Behind the Door That Closed

In the noise of life, when one door closes before you, another opens. Those who say this have at least seen or experienced it once. But at what cost? In this world, sometimes to reach a dream, you must lose things you once thought you couldn’t live without. Just as many people from my country migrated for education, work, bread, and a future.  

One of those people is a girl from Afghanistan and that girl is me. I migrated for education and for my future. Every day in migration felt like being a bird in a cage, endlessly trying to flap its wings and fly. I came from a country where I struggled daily for my future and carried big dreams in my heart; but all those dreams were suddenly forgotten overnight. Many nights I spent with the moon as my only witness witness to my tears and confessions. Many days I lived with despair, often thinking I might never study again. I endured deep depressions until I finally found my way back to school not in public schools, but in self-run schools in Iran.  

I tried hard to enroll in public schools. Each time I tried, I faced excuses. But I never gave up. I only wanted to study was that too much to ask? For some, school was a right; for me, it had become a dream. At last, I continued my education from eighth grade in one of Iran’s self-run schools.  

In autumn 2023, on the first of Mehr, my morning began before sunrise. Everywhere was still dark, as if the whole city was asleep. But I, like the morning bird, woke happily in that silence. I was excited to get ready. I couldn’t imagine what my first day of school in another country would feel like. The night before, I had packed all my school supplies into a new bag I had bought after two years. The feeling of returning to school after two years was indescribable.  

I was about to meet new friends, new teachers, and most importantly, a new culture and school rules in another country a world fresh and different to me. My mother, the most precious person in my life, patiently taught me how to wear my headscarf properly. I put on my navy-blue school uniform and prepared for the day I had long awaited. My mother also woke early to make me breakfast. For many, this might seem ordinary, but for me returning to school after two years those moments were not just about getting ready; they were about approaching a dream I once thought had slipped away.  

When I stepped outside, I felt something strange as if after years of waiting, I was finally walking toward my dream again. I was happy, but also anxious, because I was entering a school in another country where everything felt new and unfamiliar. I even lost my way to school and had to ask other students for directions before I finally found it.  

At the school gate, I paused. I looked at the place where a new chapter of my life was about to begin. I promised myself to try hard and be my best. The small green gate caught my eye as I entered. The two-story building had painted walls and windows opening to the yard. Girls were chatting with classmates they already knew. Everything felt both familiar and foreign.  

I stood quietly in the corner, watching. When the principal called for eighth graders to line up, I joined at the back. I didn’t dare greet anyone. They talked about their summer, TV series, and plans to eat ice cream after school. I only listened. Then the principal shouted “About-turn!” I froze, not knowing what it meant, until everyone turned together. They recited a prayer I had never heard before the Du’a al-Faraj. I stood silently, watching.  

The principal then said: “This year we have many students from Afghanistan. I hope you all help each other and become good friends.” I felt as if he was pointing directly at me. Suddenly I was aware of being the newcomer, the stranger.  

Later, the Qur’an was brought out. A classmate explained: “We kiss the Qur’an and pass beneath it to enter our classrooms, hoping for a good year.” I nodded and said “Thank you” in my Dari accent. When my turn came, I kissed the Qur’an and felt a calmness in my heart.  

Inside the classroom, laughter and chatter filled the air. I sat quietly at the back, masked and silent. Some girls approached me, asking why I wore a mask. I explained it was because of a sore throat. They insisted I remove it, just to see my face. When I did, one said: “You’re so pretty, why wear a mask?” Another added: “Girls who come from Afghanistan are very beautiful.” Their words stayed with me for years.  

They asked about my age, where I was from, and how I came to Iran. I answered, but soon they returned to their own conversations, leaving me alone again. I wandered outside, sat in the yard, then returned to my seat, sketching aimlessly in my notebook.  

The principal later introduced himself as Mr. Khavari and asked us to introduce ourselves. When my turn came, I said:  
“Hello, I am Sadaf Navid. Last year I came from Afghanistan, from Balkh province, the city of Mazar-i-Sharif.”  
He smiled: “How wonderful, you come from the beautiful city of Mazar-i-Sharif.”  

That day ended early, as was the school’s tradition for the first day. I thought to myself how different it was from Afghanistan, where even on the first day we studied until noon.  

When I returned home, I realized this was only the beginning. I still had a long way to go to learn the language, culture, and environment. But something inside me had changed, I understood that one can begin again, even when it feels like everything is lost.  

That day was not just my first day of school in another country; it was the day I came closer to my dreams again. I realized migration is not only leaving a land, it is starting a journey where you must rediscover yourself. Perhaps the door that closed in Afghanistan was not the end, but the path to another door one that still held my hopes, efforts, and dreams.  

I was not just a migrant girl entering a school in another country; I was a girl who, after all the hardships, found a way to continue.