Narrator: Maryam Monfared
Four springs and autumns have passed since the doors of knowledge were locked to us, yet the shadow of those bright days still lives in my heart. I have hidden my school uniform and colorful books like treasures, and every night I gaze at the stars, wishing that one day a door will open for the girls again. Since that bitter moment, not a single night has passed without my dreams of a radiant future bringing me to tears. These invisible walls make my tears flow, and I whisper to myself: If only all these chains and this darkness were just a fleeting nightmare—one of those dreams that vanish with the dawn, leaving no scar behind. But every sunrise is only a repeat of the same heavy nights; a repetition that has bound our wings for four long years, refusing to let us fly.
Through this long season of despair, I alone have kept the candle of hope burning, waiting for the day when this black nightmare ends and we return to the embrace of knowledge with the smiles we have lost. Yet the price has been unbearably high; above all, I lost my closest friends and classmates. It feels as if I am drowning in the depths of loneliness. Some of my friends packed their bags and fled to faraway lands—to our eastern neighbors, to the green continent of Europe, or to America. Others fell into the trap of forced marriages, and some now stand on the brink of engagement. My heart aches most for a friend who, in her teenage years, was forced into marrying a stranger. Her father claimed, “I gave my daughter to a man who will take her to a better land.” But he did not see that the girl had lived only seventeen springs, and that man stood on the threshold of middle age. I, however, behind the walls of my home, have stood firm with unshaken faith in brighter days—I have not retreated.
The Taliban stole our vibrant lives, our grand dreams, and even our smallest freedoms, yet I did not bow to these storms. The road ahead is harsh, but I walk it with all my strength. Often my own family becomes a wall, warning me: Don’t go out, don’t attend classes, don’t seek knowledge. But how can I surrender years of sweat and effort as a gift to these tyrants? Even though the streets have turned into a hell filled with terror—where the Taliban hunt girls under absurd pretexts and throw them into prison—my resolve does not bend. In the darkest hours, when the air grows heavy, I seek refuge in the digital world and continue learning from afar. I have erased the word surrender from my mind.
Sometimes my heart cries out for deliverance—for freedom from these chains, from this crushing despair, from this constant terror. Yet I fear that freedom may remain only a distant, unattainable dream—a dream long buried in a dark corner, with no hand to lift it back to life. Living in this chaos and lawlessness is like walking on the edge of a blade. If you were in my place, how would you breathe?
I fight. I wait. I weep in silence. And in this cage, I search for the wings of freedom. I have not bowed and I never will, because I know that even these endless nights will break into dawn, though passing through them is like walking through fire. I do not know when this agony will end. When I see humanity reaching for distant planets while we—the girls of this land—are denied even the simplest rights, like breathing freely, my chest tightens and I cry out: How cruelly this world treats us!
But this is me—a girl who has tasted the bitter poison of oppression and captivity for four long years. And now I understand: it is hard, but we are not buried—we are like seeds sown in fertile soil. Burying seeds never stops flowers from blooming; they will, one day, rise from the earth and paint the world green with life.
