Invincible Dreams

I used to think I was just a normal Afghan girl living an ordinary life in Kabul. My days were simple: school, laughing with my friends, drawing little sketches in my notebooks, and dreaming about the future the way any child would. Back then, life felt full of possibilities. I imagined traveling around the country, photographing every corner of it, becoming a skilled artist, and learning many languages. But among all those dreams, one shined the brightest.

Law.

When I was younger, I would sit beside the adults when they discussed problems in the family. I never spoke, but I listened closely. I loved the way people tried to figure out what was fair, what was right, and how to help someone who couldn’t defend themselves. Even then, something inside me wanted to understand justice, wanted to protect people who were unheard. As I grew older, this feeling became stronger. I would read whatever I could find – stories about justice, videos of court trials, even debates online. Watching people argue confidently, with evidence and truth, inspired me in a way nothing else did. I could imagine myself there, not scared, not quiet, but standing firm and saying, “This is wrong,” or “This person deserves a chance.”

The idea of becoming a lawyer wasn’t just a career for me; it was a dream of finding my own voice. It was a dream of giving other girls a voice too, girls who were too scared to speak, girls who were silenced by society, girls who grew up believing that no one would ever listen to them. I wanted to study hard, go to university, learn the law, and one day work on cases that mattered. I wanted to defend people who were mistreated. I wanted to show the world that an Afghan girl could stand in a courtroom and argue with strength, not fear. I imagined myself holding files, wearing the black coat, and walking confidently toward a future I chose for myself. It was ambition. It was identity. It was hope.

Then everything changed.

It happened quietly at first, ­a rumor, a whisper, a warning:
Schools for girls might close.
Women might lose their rights.
Opportunities might disappear.

I didn’t want to believe it. I held onto my dream like it was something no one could take away. But life in Afghanistan is never that simple.

One day, everything was normal at school as I sat with classmates. We were in class, all chattering, and the room was buzzing with quiet excitement. My classmates and I were whispering about the upcoming Independence Day, what the celebration would look like, whether the school would decorate the courtyard, and what performances we would have. Everyone was excited. For us, it was more than a holiday; it was a chance to feel joy, pride, and hope. But that feeling didn’t last long.

The sirens suddenly rang out. At first, we all thought it was just another drill. I thought so too, and as I ran to the basement, I still believed it was a practice, just like always. “Nothing to worry about, yeah?” I convinced myself. But when we reached the basement, the announcement came. This time, it wasn’t a drill. It was real. There were actual threats and orders of inspection. We realized that the safety we took for granted had been shattered. We had to stay there, hidden and silent, as the world outside changed in ways we never expected. In that basement, surrounded by my classmates, I felt confusion and fear. We whispered to each other, trying to stay calm, but the uncertainty was overwhelming. It wasn’t just about school anymore; it was about our future, our dreams, and our very right to learn. Thankfully, we didn’t have to see them face-to-face, and we all safely reached home.

I then accepted the reality. Education for us was banned. Not temporarily. Not for a break.

Closed for us.

I remember standing outside the gate, looking at it with longing, staring at the lock as if it was the lock on my future. The streets continued as usual, cars passing, vendors shouting, but it wasn’t a usual day for me, not a usual day for women and girls. A girl who once dreamed of studying law suddenly couldn’t even enter a classroom. It was like the world had decided that my dreams were too loud.

Suddenly, the things that made me “normal”, like going to school, laughing with friends, planning for tomorrow, were taken away. People around me kept saying, “It’s better for girls to stay home… it’s safer… it’s how things are now.” But they didn’t understand what it meant to lose something you never even got the chance to fight for. My dream of becoming a lawyer… the courtroom, the justice, the power to help others… all of it felt like it was slipping away from my hands. I wondered if my future would be limited to marriage, cooking, staying home, and living quietly. And the scariest part was not that life—but the idea that I had no choice in it.

As a girl who loved only truth and justice, seeing the injustice being inflicted on us girls was insufferable. The idea of girls not being allowed to study was simply absurd to me. I wanted to ask them why, knowing they didn’t have answers themselves and were simply using religion as a tool to gain power.

And yes, the girl who wanted to give others a voice suddenly couldn’t use her own.

For a while, I felt lost. I would wake up every morning and forget that school was gone, and then remember it all over again. It was like a mantra. But even in that heavy silence, something inside me refused to break, maybe because I was still the stubborn girl who hated injustice. I thought: If I couldn’t go to school, I would bring school to myself.

I started studying on my own, researching online, watching videos whenever the internet worked, reading anything I could find. I reread my favorite stories and wrote in a journal about everything I wanted to learn one day. It wasn’t the same, but it was something. I also found myself paying more attention to the world around me. Girls like me, smart, talented, curious, were suddenly stuck inside their homes, their futures paused. I realized that my dream of law wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about all of us and how unfair it is for dreams to be crushed because of our gender. It's about how voices can be silenced without anyone even noticing. That’s when I started writing more seriously.

At first, it was just for myself, small thoughts, short stories, little notes about justice and fairness. But soon I noticed something: writing was the only place I could speak freely. The only place where no one could tell me to stay quiet. The only place where I could still feel like the girl who wanted to fight for what’s right. Writing became my favorite hobby. And slowly, I started to grow again.

I spent a large amount of time researching programs, classes, anything. I didn’t stop, even if the internet signals were lost every minute or when a page took ten minutes to load. That’s where I found valuable programs, online friends, and classmates in the same situations as me, and even an opportunity to be published. I realized that even if the world tries to limit Afghan girls, our minds don’t have borders. Our dreams don’t need permission.

Yes, that was a while ago, but that’s still exactly where I stand now. In fact, everything I have lived since then has only rooted those beliefs deeper in me. Today, I learn from kind teachers who give me their time through a screen, people who remind me that guidance can come from anywhere in the world.

I spend quiet moments drawing, turning all the noise inside me into sketches and colors. I write when I feel lost or when a story idea suddenly grabs my attention and won’t let go. Honestly, I am learning to be gentle with who I was and patient with who I am becoming. But one thing hasn’t changed: I still believe in speaking up when something is wrong, in defending the dreams that girls are told to put away, and in growing into someone my younger self would look at with pride. Even now, every small thing I do is a promise to her that I won’t give up on us.

What was taken from me pushed me to stand stronger for what I believe in. Law is still my dream, and one day, whether in a classroom or from behind a screen, sooner or later, I will chase it again. Because I refuse to let my story end in silence. The dream didn’t die; it just changed shapes. Now, instead of imagining myself standing in a courtroom someday, I imagine something simpler but just as powerful: keeping the dream alive. Learning however I can. Speaking however I can. Refusing to let the world decide who I can or cannot be.

And honestly, I am so proud to see girls across Afghanistan achieving so much, breaking barriers, and accomplishing their dreams. I am proud of every single one of them.

One day, when the world finally listens to Afghan girls again, we will be ready, because even in silence, we never stopped preparing for the life we want. They can try to ban us from parks, from schools, from every place they fear we might grow, but they cannot destroy the dreams we carry. Our dreams are like diamonds, formed under pressure: unbreakable and shining no matter how hard the world tries to crush them. 

Author’s bio: Faryal Asadzai is a thoughtful and introspective 14-year-old who expresses herself most naturally through writing and art. She enjoys learning new languages, exploring photography, and appreciating the small moments that give life meaning. Quiet by nature yet deeply empathetic, she finds joy in books, anime, poetry, mythology, and gaming. Although introverted, Faryal has a strong interest in law and debate, fields that inspire her to speak with confidence and clarity.