Girls’ Stories: The Fearful Nights and Days of Kabul
At night, we try to sleep to the sounds of missiles and aerial gunfire. By day, we wake to those same harsh noises.
Where in our lives did we go wrong that we now have to pay the price?!
History will record that this Ramadan, the people of Afghanistan—especially in Kabul, Kandahar, Paktia, Nangarhar, Paktika, Khost, and Kunar—witnessed the shedding of pure blood, blood whose sanctity could not be exchanged for anything.
Afghanistan is a land that has always been sacred, pure, and fertile. Yet, whenever its fertility begins to blossom into beautiful flowers and blessed fruits, its roots are suddenly drenched in fire, bombs, gunpowder, missiles, and bullets.
How bitter is this story—and how much more bitter and difficult it is to put it onto paper!
No matter how I try to write, the pen feels heavy in my hand, and the lack of words paralyzes my mind. My heart no longer beats with the energy, strength, or passion to write, and my trembling, aging hands cannot carry me forward.
I want to recount the story of the first missile that, at 2:00 a.m. on 27 February 2026, stole the sweet sleep from Kabul’s people, shook their hearts, and drained their bodies of blood.
Around two in the morning, faint shots rang out from the distant corners of the city. Many probably thought it was ordinary firing and would soon end—but no. Its intensity grew, louder and louder… and soon, the faint shots turned into the harsh roar of the first missile, a sound that forced every soul in Kabul into a horrifying wakefulness.
That night, Kabul’s clear, beautiful sky was suddenly draped in grief and sorrow. Drones, gunpowder smoke, and the harsh sounds of gunfire painted a scene of despair—a sorrow that the bloodthirsty and cruel have never allowed to fade.
For some time now, my mother has slept beside me. When I awoke to the first intensity of the missile’s sound, I shook her and asked, “Mother, that was such a strange sound… could our fate become like Gaza and Palestine?!”
She replied, her voice calm but firm, “No, my child. Nothing has happened. Don’t worry.” Perhaps she feared more for me than for herself. But, as always, she was a mother. She had to be strong, to appear brave, as if the danger did not concern her—so I would not be afraid.
Terrified, I clung to her, pressing myself closer. I closed my eyes. Minutes later, a blast stronger than the first missile shook the ground of Kabul, and its heavy, harsh sound reached my ears.
For a moment, I thought our entire block—our home—had been split in two, and everything had ended. But when I opened my eyes, everything remained in place. Nothing had changed.
Quickly, I sat up. The door opened—it was my older brother. He said, “Drones are bombing Kabul. Stay away from the windows; the glass is dangerous…”
That night, my whole being was filled with anxiety. I wondered how morning would come, and whether our fragile breaths would carry us safely until dawn.
The attacks continued until six in the morning. Military planes had dominated the sky over Kabul, and multiple gunfire sounds echoed everywhere. My fear grew with every moment. The blood of the people seemed clenched in their hands, our oxygen mixed with smoke and gunpowder, and even time seemed paralyzed. The clock itself appeared to have stopped.
Gradually, sunlight returned to the smoke-filled, hopeless homes of Kabul. We breathed fresh air and greeted the brightness of morning. As the day broke, the angry planes and aimless gunfire gradually fell silent. The black, dark night gave way to a white, clear morning.
It is both regrettable and alarming that no journalist from domestic media reports accurately, while foreign media often exaggerate, shattering the hearts and minds of people with every report.
Can anything meaningful come from us, the fragile and broken, with our ruined, chaotic souls?!
We remain—alongside devastation.
We are people who have always wished for simple things: to start a morning with peace of mind, to see a black night pass safely into the light of day. We wanted smiles that were not forced, hearts that were content with little but never empty.
O world and all who inhabit it!
We do not ask for greatness, nor miracles. We only wish for a little well-being, calm hearts, peace of mind… and a few true human beings.
_Marwa Mirzad
In the corner of my room, on a partly cloudy day in Kabul
2 March 2026
