Our family moved to Kabul when I was a year and half. We lived in the western side of Kabul in the early years. It was a beautiful, colorful, lively, and loud city. It had yet another side- the cruel side. Explosions, attacks, violence, unsafe. Poverty was another part. I grew up watching my dad do any job possible on earth. He sold fruits and vegetables, he sold watches and handkerchiefs, football boots and balls, even making sculptures. He worked later as a worker in a tile shop, and became a permanent worker there. There were days we struggled for one meal a day.
I started school when I was nearly seven years old. My first school was Tamadon High School. I studied there till third grade. We moved from that area to another. It was the time I was dreaming of becoming a sailor and going far and seeing my reflection in the waters of big oceans, and then we had to change school. I studied 4th and 5th grades in Jamea e Aagah School. In March 2021, in 6th grade, I had to change my school again.
I was admitted in Setaragan e Zirak School. My school was good. Our literature teacher was a wise, outspoken, and kind woman, and so I took interest in literature, enjoying reading the texts and poems. Other subjects were good too, but somehow it was too boring for me when the science teacher, or the Islamic studies teacher came in. I was terrified. I found all the other subjects nonsense, and didn’t agree with what was written in the textbooks. But I loved the library. We were taken there two or three times a week and we could borrow books too, and it was what kept me going. I found those books super interesting and kept myself busy with those at home too. I found my life so boring. At home, I did a few house chores and read books, and at school, I sometimes listened to the teacher and read books. Books became my companions. My really good friends. They helped me survive in school and at home.
It was then that I started writing. Writing short stories. I wrote about things I had never seen, or places I had never been to. My teacher, with all good intentions indeed, advised me to keep a diary and journal. Nonetheless, she never knew the last thing on earth I wanted to write about was about myself. I found it too boring and hollow. I ignored her advice to the full extent and continued reading more books and writing more unusual stories. It was then I realized school was not for me. I had to drop out. Not that year, but I thought, a few years later. And I continued living in the fantasy of leaving school when I reached grade 8th or 9th, yet I didn’t know what was coming.
One of my cousins, deported from Iran, was at our home those days. He listened to songs and smoke cigarettes until dawn, and slept most of the day. I remember him lying down, listening to radio, and reporting what he heard to us. He used to make announcements like this: “Taliban have reached Nimrooz” “Taliban have conquered three districts in Ghazni!” “They are coming towards Wardak!” and it went on and on. I didn’t even care to what he said. He was constantly saying they were going to come to Kabul and take over.
Our midterm exams had just started and my cousin left for Nimrooz and eventually go back to Iran. I wasn’t really studying very hard, but I was trying. Exams were almost over. It was a Wednesday, the next day, we would have science, which I held no interest in. I did some of the house chores and was fighting with the guilt of not studying and instead reading a novel. Suddenly, our neighbor’s daughter hurriedly entered the yard. They had geography that day and she had studied really hard. They had not even begun when the teacher had collected their pages and promised everyone to give them the full mark. They had told them to go home as fast as possible, and not to come to school the next day.
“But why?”
“Taliban have taken over.”
March 24th, 2022
I wore my uniform and had my bag. Some new students had joined. The class was full of boys and girls. Everything felt normal. Teachers came and taught. Two periods passed. A knock on the door, a teacher called all the girls, girls only, to the corridor. There we stood, in front of her, she told us not to wear uniform again. Nor to bring school bags. She advised us to wear dark colors and cover ourselves fully and modestly. Then she told us to go back to our classes. As I stepped in, I felt like everything had changed. The classroom was suddenly smaller, everyone was staring. I felt like my inner organs twisted. I felt like my hands sweated. And one boy, from the end, shouted to us: “Hadn’t you graduated last year?” and a wave of laughter followed. All of them knew why they had called us. I sat down, looked straight to the board and didn’t look back at all. Some were making jokes, others were silent, like they felt pity for us. It was said, that from the following day, our classes would be separated.
That was the moment, I felt everything had changed for me, the course of my life had taken another turn. I felt change in my bones. I felt Taliban on my skin. I felt Taliban in everything. I heard Taliban in that boy’s voice. I felt, for the first time, after the Taliban’s return, that it was not going be the same. Although I had seen them, and had seen the schools close and things change, I hadn’t felt that helpless. In the first day of my seventh grade, which wasn’t legally my right, I felt like everything was taken away from me. My uniform was taken away, my school bag, my voice, and my rights. I felt like my choice was snatched, I felt betrayed, and angry, and frustrated. I knew it was out of my hands. It was not my choice anymore to drop out of school, and suddenly, someone was forcefully trying to get me out of school. There and then, I promised not to drop out of school at any cost.
We continued to remain ‘illegal’ students. We were girls, young, students, and that, in the 7th grade, and we walked on a very thin line, thin as hair, and sharp as knife. Every now and then, when Taliban came for check ups on schools, we had to hide, run away, or pretend to be Quran students. It happened so often, we became experts in running away and would easily escape. But on those days, I often asked myself, and sometimes asked all girls in my classroom, why should we run? What have we done? What’s wrong in being here? Boys, a few classrooms away from us, were sitting down comfortably, could shout, laugh and be so relaxed, but what’s wrong with us? We had to close all the windows, not to make any noise, not to talk too loudly, shout, or laugh.
That’s when I realized that our existence was our crime. We were escaping because we were criminals who had committed the crime of ‘being’. Getting an education was not a crime, laughing, shouting, or dancing, none of them was a crime. Being a girl was the crime.
I know the cost of this crime, because I have committed this crime. I have been in the prison of this crime. I couldn’t go out. I couldn’t be at school. I couldn’t express my thoughts, and be myself. I couldn’t wear a cloth of my choice. I couldn’t wear green, pink, red, and all the bright colors. I didn’t have choice for my hair, my body, how I walk, and talk. And from this prison, a dream came to life. As existential as the crime. And that is: Being a girl should not be a crime.
Girls should be given the same rights every human. Girls should be able to choose whether they want to drop out or stay at school. They should be free to study, work, make decisions, lead, and grow. They should not be pushed to the periphery. They should not be excluded. Not discriminated against, be it direct and indirect. Regimes like Taliban should be spoken against for all their inhuman actions and crimes against humanity, they should be held accountable, and each one us, is responsible for doing that to the extent of our power. And doing it is as important as bread and water.
-Tahera K.
Guest Writer
Girl Museum Inc.