It was the 28th of Saratan, around five in the afternoon. The sun was weak and fading as I walked to my course, just like every other day. My mind was busy with lessons, and my heart was calm—completely unaware that in just a few minutes, something would happen that would shake my whole life.
When I reached Resalat Street, everything suddenly felt different. People were standing in groups. Their faces were worried, their voices shaky, and their eyes full of fear. It was as if the whole street was holding its breath.
Someone said anxiously: "The Taliban took several girls…"
Another voice added: "There were ten… maybe even more."
But the most painful sentence came from an old man with tears in his eyes: "Did you see how they were beating them with their guns?"
Those words broke something inside me. My heart dropped. The ground felt unstable beneath my feet. A heavy lump formed in my throat and I couldn’t breathe properly. I asked myself silently: "God… what have we, the girls, done? Why do we have to live with so much fear and humiliation?"
With trembling steps, I continued walking. Every step echoed with the sound of guns hitting the bodies of girls I didn’t even know. It felt like the world was shrinking and pressing against me.
When I reached the course, the air was heavy. Our teacher stood at the front of the class, speaking quietly but painfully about what had happened. Only three of us were girls, sitting among all the boys. We stayed silent, unsure of what the coming days would look like.
With fear and hesitation, I asked: "Teacher… can we come tomorrow?"
He paused, looked at us with sadness, and said: "Don’t come tomorrow… I’ll tell you later."
That day’s thirty-minute lesson felt like the longest half hour of my life.
The next morning, full of hope and worry, I messaged him: "Teacher, what should we do?"
My heart was shaking. His answer cut deeply: "Girls are no longer allowed to attend this class."
I asked, "Just us? The boys can still come?"
He replied: "Yes. Their class will continue normally."
It felt like my heart was being squeezed tight. The feeling of discrimination burned inside me like a slow fire. Two days passed. My friends and I, holding onto a little hope, went to the course office. We asked the manager to open a separate class for us. Without care, he said: "No teacher wants to teach only three students."
But we didn’t give up. We returned again and again. We explained, we begged, we said: "We just want to study. Nothing else."
Finally—after a week—one teacher agreed and said: "If you want to learn, I’ll teach you."
That sentence felt like a small light shining in the darkness. Still, getting to the course wasn’t easy. At home, they didn’t want me going outside. Every day, I had to convince them with reasons and pleas. I pretended to be strong, but the truth was that every time I stepped out of the house, my heart trembled.
One question followed me like a shadow: "If I go today… will I return safely?"
But I went. Every time, I went. Not because I wasn’t afraid—but because I didn’t want fear to steal my future. Those days were some of the hardest of my life. But they shaped me into the person I am now—a girl who kept walking, despite the fear, and refused to give up.