honour from our girlhoods, I finally know whom I must honour first. A girl who refused to give up on herself. A girl who survived by believing in something brighter. A girl who believed in equality, in justice and education. I thank her for everything.
My girlhood heroine is me, Tahera.