August 15: Wounded Wings in Flight

Many dates come and go throughout the year without leaving a trace in the memory of time. They are merely dry numbers on the pages of a calendar. But in our pain-stricken land, some dates serve as a kind of dividing line—a boundary between existence and absence, between having and losing.

For me and thousands of girls across this land, August 15 is not merely a day in the history books. It is the day that marked a painful and heavy chapter in our lives—the day that suddenly and mercilessly invaded the springtime of our lives, tying the memories of our childhood and adolescence to shadows of grief, sorrow, and disbelief.

I remember that day well. A land that, despite all its hardships, had until the day before been struggling, building, and moving forward suddenly took on a different color. The dreams that had just begun to blossom in the hearts of the children and loved ones of this land suddenly faced a wall of darkness.

At that time, I was still living in the world of childhood. Perhaps I was too young to understand the vast and complicated political dimensions of what had happened. But my childlike heart could clearly feel the heaviness in the air. It was an atmosphere that no longer smelled of play and freedom; instead, it carried the scent of uncertainty and fear.

Forgetting that day is impossible. The distant sounds of guns and artillery sent tremors through our dreams. On people's faces, there was no longer any sign of the ordinary hopes of everyday life. There was only worry and confusion.

I remember the sorrowful looks on the faces of fathers and mothers, as though, in a single moment, they could see the entire future of their children disappearing into a cloud of darkness. A strange and frightening silence hung over the streets of our country—a silence louder than any scream.

And it was precisely on that day that the saddest image of my life appeared: the closing of the gates of girls' schools.

That day was not merely a change of government or a transfer of power. For us, it marked the beginning of an era in which the gates of hope, light, and knowledge were closed to us one after another.

School had been our second home, a place where we learned how to make the world more beautiful. But sadly, it became a forbidden place. The classrooms that had once symbolized our dreams of the future and our desire to fly suddenly became distant, unreachable, and painful memories.

August 15, with its merciless steps, robbed us of our spiritual wealth. For some of us, it took away the dream of freely attending university and pursuing education; for others, it stole the very opportunity to experience childhood.

Children who should have grown up with books, pens, games, and storybooks suddenly found themselves thrown into premature adulthood. Girls who had just learned to hold a pen and dreamed of building a better homeland through words were confronted by tall, rigid, and impenetrable walls of restrictions.

But I, as the person writing these words and as a girl born from the soil of this land, want to say that August 15 is not merely a story of a black date on the calendar or a sorrowful day for the girls of Afghanistan.

It is a symbol of the broken wings of birds that dreamed of flying higher and farther than any sky could contain.

We were—and still are—girls with great dreams. Girls who wanted to become doctors so they could heal the suffering of their fellow citizens. Girls who wanted to become writers so they could tell the stories of the pain and beauty of this land. Girls who wanted to become scientists, bringing pride and meaningful change to the future of their country.

We never had small dreams. And precisely because our dreams were so great, the blow we suffered was so deep.

Yet this is not the end of the story.

Behind these closed doors, the girls of Afghanistan have become silent yet powerful heroes. Despite all the difficulties, they have broken the chains of hopelessness and kept hope alive deep within themselves.

They never allowed the great locks on those doors to make them forget their desire to fly. They did not confine themselves to the four walls of their homes. They did not allow their books to be forgotten. Despite all the dangers, they have continued to keep the light of knowledge burning quietly within their hearts.

If classrooms are dark and empty today, kitchens and small rooms inside homes have become secret classrooms and schools of light.

This day also reminds us of our guardian angels. It reminds us of mothers who, with tearful eyes, prayed for the future of their daughters, and fathers who swallowed the grief hidden in their throats because they dreamed of seeing their daughters study freely, climb the peaks of success one after another, and become a source of pride for their families and society.

Our fathers and mothers are partners in this great suffering and guardians of this living hope.

And Afghanistan is a remarkable land—a country that has endured many years of war, displacement, and suffering. Yet the great secret of this land is that, amid all this absolute darkness, its people have always learned how to keep the lamp of hope raised high.

The true history of Afghanistan has not been written only through defeats, falls, and setbacks. Our true history is an epic and enduring story of resistance, courage, and perseverance—a story of people who, even in the most difficult and turbulent circumstances, refused to surrender.

We are the descendants of those very people who have learned how to rise again from the ashes.

August 15 may have been the day when many of our dreams were wounded, bloodied, and brought to the ground. But it can never, ever be the end of the dreams of Afghan girls.

Why?

Because dreams that rise from the depths of the heart and become intertwined with the roots and very existence of a person cannot be broken by any decree or restriction.

Our dreams are living things. They possess a magical power that always finds its way toward the light, even in the darkest of days.

Today, when I look at August 15, I no longer remember it only as a dark and ominous day. I see it as a great mirror—a day that showed us and the entire world how vital and transformative freedom, education, and knowledge truly are.

This day reminds us of our deep wounds, but alongside those wounds, it is also powerful evidence of the limitless and hidden strength within us.

Without darkness, the power of light cannot be seen. And August 15 was that darkness—the darkness that revealed the light within us.

Why do I speak with such clarity and confidence?

Because every day, I see the strength of girls who, despite every challenge, continue to stand firm and strong. Girls who smile, write, study, embrace their dreams, and still believe with all their hearts that one day the locks on all these restrictions will be broken.

We owe something to the future.

And one day, these tired wings will open again, more beautiful and higher than ever, and take flight in the free skies of our homeland.

No matter how long the storm lasts, the sky will always belong to the birds.