My name is Shakila. I’m from Afghanistan, a land once full of dreams, now filled with silence and sorrow. A country where a passport carries no weight, where hope has faded, and where women are no longer allowed to learn, to work, or even to live freely. Sometimes I still cannot understand how everything collapsed so quickly. how life turned into something unrecognizable overnight.
I married Hasan, the man I loved with all my heart. In five years of marriage, we never argued, not once. We understood each other in ways that words cannot explain. Being apart, even for a moment, felt unbearable. Hasan was a university professor, respected, admired, and full of purpose. I was proud of him. I built my own path too, studying at a beauty academy, earning my certificate, and working in a salon. Life, despite everything around us, was still beautiful but fear slowly crept in. In late July 2021 we began hearing whispers of the Taliban’s return… city by city, closer and closer. Hasan had once worked with foreign forces, and that shadow followed us. We begged him to leave the country to be safe. But he loved his country too much. He didn’t want to leave us behind.
Because of Taliban checkpoints, he couldn’t travel by road to Kabul, He booked a flight to Kabul but his flight was canceled again and again. Finally, on August 1st, 2021, Hasan left Herat for Kabul. That day… something inside me broke. It felt like my soul left my body. Like Saadi once said, “They speak of the soul leaving the body in many ways; I saw it with my own eyes.”
August 1st was my black day.
August 1st was my black day.
The day Kabul fell, everything ended. Chaos, fear, desperation. Airports closed, roads blocked, hope vanished. I was trapped in Herat, and Hasan was in Kabul. We spoke through calls—his voice my only connection to life—but even he was lost in the crowd of thousands trying to escape. Every attempt he made to reach the airport ended in failure.
And I… I couldn’t go to him. A woman alone cannot travel. Not in that world.
On August 26th, Hasan finally escaped—first to Kuwait, then to the United States. And I was left behind.
Today is September 4th, 2025., five years have passed and I no longer wait with hope… only with emptiness.
After the Taliban returned, beauty salons were shut down. My work disappeared overnight. Schools closed. Women were erased from society. We became prisoners in our own homes. Now, even stepping outside now requires a male guardian, a husband, a brother, or a father. And for a woman who stands alone, it feels as though life itself has been taken away.
There is no future here. No path forward. No reunion.
At first, I waited for Hasan. I believed in his promise, that he would bring me to him soon. But “soon” became months… then years. And now, I don’t know what to believe anymore.
Maybe in a different world, surrounded by freedom and new faces, he has already forgotten me… or found someone else.
I don’t even recognize my own thoughts anymore.
I feel like I am no longer alive.
Just a body remains.
My emotions have dried up. My pride has faded. Even if tomorrow they say women can study again, work again, live again… I don’t think it would change anything for me.
I have lived in this darkness for too long.
And now… I have learned how to exist without hope.
