Raising Our Voices for Justice

On July 10, 2022, seventy girls were killed by a suicide bombing at Kaaj Educational Center in Kabul. The victims included my cousin.

 

1

Following the three-day memorial, I went back to school. 

Six months prior, the Taliban had forbidden girls from attending high school, but my school was still open because it was in a remote area, far from the capital, still far out of reach from the Taliban. School had always been a place of safety for me.

When I got there, most of my classmates were scared out of their minds. The Kaaj Educational Center in Kabul was far away from us, but some of the students at my school had been in a winter course with some of the victims. Others, like me, had relatives among them. Any real geographical distance was collapsed by the immediacy of knowing those lost.    

Those girls were like us. They had dreams. Their blooming minds wanted to make a difference in their own small worlds or even in the whole of Afghanistan. Now they were sleeping under the darkest side of the world, never to wake up. All we could talk about was the explosion. 

During recess, we learned that there were women in Kabul, Mazar, Herat, and other provinces who were protesting. The word “protest” gripped me and started running around my mind. What would happen if we protested? What might be done to us? But what if we just absorbed the tragedy, kept silent and bore all the pain and suffering? Which option is better? Silence or standing up against injustice? I couldn’t stop thinking.

My best friend Zainab came over to me. “Are you doing well?” I responded, “Yeah, I am doing okay. I have been thinking about whether we should hold an open-air protest.” There were about seven people gathered in the hall and they were all surprised by what I said. This wasn’t a small thing; it was immensely risky. No one said anything.

The school whistle broke the silence. A girl named Aisha said, “I completely agree.” Zainab, too, said she was completely with me. Others, more hesitant, said that they would think about it and let me know. Then our physics instructor arrived, and class began.

Afterward, two other girls came up to me and said they’d like to join a protest. Now we had five people including me. I was hoping that others would join and told them all that they could invite their friends. 

That’s how it started.

As Zainab and I walked home that day we talked about who else we could invite. We also talked about the hashtags we would use on the signs we would carry: #STOP HAZARA GENOCIDE and #LET AFGHAN GIRLS STUDY.  We decided to ask the other girls for their ideas and their help making signs.  

It was now noon and the sun had allocated itself in the middle of the blue sky and was spreading its bright hot light into the earth. Everyone was inside and the streets were empty. Our village was always silent at this time of the day. I said goodbye to Zainab and continued on to my home, which was an old earthen house located in the middle of our village next to the crossroads. My grandpa and his grandpa had built it and the house was my father’s inheritance. It was really too old to be lived in, but I loved it. Our house was in a walled compound with a small yard. I opened the blue wooden blue gate and entered our yard. The smell of food beckoned me to rush and see what my mother had cooked for lunch. I put down my backpack and went to the kitchen. Noodles with yogurt—my  favorite food. 

The food was immensely delicious. I couldn’t stop eating and my younger sister, my younger brother, my mother, and I couldn’t stop talking. I shared with my mother what had happened at school that day and told her all the things I had discussed with my friends. She was shocked and unsure what to tell me. She knew that if I wanted to do something, I’d go through with it. My younger sister said, “But Sama, a protest is so dangerous!” My mother agreed. “This might be more of a responsibility than you want to take on your shoulders.” She looked very pensive. “I don’t think your father will allow you to do this . . . and also the families of the other girls might not give them permission. You’re just going to make a big danger for yourself with all of this. Stop thinking of it right now.” 

Her voice grew more adamant. “Everyone in the world knows that the Taliban don’t know the language of humanity and they will kill everyone. You already saw what had happened to my cousin. She didn’t do anything at all but was killed.” 

Her words sank into me, full of love, fear, and desperation. Her pain was that of a mother trying to decide whether to send her child to war. I could feel my mother in my own heart. Still, she had always been my greatest supporter, and I believed that part of her wanted me to do it.

After lunch I went to another room to study with my younger sister. Mom was busy sewing, and my younger brother was playing. I couldn’t stop thinking about my idea of protesting and I was unsure how to tell my father.

It was around 7 p.m. when my father came home from work. He was sitting in front of the house drinking tea and talking with my older brother and mother. After a while, I shared my idea with him. After a long silence, he said, “Have you thought of how dangerous it is, not just for you but also for all the girls who are participating? Don’t you think it will end with so much risk and threat? I know that you and your classmates want to break the silence and stand against injustice for your initial rights, but …”  

I told him that if we kept silent and accepted this injustice, at the end of the day it wouldn’t be good for anyone; it would just show the world we agree with what is happening, that we are OK and what the Taliban is doing in Afghanistan is OK. I told him that if we were to take a stand and fight now, it would have impact. At least the world would hear our voices and see the hell we are living in now.  

My father dipped into his thoughts and didn’t say anything. Then he just said, “Get up. It’s time to pray.” 

The next morning at breakfast my father said, “If you want, you can join the protest, but keep in mind that it’s dangerous and be very careful. You are holding a huge responsibility.”

I was more than delighted. I looked to my mother for her permission. I saw the worry on her face and her hesitation. She said, “I believe you can handle it perfectly, but please be careful.” My older brother also agreed that protesting was the right thing to do. I have no idea how it was that my family came together to give me permission, but I felt certain that they all believed I could manage it. Still, all I could see in my parents’ faces was worry.

 

2

After recess the next day, Zainab and I, along with our three friends Faiza, Yassna, and Masoma, went to all the classrooms in the school. Faiza explained that we had decided to hold a protest due to the recent bomb explosion. We didn’t think it likely that many of the other students would join us, but we wanted to let them know what we were doing.

After school, more students came up to us to ask about the protest. Now eleven of us, all wearing our blue school uniforms, sat in a circle in an empty classroom and discussed our plans for the protest the next day.

A girl who had joined us recently suggested that we stay in groups of four or five people so that if anything frightening occurred we could more easily split up into even smaller groups and move to a place where we would feel safe. Everyone agreed and our planning meeting was over. It was 1 p.m. and the sun was still almost in the middle of the blue sky. I was pretty sure that everyone was thinking about tomorrow and imagining how it would go: the first protest of our lives; the first protest for our lives. 

 

3

The alarm went off and sunlight streamed into my dark room through the thin, delicate curtain. My heart was pounding, and my mind was filled with thoughts, imagining every detail. I had a strange feeling—as if the world was about to change completely. Suddenly I heard my mother calling me to wake up. It was 6 a.m. I made my bed quietly so as to not wake my younger sister, who was still in a deep sleep next to me. The sunlight was slowly rising from behind the rocky mountain and spreading its light to the world. I was almost ready. I picked up the white paper, the black and blue marker, and my small backpack. My mother had prepared the breakfast with her loving hands, the same hands that raised me, comforted me, and made every meal feel like home. She had spread the dastarkhan in front of the old mud-brick house, under the shade of the grapevine. The morning was mesmerizing. A gentle breeze flowed through the air, and the sun shone softly, casting a warm golden light.

Sitting beside my mother on the colorfully mixed rug with the beautiful design that we used especially for sitting outside the house, I found myself lost in thought about the upcoming protest. I had asked myself, if I choose silence, if I closed my mouth and quietly endured oppression, would the world even notice? The answer was no. That’s why I promised myself that now was the time to speak up—to accept the risks. Probably, this will lead to positive change. Probably, it will mean no more subjugating Hazara people. Probably, it will lead to the opening of schools and universities. Probably, people will rally behind us. Probably, this will become a collective demand that cannot be ignored. Perhaps a small step can have a great impact. 

When I opened the brown wooden door to the school that morning many students were already there, wearing long black dresses and some wearing hijabs. Everyone was busy writing on poster board the words #STOP HAZARA GENOCIDE and #LET GIRLS STUDY. Zainab was writing in both English and Persian. This room was full of such brave girls with amazing courage. I asked Zainab how she was feeling and she told me that she felt she was going to be doing the best work of her life. She told me she was scared but she believed the protest would have a positive impact. I loved her thoughts and told her I completely agreed; we were going to make it. We were a young force for our country. It was our responsibility to walk this path.

The protest was to be held at the command center of the police (Amniya) and the administrative office of the Jaghori district (referred to as the Jaghori Bazaar). As we stepped out of our classroom, we saw groups of girls in the school hall talking with each other. They were somehow hesitant; I told them it was completely OK if they didn’t come. But when we were ready to leave, they did come—and then more girls from all the other classes joined us.  

Three of our teachers and our school principal came out and discouraged us from going. The principal told us that if we protested, we would cause our school to be closed for all the students. He and the three other teachers tried their best to stop us. We understood their concerns, but now the number of girls was increasing; we were almost seventy.  One girl, who wore a long black hijab with a white mask and a black baseball cap, raised her voice and said, “We are all willing to protest because our sisters have been killed, and their bodies were mutilated like sheep. How can we remain silent in such a situation?”   

From the bottom of my heart, I believed we must protest. Whatever occured, we decided, the four of us who started the plan would take responsibility and tell the Taliban that we had decided to protest; if that still didn’t work, I decided I would take full responsibility. Zainab told me that it was OK, that we were all in this together. I went back to the group where the principal was standing and with a polite voice loud enough that the other girls could hear, I said, “Dear principal, we are going to have our protest. We don’t want to be known as the weak, suffering girls who kept silent and simply accepted the injustice. We are human, we are born free, we combat, we do not tolerate oppressions. Now, in front of everyone, I would like to announce that if anyone wants to take part and step out of their comfort zone and fight against oppression, we wholeheartedly welcome them.”

After my speech, the principal told me to take good care of myself. With these last words a light of hope flashed through my heart. My friends and I started to walk toward the Bazaar. I looked back and I noticed that all the girls that were in front of the school had started walking behind us. Right at that moment I said, Thanks be to God for supporting me. I entrusted all these girls and myself into your hands and hoped that a bad incident would not happen. Now with your grace, I believe we will be safe.

 

4

We walked for thirty minutes until we reached the Bazaar. Zainab told all the girls to walk in groups of two or three while maintaining distance between groups, so that no one would suspect what we were going to do. If they knew, they would stop us before we had a chance to protest. Zainab, Faiza, and I were walking together.  

I was standing in the front and, looking back at all these girls, I saw a spark of irrepressible courage in every one of their faces. Some people moved away from us and others stared at us with confusion from behind the windows of their cars. Everyone who saw us seemed puzzled; probably they thought that we were crazy for doing this highly risky protest.

Despite the danger, I was fully calm and focused on everything and everyone we needed to take care of. The protest started with me loudly saying, “STOP HAZARA GENOCIDE.” Then another loud voice from the crowd called for a stop to the killing, called for freedom and peace, and called for our lives. People started paying attention to us and came out from their shops to look at us. My voice was strong and loud enough so that all the girls started repeating after me, “STOP HAZARA GENOCIDE.” The sound of our voices echoed in the air of the Bazaar and soon a lot of people started to record our protest with their phones.

Zainab started to shout ”LET GIRLS STUDY!” and I shouted it after her. The people coming toward us in their cars quickly pulled over to the side of the road to make way for us.  In the middle of this wide street, among all the people watching, our voices echoed: voices of freedom, voices demanding justice, voices demanding the right to education. These were voices that had long been forbidden, voices that were not meant to be heard. In a society where hearing such voices was considered a sin, we were now raising ours bravely. Across the marketplace, in the midst of the crowd, the voices of girls filled the entire area—loud, firm, and powerful. Behind these voices was a wave of joy and hope—a hope for change in a society where ignorance was trying to take root and persist. The number of people who recorded the videos and photos was increasing.

Our protest continued until we were in front of the command center of the police (Amniya) and the administrative office of the Jaghori district. This was our destination: the place where the city government was located, the place where we felt they needed to hear us most loudly. But now the Taliban soldiers, dressed in long Afghani clothes with white lungis, were in front of the interior gate and were coming toward us with their guns. It was a tense and critical moment. I was very worried for all the girls, but I decided to continue the protest, chanting my words even louder in spite of how terrified I was.

Three soldiers approached us with angry faces and told us to stop and not go any further. They told us that there wouldn’t be a good result for all those who participated in this protest. I moved my hand up and said, “See what is written here? Hear what we want!” They looked at each other and said something in Pashto, another national Afghan language that is not our mother tongue. They were insisting that we stop. I said to my friend standing next to me that we needed to go to crowded places where other people would see us and support us if anything were to happen and we would need to escape. It would be a bit safer, but the Taliban would still be able to see us and hear our voices. She completely agreed and passed my word to the others.

We moved back to the other area of the Bazaar where, as before, huge numbers of people were watching us and recording videos. My throat was dry, like a migrant descending from a mountain, exhausted and parched from thirst and the harsh sun. But I could not remain silent; I kept shouting and repeating the slogans.

It was a beautiful feeling—weariness in the path of seeking justice and freedom. It was a love for which I was fighting: freedom, peace, and education. From within, my voice whispered that I was doing the best thing in the world—I felt like a girl made of unbreakable diamond, brave and radiant.

The girls in the back of the protest who were supporting me and chanting slogans had even more power and fortitude in their voices than I did at that point. They were brave, strong, and unstoppable. They were girls who I felt would one day become the leaders of our country—and perhaps even beyond. Free, independent, and enlightened people. One day, I thought, they will remember and take pride in the outcome of their efforts and their fight for freedom and the right to education, a struggle that took place today in crowded and dangerous streets, under the scorching sun and in unbearable heat. In the end, they will remember that their efforts were not in vain, because being silent in the face of injustice is like throwing wood on the fire that burns freedom. Silence is the soft pillow on which oppression rests.

When we were almost in the middle of the Bazaar, a car came and stopped in front of us. Two men, one wearing Islamic clerical dress and another wearing bright blue pirhan tunban, the dress that the Taliban force all men to wear all the time, came over to us saying we had to stop our protest immediately.

One of my friends said that we didn’t want to stop until they gave us assurance that they would allow girls to study and that they would stop the systematic killing of Hazaras. The man wearing the Islamic clerical dress said, “They have told me to go and stop you. If you don’t stop, they will come and stop you—and not just that but also arrest you. The best solution is to stop here.”

I stood in front of him, raised my poster that read “#STOP HAZARA GENOCIDE,” and said, “We want this and nothing else.” I started moving forward, feeling that I was doing the right thing. Fifteen minutes later, a middle-aged man wearing black clothes came in front of us and pointed out that a group of four Taliban soldiers were coming. He suggested that we change our direction.

I appreciated the sensitivity and concern of this kind person. With a mix of terror and exuberance, we rushed behind the Bazaar and continued to shout and chant, our strong voices echoing in the street. There is a huge library behind the Bazaar, and the environment there was totally different and calmer. The library has always given me a comforting feeling, like a gentle injection after a long and painful struggle, like something soothing finally entering my body.

On this side of the Bazaar, there was a wedding hotel which was modern and stylishly designed. All around were shoe stores, gold shops, clothing shops, and educational centers that were open as usual. The hardworking people were busy but our voices stopped them and they stood and looked at us. They seemed shocked by what we were doing. My friend called out, “LET GIRLS STUDY!”

That was the last call.  Suddenly, gunfire filled the air and all the girls started shouting that the Taliban soldiers were surrounding us. I felt like the world turned dark. My heart started pumping faster and faster, and I needed more oxygen to breathe. I tried to keep myself calm by telling myself that while I had encouraged the girls to protest, I knew that these things would occur. I told myself this over and over to keep calm and confident. The man who a few minutes ago had blocked our way was back. He came up to us and warned us to stop or the Taliban would bomb this place. “Who can stop them from bombing us? It’s a piece of cake for them to kill people. If you’re thinking of your life and family, stop here,” he said. I told him, “What we are protesting now are basic human rights that they don’t have the right to take from us.”

The man looked at me and didn’t say anything.  He left to talk with the Taliban. I turned and saw a member of the Taliban standing next to an old white car. He was wearing Afghani dress with a black vest. He had a black beard and seemed younger. He carried a gun slung over his shoulder, with a black whip in his hand that he was flicking around as if ready to lash someone. With a furious expression, he was prepared for a fight and to strike. I felt a sickening sense of dread when I looked at this man. I imagined he had already whipped several people in the name of religion and had probably even taken lives. How many people had he beaten and tortured? What kind of thoughts filled his mind that would lead him to do such things? Why would he want to carry out such dirty and terrifying acts?

I heard someone crying, and, turning around, I saw a girl from our protest group in tears while others were comforting her. I went to her to ask what happened. While teardrops fell like piles of ash and her throat was choked with a lump, she spoke of how our sisters had been torn to pieces, their bodies separated from them; how our brothers were no longer beside us. In youth, in the time of growth, at the time when we carried thousands of wishes in our heads and thousands of hopes to build a better future, they were shredded by those filthy murderers and were no longer with us. Right now, our hands have slipped from the sky and our feet from the ground; like balloons we are suspended in the air. We have no future; probably tomorrow or the day after, our relatives will force us into marriage. Why must we shut down? Why end the protest here?

She was truly a brave girl, and everything she was saying was why I myself wanted to continue, but the danger to the girls was too great. “We have done as much as we could to come this far; it has been a lot,” I told her, “and we are brave girls.”

The tearful girl’s name was Nazanin. I stayed with my hand on her back and said, “See, Nazanin, I truly want to continue as you do; I also do not want to be silent, I also do not want to endure injustice. But these filthy people are vampires. If an explosion happens, these girls who are here with us will also be lost. Just think how much pain their parents will feel. So far, we have done very well; for now, we will end here. You should quietly slip away through the alleys with two or three other girls. Tell this to other girls, to separate into groups of three or four. Do not let them see you. Throw your posters into the gutters behind the shops. Try to go in front of people’s houses or to places that are crowded. They might follow you. Try your best to keep yourself safe. I will see you later on, just take good care of yourself.” I thanked them all for being brave and standing for justice. I told them I loved them. 

Zainab and I came back to the place where the Taliban soldiers were standing with their military vehicles and guns. We stood in front of the library, with the Taliban surrounding us. Honestly, I can’t express what I felt; maybe fear, distress, anxiety, and at the same time a strange mix of happiness and courage. 

The responsibility I felt for the other girls was heavy. I thought we should loudly say a dignified statement so they would know we were surrounded, something thoughtful that wouldn’t create a massive problem. 

I started by saying, “Dear brave sisters, thank you for coming to this demonstration today with all your courage and support. The purpose of our demonstration is to show the world that we Afghan women have changed and will not accept silence. We call on the United Nations to take action regarding women’s rights and girls’ education in Afghanistan. We also call that the systematic killings of Hazara be recognized and that serious measures be taken. Today we have no demands from the Islamic Emirate government; our demands are solely from the world and from the United Nations.”

The Taliban looked like wild animals wanting to kill something. I noticed that the man who came many times to talk with us to stop the protest was saying something to the Taliban. My mind was cloudy and I was worried about the girls who remained. I was so thirsty, and my lips were drying up. Nevertheless, all I could think about was how we could get out of here.

The ten or so girls left around me looked tired. I could see the exhaustion on their faces. Silence fell over our group. No one spoke, though surely everyone was speaking inside their own minds. I was thinking about where we should go next so the Taliban wouldn’t follow us. How could we get away from here? Were the other girls who had left safe? Had they reached home unharmed?

That same man came back, and in a calm voice he said, “I spoke with them. I told them that you are young and made a mistake and that it won’t happen again. I told them to let you go. As a respected elder, I guarantee that you will not be arrested. Now go from the back of the shops toward your homes. Don’t go to places that are quiet and tucked away; those spots aren’t safe because some member of them is following you to hurt you. Try to go where there are many people. And remember what I promised them: don’t do this again. There will be no one to guarantee your safety or free you next time.”

I saw one of the Taliban commanders coming from the back. He was a large, heavy man wearing a dirty white robe and black headwrap. He carried no weapon. He came forward, grumbling in Persian and speaking with difficulty, as if he was just learning the language. He said, “You women do not have permission to leave the house without a mahram (a male, like a father, brother, or husband), let alone to raise your voices in public. Women and girls do not have the right to speak in society. You came here to hold a protest and to encourage people to support you and stand against the Islamic Emirate. On the day we catch you doing this again, we will arrest you and punish you so severely that you will wish for death every moment. I have let you go this time because Mr. Mohammadi, a respected elder of your people, guaranteed you. Otherwise, your bodies would be lying here now—fifty women who did not know their limits.”

As he spoke, a terrifying anger spread over his face. After he finished, he looked at his guards and motioned them to leave. The other girls and I were truly terrified. We were certain they would do whatever they wanted. In spite of knowing that this could happen, now we were in the place where it was happening. We moved toward the back of the Bazaar and threw away our posters, though I would have loved to take mine with me as a first protest gift. 

As we stomped toward the village, one of the girls realized that an old gray car was following us. Scared, we rushed to an old mud house, which had a lot of trees and grass in front of it. A young girl who was probably around ten to twelve years old, wearing a white scarf and black clothes, was sitting under the shadow of the trees. Her blue UNICEF backpack was lying next to her; it seemed like she had just come from school. (Girls in elementary school were still allowed to go to school.) She looked at us, smiling. I looked back to see that the car had stopped where the road ended and couldn’t go any farther. It was quite hard to recognize who the person inside was, but we assumed from the car that they were probably members of the Taliban. I had heard from the news that members of the Taliban followed protesters to find their homes and attack their homes at night. 

The other girls in our group asked the younger girl to bring a cup of water for us. She was a kind girl and went to her home and brought the water in a big bottle that was sufficient for all of us. We sat there for half an hour to get some rest under the shadow of the trees, and the young girl was curious to know why we were there. One of the girls said that we had protested for opening the school. Shocked, she just said, “Wow.”

 

5

We started home at 1 p.m., walking through the trees and farmers’ lands rather than the common road we would normally take. It was a strange experience—the girls were laughing and joking with each other. I loved this beautiful community of girls. As we walked, the air felt lovely. We were resharing every moment of the protest to each other. We were all so delighted and proud of what we had done.

As I look back to my sixteen-year-old self, I can see that I was a young girl who maybe didn’t know anything about politics and government. Nevertheless, I knew even then that accepting the silence and lying down will keep you there forever, like a free, sky-loving bird locked in a narrow cage. Over time, we begin to believe that this bird has become tame and domesticated—that it now enjoys living alongside humans. But in reality, the bird is afraid. It doesn’t choose to stay; it is forced to adapt. It learns to accept injustice, to accept life inside a cage. This is what I believe: accepting silence in the beginning carries a bitter cost that leads to destruction.

Today, I realize that many girls in Afghanistan are bravely fighting—fighting to build themselves a better version of life, to refuse to accept being imprisoned. They are girls we can truly call courageous—girls with broken wings who still carry the hope of flying.