Leaving

Nahid

These are the feet of a girl from Afghanistan, feet that have never chased a ball across a field, never kicked one into a goal, never ran wild outside just for fun. They are not worn out from sports or play, but from quiet waiting, from standing still when they want to move, from walking carefully through a world that doesn’t always feel safe.

Do I love sports? Yes, though my feet have never felt the thrill of sprinting after a ball, my heart has always longed for it. My feet have never known the joy of a game, not because they couldn’t, but because they were told they shouldn’t. In my culture, if my feet had ever touched a ball, it would be called shameful.

Yet, these feet are strong. They have carried the weight of silence and of dreams unspoken. They have walked paths many will never understand. And even if they’ve never touched a ball, they still carry me forward, towards a future where maybe, just maybe, no girl will be told what her feet cannot do.

I am not a footballer, and I will never be one. But now, I live outside Afghanistan, and the future I am walking toward seems clearer. I will work to change the world for girls. I want the next generation of Afghan girls and girls everywhere to never be told they cannot play just because of their gender.

Despite the fear and uncertainty of leaving my homeland, I have the courage to start over. Now, these feet carry me forward on a path of change, towards a world where every girl can run freely, chase her dreams, and decide for herself what her feet can do.

******************
Beheshta Adel

Thin, long legs stand upon her two regular-sized feet, as gentle and grounded as the slender trunk of a young tree resting in its roots. Not swift or fierce enough to win a marathon—yet not frail enough to surrender halfway through. They carry her, steadily, faithfully. Always somewhere between strength and softness.

From the earliest days of childhood, these feet have refused stillness. Ever in motion—barefoot sprints under warm summer rains, quiet strolls through Kabul’s dusty alleys, spontaneous twirls to distant music, playful rides on her brother’s rusted bicycle, or simple, quiet shifts while waiting in a line at the bakery.
Her mother says they never stopped kicking, even in the womb—as if impatient to enter the world, eager to move, to dance, to run.

They’re most comfortable unclothed, or wrapped in loose, flowing trousers that kiss the ankles and let them breathe. Tightness—whether in fabric or feeling—has never suited them.

These feet, with the quiet strength of her legs, have carried her through more than just places. They’ve fled border guards under moonless skies, stood for hours behind shop counters, walked unfamiliar roads toward unfamiliar futures.
But even in hardship, they never missed the poetry of small joys—pressing bare soles into dew-soaked grass, leaping without thought onto a sun-warmed bed, tiptoeing across cool tiles on a summer night.

They are not just limbs—they are memory keepers. They hold the weight of her journey, the rhythm of her laughter, the traces of places she’s called home.