Building Windows Where They Built Walls

The name of Afghanistan—and the Taliban—has been twisted throughout history. That tangle has become a chain, binding women and their rights as human beings.

For decades, different regimes have taken over Afghanistan. Each time, Afghans have watched their lives turn to ashes, forced to rebuild from ruin. But the Taliban’s takeover in 1996 cast a uniquely dark and frightening shadow over the lives of Afghan women.

During their first rule, women were stripped of even the most basic human rights: the right to education, the right to work, the right to step outside without a male guardian—mahram—or without being hidden under a burqa.

Millions of girls were married off young and forbidden to dream of a future brighter than the burning darkness of a tandoor.

When I was a child, women close to me used to say, “Never be like us.” I didn’t understand what they meant—until I asked my mother about the Taliban regime she had lived through before fleeing to Pakistan. She told me stories I will never forget: how she had to wear a long burqa to avoid being seen, heard, or even counted as human.

Back then, the idea of losing my freedom, wearing a burqa, and becoming invisible seemed like a nightmare—something that would never happen to me. I thought my freedom was permanent.

But it all happened so fast. My rights were taken from me in a single gust, like a summer breeze that steals the breath from your lungs.

Before I could even process it, I was wearing a burqa. I was more silent. I became a shadow behind the walls.

And so, in search of a future—any future—my family and I became refugees, escaping another Taliban regime.

I thought I would find my light again by leaving Afghanistan. But that light was already gone, like the years I lost without studying, trapped in my own home.

I felt that I had become the very woman who once told me, “Don’t become like me.”

There are thousands of women and girls in Afghanistan today who are banned from going to school, working, or even stepping outside their homes. A thousand like me.

I was one of the fortunate few. I received a full scholarship to Solebury School in the United States. Since arriving here, I created an “Educational Support for Afghan Girls” English class—a three-month online course for students across different provinces of Afghanistan. Despite their different ages and pasts, they all shared the same desire: to study and build a future through the small window of their phones.

Now, as I enter my junior year, I have co-founded EmpowerHer. I couldn’t forget the faces of those girls staring back at me through the computer screen—eager to learn, desperate for change. They haunted me.

“This is the fourth year that Afghan girls have been banned from going to school,” I thought as I said goodbye to my summer English students. The fourth year of stolen education, silenced voices, and lost opportunities.

These thoughts pushed me to co-found EmpowerHer, an organization dedicated to teaching writing, leadership, arts, and other skills to Afghan girls and women. Through virtual workshops, EmpowerHer offers a window of hope—a space where dreams can still grow.

By amplifying their voices and nurturing their potential, this organization aims to challenge the Taliban’s restrictions and give women a chance to write their own stories.

I would like to end with my poem:

I die a thousand times a day. 

Poet: Nahid Karimi

Thousands of times
I pick up my book
And gaze through the window of tomorrow

But now,
There is nothing
Only shadows,
Only darkness.

I still remember
The day I lost it all,
Dreams
one by one,
slipping into silence. 
just like “they never existed.” 

I wish.
I wish for freedom’s return,
For the light of the future
that I once held in my hand,
And the heart that was full of joy. 

Where is my voice?

They strangled it
Ripped it from my throat.
You will never feel this pain.

But I–
I die a thousand times a day…