By Halima Moradi
It was one of those mornings when the scent of sleep still lingered in the streets. I was in the kitchen making tea with my mother when my father’s voice came from the other room: “The city is falling… the president has fled.” The cup trembled in my hands. My mother said nothing, and neither did I. The name “Taliban” alone was enough to freeze the blood in my veins. My mother’s stories from years past were all filled with whips, prisons, and black veils.
That same day, I messaged my friend: “If they come and take everything from us, we won’t stay alive.” I don’t know why I said it, but somehow death seemed easier than living as a prisoner without freedom.
Hours later, Kabul collapsed. The streets filled with faces that watched each other—not in greeting, but in fear. In the days and weeks that followed, everything changed: my friends disappeared one by one—some left by plane, others crossed the borders in the dead of night. Many houses fell silent, as if no one had ever lived there.
Schools were closed. They said it was “temporary,” but four years have passed and the doors remain shut. Girls listen to the school bell from behind their windows, holding back tears. I once dreamed of becoming an architect, of building a city full of color and light, but now my pencils lie buried in dust.
The streets turned into traps of fear. Armed patrols drag girls away under the pretext of “improper hijab.” Families no longer dare to let us go out alone—not even to the shop at the corner. Home is no longer a refuge; it is a prison.
Forced marriages, abductions, silent disappearances—the stories we once read in the news are now the stories of our neighbors and classmates.
Every day I survive feels like walking on the edge of a blade—fighting against memories, against a silence that swallows even the loudest scream.
We only wanted to study, to work, to breathe in this land without fear. But now, for four years, our only wish has been this: to stay alive long enough to see the sun of freedom rise again.
