The Girls' Stories; Misery in Every Cell

I am heading toward the city with my mother. In the depths of despair, I want to try something—just to see what I can make of it. I want to start a small business. I leave the house; the air has already turned unbearably hot. Summer came too early this year. I wear my manteau, fully observing Islamic hijab. In these days, the safety of girls is not guaranteed at all—beatings, arrests…

At the corner of the street, I meet my mother. I notice how, in these past five years, grief for her daughters has etched itself into her skin. Her eyes are filled with tears. She is angry with me. Why? Because I go out too often. Just last night we argued—she said, “Why are you always out there? All the girls’ schools have been shut down. Do you even understand? By the time you return, a piece of my heart will have melted away.”

I remain silent. Truthfully, I have nothing to say. I am still on my way to the city, while my mother stands there, torn between anger and fear, her eyes damp with worry. I wish I could understand her more deeply, so she would suffer less. Lately, I have become sharper too—shaped by the nightmares that now visit my sleep without permission.

I tell her, “I didn’t bring my chador. Will that be a problem?” She answers, half angry, half anxious: “I don’t care anymore. Do whatever you want.” I have heard this sentence a thousand times, yet I have never truly believed it. She always worries, always scolds, always cares. What can I do? She is a mother—and perhaps I will only understand her fully when I become one myself.

My phone battery is at four percent. I have always been afraid of writing, yet I depend on these remaining minutes of charge—otherwise everything inside me disappears before it is written. I said I am afraid of writing. And my mind has been restless lately, haunted by nightmares that have become unwanted guests of my sleep. Because of them, I know no peace; each morning my body feels rigid, as if it has been carved from stone, so much so that my mother has to come and ease it back to life.

The air is gentle. Inside the van, a soft breeze brushes my face. I wish I could let my hair fall freely and surrender it to the wind—though here, even that feels like a forbidden dream.

I told you—the nightmares have become my companions. This morning my body was stiff again because of them. I dreamt of a group of black-bearded men in white coats chasing me. My hair was dancing in the wind, and my arms were full of books: The Forty Rules of Love, A Fraction of the Whole, The Alchemist, The Unwomanly Face of War… It felt as though girls carrying books were being hunted and punished.

The last time our learning center was shut down, I heard it with my own ears—a tall, white-clad, bearded man saying: “What do ignorant girls like you have to do with education, with that hijab?” And in my dream, I saw him again—same face, same voice—this time chasing me simply because I held books.

I stood on a mountain—though not truly a mountain, more like vast, jagged rocks. A place both beautiful and terrifying. I could hear them approaching. Motorcycles. Closer. I hid beneath a rock barely large enough for my hands. I crawled forward. One of my books—A Fraction of the Whole—slipped from my grasp. No matter how hard I reached, I could not retrieve it. I abandoned it there, my half-read favorite, and kept running.

My scarf fell away. My hair continued to move in that windless, dark silence of stone. I finally reached home. There was no sign of them. It felt as if I had been teleported. My mother was waiting, her face wet with tears. She said, “Girl, where were you? Didn’t I tell you not to go out in these terrible conditions? Eat your food and stay out of trouble.”

I said, “Mother, they were chasing me because I carry books. They want to take everything I have.” And I broke down in her arms, as if I had been holding back tears for years.

She shook me gently, still worried: “Put on your chador, we’ve arrived.” I answered, “Okay, mother.”

We got off the vehicle. I paid the fare. The air outside was still burning. Five years of repeated failure have passed, yet I have learned many things. I have learned that thousands of failures on the path to a dream still carry a strange kind of sweetness. Let me go and see what adventure awaits me with this new business. It does not matter if I fail again. I am an Afghan girl—another scar upon all my scars. It is fine. I will burn a little more.

What a bitter fate… I can feel it—cell by cell—moving through me.