The first time I saw my mother cry, I was too young to understand why. I just knew something had been taken from her, something invisible but meaningful.
It was her freedom.
March is Women’s History Month, a time to celebrate how far women have come. But for Afghan women, it’s just another painful reminder of what they’ve lost. Their dreams didn’t fade away, they were stolen. And the world has moved on.
“We are a generation of lost dreams,” my mother once told me, her voice was soft but heavy with sorrow.
Before the Taliban took over — first in 1996, then again in 2021 — Afghan women were writing the history. They were doctors, teachers, journalists and politicians. My mother dreamed of being one of them, working in government and advocating for women’s rights. But at 14, she was married off, forced to abandon her education and expected to play the role assigned to her.
Now, she gave me the life she could only dream of. I’m in college, majoring in political science. I get to study, write and speak up. But every day, I think about the women back home who don’t have that choice.
I think about my friends back home — girls just like me — who had big dreams, girls who wanted to change history. They made it to the eighth grade. Then the Taliban came back. Schools shut down. Books were taken away. And just like that, their futures disappeared.
One day, I confided in my friend Parwana about how exhausted I was from studying, how overwhelming it could be. She looked at me and said, “I wish I had that opportunity. I wish I could finish high school.”
Her words haunt me. It’s easy to take education for granted when it’s something you’re allowed to have. For Afghan girls, education is not just a right they don’t have, it is a dream they are not permitted to chase, it’s a fight they’re not allowed to win.
According to Human Rights Watch, the Taliban has banned girls from secondary schools and universities. Women are also being pushed out of jobs and public spaces, forced to stay home unless they have a male guardian.
The message is clear: Women don’t belong in society.
A lack of access to education is only one part of oppression. Afghan women live in constant fear. The Taliban isn’t just banning them from schools, they’re controlling every part of their lives. They can’t travel alone. Speaking out comes at a cost. If they protest, they’re arrested. If they disobey, they disappear.
And then, there’s the unspoken horror, rape and forced marriage. The United Nations has documented cases of girls as young as 12 being taken as “wives” for the Mujahideen. Women who dare to resist are taken, abused and silenced. But no one talks about them. Fear keeps women quiet.
These stories no longer make headlines as they should.
Every time I think about it, a heavy sadness fills my heart. I sit in classrooms, surrounded by the freedom to learn, to speak, to grow. I can voice my thoughts, chase my dreams and live a life shaped by my choices. But then I think of the girls in Afghanistan. Girls just like me, who once had the same hope in their eyes, the same curiosity, the same desire to learn, but their lives are confined, their voices silenced. They wake up each day knowing that their dreams are unreachable. And I, living a life of opportunity, cannot forget them. It breaks my heart, and yet, I know I can’t be silent. I will speak for them again and again, telling their stories 100 times over, sharing their pain. I refuse to move on while they remain trapped in silence.
When the Taliban took over in 2021, the world reacted. There were protests, international condemnations and promises of support. But now? The world has moved on. Afghan women are still fighting, but they are fighting alone.
People say they care, but care is easy when it costs nothing. They post about women’s rights, but not about Afghan women. They speak of injustice, but not ours. The world moves forward, and we are left behind, unseen, unheard and slowly erased. Is this what solidarity looks like?
Women’s History Month shouldn’t just be about celebrating. It should be about stepping up and fighting for the women who still don’t have basic rights.
As individuals, we need to listen. We need to speak up. We need to make sure Afghan women aren’t forgotten.
“I had dreams once, but dreams don’t survive in a cage,” my mother told me.
She never got her chance. And every day, millions of Afghan women wake up to the same fate, silenced before they can speak, erased before they can dream. The world moves on. The headlines fade. But their suffering does not.
One day, history will ask: Who spoke? Who listened? And who chose to look away?
