I remember that day clearly. I had a geography exam. The day before the exam, I was preparing in the same room where I always studied. I was reviewing every page of the textbook and going over the chapter’s practice questions. As I studied, my mother entered the room with a bowl of food in her hands.
“Narges dear, you are so busy with your studies that you are not even eating properly. I called you several times, but you did not come to the table. Your father told me to bring your food to your room.”
“Mother, there is only one week left until the exams are over, and I have my geography exam tomorrow,” I replied.
She smiled and said, “God willing, you will come first in your class again this year. Look at how hard you work and how much effort you put in.”
“Yes, God willing, with your prayers, Mother,” I said.
That day, my mother left the room, and I returned to my studies, unaware that the next day would divide my life into two parts: before and after. Since fifth grade, I had always been the top student in my class. My greatest dreams were to become a doctor and a successful leader in my community.
Early the next morning, I woke up, ate breakfast, gathered my school supplies, and set off for school. Along the way, I saw many girls enthusiastically making their way to school for their exams. The sight inspired me. With my book in hand and my mind on my lessons, I continued walking until I entered the school courtyard.
But the atmosphere at school was completely different that day. Fear was written on everyone’s faces. When I entered my classroom, I saw my classmates hugging one another and crying. I asked everyone, “What happened?” They all gave me the same answer: “We are no longer allowed to study. They have said that girls above sixth grade can no longer attend school until further notice.”
Hearing those words made my whole body tremble, and I could not hold back my tears. I looked at my books, my classroom, and my classmates’ faces and wondered: Were the dreams we had worked toward for years going to be destroyed by one sudden decision?
I returned home that day carrying the pain of being deprived of my education, without even sitting for my geography exam. As soon as I arrived, I ran to my room, put my school supplies in a corner, sat down, and began thinking about my future. What would I have to endure from then on? Should I stop? Should I give up the goals and dreams I had always held? What would my path look like now? Would I have to remain confined to my home? Thousands of fears and worries about the future filled my mind, making me increasingly anxious.
From that day on, hardly a day passed without bad news. Every day, I heard reports about girls and women facing restrictions and fear for all kinds of reasons, from attending educational centers to simply walking in the streets. With each passing day, I felt increasingly trapped within the four walls of my home. My family, too, was so worried that they would not allow me to attend an educational course. I was afraid as well. If I went to a course, would I make it home safely? Fear had come so close to our lives that even going out to learn was no longer an ordinary activity.
It happened one of those dark nights. We were sitting around the dastarkhan, the traditional cloth on which food is served, with our family when my brother’s phone rang. A few minutes into the call, he looked at me with a worried expression and stood up. We all became concerned. A terrible feeling settled in my heart.
He returned, looked at me, and said, “My dear sister, I am sorry for your loss. The Taliban have killed your friend Sharifa. Sadly, her body is at the hospital. One of our neighbors called to tell us.”
That night, everything became bitter and dark. I kept asking myself: What had Sharifa done wrong? She had only wanted to study. The night seemed longer than any other. I could not sleep. I cried until morning, overwhelmed by humiliation and thoughts of a future that was being taken away from me more and more each day.
During those days, everything seemed to be working against me, as though the whole world was determined to break me and prevent me from moving forward. But one day, I sat down and thought carefully. School doors had been closed. Attending a course could cost me my life, and I was now confined to the four walls of my home.
I said to myself, “Dear Narges, you dreamed of becoming a doctor. You wanted to be a strong leader. A leader must stand firm for herself and her loved ones, even in difficult times. If I cannot change the circumstances today, at least I can decide not to stop.”
That same day, I promised myself that I would continue on my path. I had to stay strong and keep going for my own future, for the thousands of girls deprived of education, and especially for Sharifa, who had lost her life simply for wanting to study.
I went back to the room where I had not studied for a long time. Every time I saw its door or even came close to it, I was reminded of the day I learned that I could no longer attend school. I opened the door. Everything was still in its place: my books, my diary, and the study timetable I had once followed every day.
I approached the shelf, arranged my books, and rewrote my timetable with a new study plan. I felt something strange that day. I was both sad and happy because I had started over. I realized that if the school doors had been closed to me, I would not allow the doors to learning to close as well.
From then on, I read books and took notes on important information. I found my sister’s eleventh-grade textbooks, which she had kept from the previous year, and began studying two subjects every day. I felt good about myself. I had built my own school at home, and no one could tell me that I had no right to study.
Alongside my studies, I tried to support my family during those difficult circumstances, especially my parents. I did embroidery in the mornings and studied in the afternoons. The money I earned from embroidery helped me cover my own needs. I had always wanted to stand on my own feet, and later I realized that perhaps my leadership journey had begun right there, in a small corner of our home.
Two years passed. Every day, I worked harder to expand my learning and strengthen my connection with the outside world. I decided to begin online education. It had been part of my plans for a long time, but I needed a phone to start taking online classes. I spent about a year and a half doing hand embroidery and other embroidery work until I had saved enough money to buy a mobile phone with my own earnings.
When I finally bought it, I was incredibly happy. I felt as though a new door had opened before me. At last, I began studying online, and each day brought something new to my learning journey. I connected with many girls from across Afghanistan and around the world, and they shared new educational materials with me.
Alongside my studies, I wrote at night while everyone else was asleep. I wrote essays and stories about my own experiences and those of other girls. Gradually, I connected with several publications, and they invited me to submit my stories. When my writing was published, people told me that my stories reflected the reality of a society in which girls live under restrictions.
Their encouragement inspired me to continue writing. Whenever one of my pieces was published, I excitedly shared the news with my mother. She always encouraged me to keep learning and writing.
Gradually, I began working outside the home in secret. At a nearby educational center, I taught English to students free of charge. Restrictions on girls were severe, and many of them attended classes secretly. The number of students grew every day until I had established two English classes.
I taught without payment for some time, until my teacher told me, “Dear Narges, we have decided to pay you a monthly fee for all the hard work you do.”
I was very happy. I could now earn money through my efforts while continuing my studies and teaching. I had a specific goal for that money: I wanted to create learning opportunities for other women and girls who were eager for education.
Later, I formed a group with five of my friends called Owj-e Parwaz (“Flight to the Heights”). We began with one hope: to provide education and learning opportunities for girls who, like us, had been deprived of schooling.
We started in our own homes. Each of us taught our mothers how to read and write. One day, after my mother learned to write her name and read a book, she said something I still remember with pride:
“My daughter, learning to read and write makes me feel as though my eyes have opened. It is as if I was blind before I learned, but now I can truly see and understand life.”
Her words were more than just a sentence to me. I realized that sometimes a pen and a notebook can change a person’s life.
We then decided to establish a class for women in our local mosque. At first, we did not even have a blackboard or chalk. I used the money I earned from teaching to buy pens and notebooks for mothers and girls. Gradually, I managed to buy a blackboard as well.
When I look back on the past five years, I realize that they were not simply years spent waiting. I could have waited for the day when school doors would reopen. Instead, I used the limited resources available to me to find a way to keep moving forward.
Today, not only has my own education continued, but many women and girls have also had the opportunity to learn. I, too, have learned so much from them.
These five years have not been easy. I have faced deprivation, fear, violence, unreliable internet access, and, at times, hurtful words from people in society that were difficult to bear. But whenever I felt exhausted, I thought of the girl who once walked eagerly toward school, dreaming of becoming a doctor.
I have not yet achieved all my goals. Perhaps I still have a long way to go, but I have not abandoned my dreams. I may not have been able to change everything, but I have been able to decide that I will not stop.
Over these five years, I have resisted ignorance and injustice with a pen, books, and education. If school doors remain closed today, we have found other doors through which to learn.
The path I have chosen may be long, but I am no longer afraid of its length. These years have taught me that resistance does not always begin with great acts. Sometimes, it begins with a girl in a small room, opening a book again, writing a new study plan, buying a pen with money she earned herself, or teaching just one other person.
I am still on my path. I still have dreams, and I still want to keep going until the day comes when no girl is afraid to open a book and no mother has to wait for someone’s permission to learn to read and write.
The road may be long, but I am no longer afraid of long roads, because I have learned that continuing forward is a victory in itself.
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