By Shogofa Shokori
To be a woman in Afghanistan is to be born into a storm. It is to carry a thousand burdens before you even know how to walk. You must be made of stone to survive the blows that life, society, and men throw at you just because you were born a girl. Here, the birth of a girl is not a celebration. In many homes, it is a curse. A shadow, a disappointment. They di not see the angel in the child, they only see the burden, the mouth to feed, the shame to control. From the very beginning, a girl learns that her dreams are too expensive and freedom is not hers to claim. Sometimes she is promised in marriage before she even knows what love means. A girl, out of childhood, is tied to a man she has never met. She grew up, somehow, by pain, silence, and fear. And yet, not every life is the same. Some girls are lucky. Some are born into homes where fathers work hard to give them books, not husbands. Before 2021, we began to believe. We saw signs of light, families once afraid, started sending their daughters to school. Fathers sacrificed sleep and comfort so their girls could learn. We saw girls like Shamsia, who ranked first in the university entrance exams, shining like stars, proving that daughters are not a burden, but builders of the future. For a moment, it felt as if Afghan girls were flying. But we forgot, we are flying in a sky controlled by men with guns.
And the Taliban returned. In a single moment, everything changed. Books turned to ashes. Classrooms became locked. Dreams disappeared like smoke. Girls are forced to be locked at home, sentenced without trial for the crime of wanting to learn. The Taliban didn’t just close schools. They closed their voices. They shut the laughter. They erased faces. They banned hope.
What happens if a girl smiles in Afghanistan? She risks punishment. What if someone hears her voice? They say she is shameless. What if she wears a yellow scarf, a blue dress or pink shoes? They say she deserves the whip. Because in their world, color is Rebellion, joy is Rebellion. A woman’s existence is rebellion. But the Taliban were too late. The women they tried to silence were no longer afraid. In the first days of their return, Afghan women filled the streets, not with weapons but with courage. They carried nothing but their voices, and that was enough to shake the ground. They demanded the right to study, to speak, to live. But their bravery came with a price.
The Taliban began hunting them. Women like Tamana Zeriab periani, Parwana Ibrahimkhile and Zermina were dragged from their homes and thrown into dark cells. Their crime? Protesting for education. For equality for being too loud in a world that wants them to be invisible. In those prisons, they were beaten, humiliated, and broken. One girl cried out as the guards struck her,” Don’t touch me, I’m still a virgin“. I remember sitting at home, terrified, watching the news. These were not strangers to me; they were reflections. Their screams haunted me. Their stories made me tremble. I wondered: what if it were me? What if I protested? Would I return alive? Would I return at all?
Some women managed to escape. But escape was not freedom; it was survival. Zermina once told her story, to flee, she wore a burqa and dyed her hands with henna to look like a conservative housewife. But they found him, they beat her. Imprisoned her again, this time, they arrested her sisters too. But they release her, warning: if we see you again, we will kill you” .
She flee from the country. And cut her hairs, because long hair is a symbol of patience but she had no patience left. Tamana, Zermina and thousands more whose names we will never hear. They become the voice of the voiceless, paying the price not just for their own freedom , but for every silent girl locked behind doors.
But what has Afghanistan become now? Women selling vegetables on carts, hiding under chadors. Some sell their hair to feed their children. Others sit on the streets, begging not for money but for mercy. Firmer students now seek any chance to leave. And those who succeed? They leave behind a graveyard of dreams.
Some girls are forced into marriage, not because they want to, but because there is no other way to survive. I have seen videos. A young girl was dragged from her mother by a Taliban fighter, her screams tearing the air. “ Don’t take me, “ she shouted. Her father was helpless, but her brothers? Silent. The neighbors? Watching.No one moved, no one saved her.
And then there was Abida. A young girl who set herself on fire to escape a forced marriage. The fire consumed her along with all the dreams she had. People watched her burn. Sometimes I wonder, what if someone had stopped the flames? What if girls weren’t punished for wanting to learn? What if voices weren’t dangerous? What if colors weren’t Rebellion? What if a girl could smile freely, laugh loudly, and walk proudly?
The truth is, we are no longer the women of 20 years ago. We are braver. Louder. But we are also bleeding. The world must not forget us. Afghanistan lost its brightest women, not just to death but to silence, exile, and fear.
I still write because I still believe. That one day, a girl’s smile won’t be a sin. That one day, her voice will be hered without punishment. That one day, women will wear color and not be called shameful. That one day, Afghan girls will fly l, and no one will clip their wings again.
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