I spend my nights in silence—not out of physical exhaustion, but from the weight of a weary soul. Each night, when I close my eyes, I don’t fall asleep with hope for tomorrow, but with the fear that tomorrow will be no different from yesterday. And every morning, when I open my eyes, I wake with a heavier heart, a voiceless spirit, and thoughts more burdensome than I can carry. In a place where every path is blocked, even to have hope is an act of resistance.

For the past three years, I’ve lived with thoughts that grow heavier each day. The thought of dying in my homeland without ever having served it—without leaving behind even a small piece of myself for its future—feels like a thorn buried in my chest. Sometimes this fear floods my mind – What if I live and die as a silent witness, never getting the chance to speak, to serve, or to become?

I am one of millions of Afghan girls who carry great dreams in their hearts. But the road to those dreams is closed. School doors are locked, our books gather dust, and our hopes remain trapped inside our minds. Often, I feel empty—as if hope has left me entirely. But strangely enough, even in these moments of despair, something stirs within me. When I look at my country, and at the girls who are just like me—alive, but silenced—my heart reignites. I begin to feel responsibility again.

Our voices are not heard. I don’t just feel ignored; I know we are ignored. Not just me—but thousands of girls like me. This silence is not natural; it is forced upon us—like a cage that not only traps our screams, but also muffles even the sound of our breath. And yet, I write. Because writing is the only way left to say – We are still here. We are alive. We have not surrendered.

I want to speak to the girls who grow up in freedom but take it for granted. I want to tell them that while they laugh, learn, and explore, we fight—silently. In the very years that should be full of joy, we battle depression, fear and isolation.
Our youth has become a quiet war zone.

If you ask me what I miss the most, I will say – school.
For me, school is not just a place of learning. It is the first step toward every future I ever dreamed of. No other freedom is more valuable to me than the freedom to learn. Real freedom for me is to walk toward my dreams with a book in hand and a pen in my heart. Freedom from ignorance. Freedom from silence. And it all begins with education.

To my Afghan sisters, I will say:
We must not and cannot give up.
If we want Afghanistan to breathe again, if we want hope to return to our homes, we must stand together. Together, our voices are louder. Our pain is more bearable. Our dreams are more reachable.
If we Afghan girls are united in heart and spirit, we can break this silence.

Hope is not easy. Especially in a world where everything around you contradicts it. But I’ve learned that to hold hope in darkness is the bravest kind of courage.
I’ve seen days where I didn’t believe I’d survive until tomorrow. And yet, even in those moments, I felt a flicker inside me—a small light called hope.

If Afghanistan were a person, I would see her as wounded, tearful and exhausted—but standing tall, with pride still intact. Afghanistan is oppressed, but not broken. And I, one of her daughters, one of her many unextinguished flames, am still here. I still stand. I still write. I still breathe. And I still dream.

To every Afghan girl reading this:
Even the smallest success you achieve in this darkness is worth more than a hundred victories in the light.
Because while many have abandoned hope, you are still holding onto it.
And in a land where hope has been forbidden, holding onto hope is a form of resistance.
And those who keep the light burning in the darkness—they are the real heroes.