We had been living outside of Herat in the house my father built for only a few months when the Taliban took control.
A few months after we arrived, on a night filled with fear and gunfire, the Taliban reached Herat. From our house, we could see the hills where Ismail Khan’s forces were fighting the Taliban.
I sit at the corner of my room
Staring at my pale chicken soup
My books scattered around me
“Women are like a jar of honey, the jar should be always closed; otherwise men, who are like flies, will gather around the honey,” the man tells me.
I felt a rebellious energy inside me. I pulled back my hand with strength. I stood, without any thought and fear, and I cried, “I want to get off.”
In one corner of the street there was a row of horse-carts, all lined up, ready to load the passengers. The carts were colorful and decorated with flowers.
We ask for equality and they
call us impious, deviant.
If someone insults Prophet Muhammad, Muslims have the right to protest peacefully and voice their objections.
I sometimes ask myself why Sumaya didn’t speak up. Why did she agree to her father’s oath that she would never marry? Why did she continue that life of misery? How can this delicate membrane in a girl’s body change her life?