The Shadow of Threat Over Girls on Their Way to School

While this year’s 16 Days of Activism campaign focuses on gender-based violence online, the reality for women and girls in Afghanistan extends far beyond the internet. Since the Taliban regained power, violence and restrictions against women have risen to unprecedented levels. However, Afghan women’s lived experiences show that they have long been the main victims of violence—both offline and online.

The Rights Monitor Media will cover the campaign by sharing news, reports, personal stories, and reflections from Afghan women and girls, highlighting their experiences with violence and restrictions.

It was a Saturday morning. A gentle breeze brushed the oleaster blossoms and filled the air with their fragrance. I placed my English and math books inside my backpack and called out loudly, “I’m leaving for school.”

I didn’t wait for anyone to answer or see me off. I stepped into the dusty alley, looked carefully to both sides, and when I was sure there were no shadows of motorcyclists, I ran. The nightingales broke the early-morning silence, and a light breeze rustled through the fresh leaves as I walked down the alley.

Who would have imagined that a day so beautiful could carry something so dark within it? Near the main road, I ran into Maria and Hosna—my classmates—and we walked toward school together. Out of habit, we began talking about math equations. It was our daily routine: debating complex problems that sometimes took a whole week to solve.

Before entering the classroom, our math teacher told us she had a meeting and couldn’t attend her class. Maria and I asked her to give us a logarithmic equation so we could start our day working on it.

Until the final period, we tried solving the problem again and again, only to end up lost each time. We couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I wrote down all the steps we had taken on a blank sheet of paper. The bell rang, and the three of us left the school together.

On the way, Maria and Hosna were talking about a girl who had disappeared a few days earlier. She was a tenth-grader at our school, and Hosna said someone had apparently taken her on her way to school, and she was found days later in a disheveled state.

Maria said that her own father claimed that if his daughter did such a thing, he would strangle her with his own hands—while the missing girl’s father had only pulled her out of school.

The thought of the motorcyclists at the mouth of my alley made me shiver. I didn't listen to their conversation and fixed my eyes on the paper in my hand.

Hosna’s voice brought me back to my surroundings. We were close to my alley, and I was so absorbed in the paper that, unlike other days, I didn’t play with the sheep grazing near the field, and the old man didn’t shout, “Shameless girl, don’t touch my sheep.”

I said goodbye to the girls. Before entering the alley, I saw a middle-aged man on a motorcycle go in. My heart began pounding; with every beat, a sigh tore out of my chest. I froze for a moment and scanned the alley. There was only the clouds of dust raised by the motorcycle tire.

I went back to the equation and walked into the dusty road. When I reached the middle of the alley, I suddenly shouted, “I found the mistake!”

We had simply forgotten a single negative sign—that’s why the answer had kept slipping away from us.

Suddenly, the roar of a motorcycle shook my ears again. Two men on a motorcycle were coming toward me. My legs trembled. I pressed myself against the wall and froze. The motorcycle stopped beside me. My breath seized. One of the men grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him. I pushed myself harder into the wall; I wanted to break through it, find a way out. But I knew his strength outweighed mine. I glued myself even tighter to the wall. I couldn’t open my mouth to scream.

Suddenly, his hand slipped. I gripped my backpack tightly and started running backward. All I could hear was the harsh, grating noise of the machine, and in the swirling dust of the alley, I just ran.

I reached the main road and leaned against the wall, bent over, gasping. The smell of fuel hit my nose. I looked to my left and saw Uncle Ghulam, the mechanic, inflating a bicycle tire in front of his shop.

I fixed my scarf and wiped my face with my palms. I slowly approached him, wondering whether I should tell him about the man or not.

Suddenly, the words burst out of me: “Uncle, there’s a dog in the alley. Can you walk me home?”

Uncle Ghulam wiped the sweat from his forehead with the greasy back of his shirt. “Yes, dear, just wait one minute.”

He placed his tools inside the shop and locked it. “Come on, let’s go.”

We started walking. Tears had gathered in my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall. I fiddled with the paper in my hand. The scent of oleaster blossoms pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked up from the dust; I was standing at our gate.

Uncle Ghulam smiled warmly. “Here we are.”

I forced myself to smile. “Thank you, uncle.”

He walked away, and I stepped inside. My mother was watering the oleaster tree when suddenly the sob in my throat broke.

I cried so loudly that my mother panicked, checking my arms and legs. She lifted my scarf and examined every part of my head. She was searching for a wound whose pain made me wail like that. And I suddenly screamed, “What are you looking for? Can all wounds be seen?”

“What happened?”

I didn’t know how much time had passed. I sat under that tree, crying, while my mother repeatedly asked what had happened. “For God’s sake, tell me what’s wrong.”

Her voice trembled. With her hands, she tucked the strands of her black hair—with silver threads glistening between them—under her scarf. She couldn’t stand anymore. And I came to myself. I wondered what I should say. If I said a man had tried to take me, what would happen?

And I kept whispering, “What if they pull me out of school?”

It felt as if someone was twisting their hand inside my stomach. I threw up until nothing was left in me. My mother washed my face. My mouth tasted bitter. My voice was no longer trapped, and I told her everything. Then I asked, “You won’t stop me from going to school, will you?”

My mother smiled and said, “Why would we stop you from going to school? Are you out of your mind?”

She helped me stand, dusted off my clothes. “From now on, I’ll walk you through the alley myself.”

My tears soaked into the earth, and I thought: Life is nothing more than a logarithmic equation—you have to find its negatives to reach the answer. But where does one look for those negatives?