We were almost done with school when a Land Cruiser with UNAMA written on the sides drove up. I had a big smile on my face, because my mother was in that car. She got out with two of her colleagues. I stayed outside the principal’s room while she met with him. I usually waited for her while she met with the principal about their problems at school.
It took us eight hours to ride from Quetta, Pakistan to Kandahar, Afghanistan. On the way, there were many Afghan restaurants. I was asleep in the bus when my mother woke me.
“Yagana, aren’t you hungry or thirsty?”
I was really thirsty. “Can we get tea here?” I asked.
She said, “Yes, I am sure we can get it.”
It was a bright day; I was sitting alongside the window in the classroom. As the principal of the school entered the class, he began calling a few names, including mine, and asking us to leave the room. We were all scared, but we left the room and headed towards the yard of the school where another one-hundred girls from different schools were standing.
History is changed by the small actions of ordinary people. —Zahra A.
English
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