Maryam Rozizada

Her heart trembled—but not the kind of trembling that comes from cold. It came from her mother’s voice, from a few simple words.

“My daughter, you must go to Jawzjan tomorrow. You have an exam. Will you go?”

Her heart fluttered like a leaf clinging to a branch, unsure whether to stay or fall. School had been closed for months. Corona had locked everything down, spreading a cold stillness through homes. But now, right in the middle of gunfire and the shadow of war, exams had returned.

Her mind told her not to go—it was too dangerous. But her heart said otherwise. She was one of those girls who looked at locked doors with hope, believing that one day, that very hope would become the key. She didn’t want to fall behind.

She replied, “I will go.”

She set out with two close friends. The car passed through alleys that smelled of frightened dust. Her city was no longer the same—every corner was drenched in the scent of fear and despair. They hadn’t gone far when the news came, the Taliban were near. Silence had fallen everywhere.

The three of them immediately pulled on their blue chadors. Not to hide—but to survive. Beneath that cloth, their breathing became louder. Their hearts beat like birds trapped in a cage. She closed her eyes, trying to quiet the tremors inside her.

When they reached the dormitory, where they were to stay for five nights, nothing felt familiar. The rooms were silent. The hallways were empty. Even footsteps seemed afraid to be heard. Everyone had scattered—many hadn’t come at all. Those who had were anxious and quiet.

At night, she studied to the sound of gunfire. Then she tried to sleep—if sleep ever came. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, her thoughts circling tomorrow. She sat beside her roommates and tried to focus, but her mind flew off with every explosion in the distance. In the mornings, her hands—cold like ice—turned the pages of her books. But each page seemed to whisper, “Is it worth it? Will I live to see the result of this exam?”

On the third day, during the exam, gunfire drew closer. Her hand trembled so much that her pencil shivered across the paper. She remembered her mother, and the promise she had made. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.” A silent prayer rose in her heart—so faint she could barely hear it herself. She filled the page—not only with answers, but with courage. But on the third day, everything changed.

That morning, she had gone out to the school garden. The birds were singing. The breeze drifted gently through the leaves. She sat with a book on her knees, under the soft morning sun. She just wanted to breathe for a moment—as if things were normal again. As if the only worry in the world was a grade. Then came the sound of war planes. The clear sky was suddenly carved by black metal. She closed her book.

An explosion echoed. Birds scattered. The sky swarmed with fighter jets, flying dangerously close. The girls screamed. One of her friends ran toward her, gasping for air ,“The fighting’s getting worse… If we don’t leave now, we might not get another chance to survive.” Her heart sank—not only from fear, but from a deep sense of helplessness. With trembling hands, she borrowed her teacher’s phone and called her mother. Her voice was stuck in her throat, but she managed to say,“We have to leave… now.”

As she stepped out of the dormitory, she stopped for a moment. Her eyes turned back to the school building—to the silent walls and windows that seemed to carry a thousand unspoken stories. The girls were parting one by one, without time for proper goodbyes. But she stayed, her eyes filled with tears, gazing at the courtyard where she once laughed, ran, and dreamed. She hugged her friend as if she were the last safe place in the world. “I don’t know if I’ll ever come back,” she whispered. Tears slipped down her face and fell on the soil that had once known her footsteps. She looked at the school one last time, as if trying to carve its face into her heart.

Zahra Amiri

For the last time, I looked around my room. It was time to say goodbye—goodbye to each of my potted plants, to the books I used to buy on Friday afternoons, and finally, to my little brother, who was sleeping in the corner of my bed. At two in the morning, for the last time, I said goodbye to my mother and walked through the wide streets lined with pine trees. There were no tears, no sighs, no cries. She knew I had to leave, and I knew there was no place left for me in Kabul. Kabul had grown too small for me. From the back window of the blue taxi, I watched that woman—the one who threw water after me.That woman, my mother, who had run her entire life but never reached her destination, saw me off with a splash of water.

For the first time, I saw the green plains of Jalalabad under the golden sunrise. I had never been able to explore this land. I had never taken my mother’s hand to show her the green mountains of Badakhshan, nor shown her the valleys of Nuristan. When we reached the border, it was shortly after morning had begun. Old and young, men and women, everyone stood in long lines with their heavy suitcases, waiting for their documents to be processed. I was afraid. My hands trembled. A boy, maybe fifteen, took my suitcase, stuffed with books and placed it on his small cart. He was the one who would get me past the Taliban. Apparently, the Pakistani driver had arranged for me to be brought to him. I didn’t know anything. I knew nothing. I was confused.

Some of you might still be asking, why was I leaving my homeland. Perhaps because, as a nineteen-year-old girl, I wanted to study. Perhaps because I, who dreamed of entering Oxford University, didn’t even have the right to attend school. Perhaps because I refused to bow down to the hardships placed in my path simply for being a girl.

The air was unbearably hot, but I was sweating not from the heat, but from stress. What if the Taliban realized I didn’t have a male guardian? What if they didn’t let me leave the country? What if… what if… an endless chain of “what ifs” roared in my mind, so loud that I didn’t even notice the Taliban officer staring at me and asking about my guardian. It was now or never.

I had to gather every drop of courage I had. I had to show the bravery I had inherited from my mother. Slowly, I wiped my hands on my black hijab so the officer wouldn’t see the sweat on my palms. I poured all my courage into my voice and eyes and said, “My brother is waiting for me on the other side of the border.”

I waited for him to ask, “Which brother? What is he doing there? Why are you going to him? Why are you crossing the border alone? What’s your brother’s name? Tell him to send his visa.”  I was ready for a flood of questions. But the middle-aged officer, with his long beard, simply said, “Go.” He said, “Go,” and I flew. He said, “Go,” and I felt as if God himself had signed the whole sky over to me. As if I had become the owner of this boundless sky. When the entry stamp slammed down on my passport, I couldn’t hold back. The tears came in waves. I cried and cried. Dragging my suitcase full of books through the soft, foreign soil, I wept—not from weakness, but from the sheer, aching weight of survival.

It took two hours before my feet touched the soft soil of Pakistan. I had expected to see orderly people, paved roads, and green trees. But on this side of the border, I saw nothing but men staring at me with curiosity. The teenage boy, still holding my suitcase, led me to a car. “This is it for the journey,” I told him. I paid him and looked at the driver. He was Afghan. He glanced at my suitcase and said, “No, it won’t fit. It’s too big. Either rent the whole car or sit here.” Where could I sit? Among men who looked no different from the Taliban? Men who devoured a girl whole with their eyes? The thought alone made me burst into tears. I cried uncontrollably. The driver took pity on me and lowered the fare by a few thousand rupees.

As we drove toward Islamabad, I realized I now had to be stronger than I had ever been before. Leaving behind my family and homeland, where I had laughed and cried, was not easy. Every moment, I miss the people who speak my language. But to fly, one must first leave the cage.