Five Years Waiting for a Door to Open

The last day I went to school, I thought it was the first day of my future.

I put on my school uniform with excitement. I gathered my books and even took all the pens I loved with me. That day, girls across Afghanistan were taking their Grade 12 examinations, and I thought I was beginning the final stage of school—the first step toward university. 

I did not know that the things I carried with me that day would one day become memories of a life that had been put on hold for five years.

I am a 22-year-old girl from Jaghori District in Afghanistan. Five years ago, I was in Grade 12. If my life had followed the plan I had imagined, I would now be in the final years of university, perhaps preparing to graduate. 

Instead, what I thought would be the beginning of a bright future became the beginning of five years of waiting.

When the Taliban returned to power, I did not initially think it would completely change my life or my education. Schools had been temporarily closed, and I still hoped they would reopen. I thought the restrictions would be temporary and that soon we would return to our classrooms. 

Gradually, however, I realized that the waiting would last much longer than I had imagined.

One of the most painful moments came when my brother, who was in the same grade as me, went to Kabul to prepare for the university entrance examination, while I stayed at home. That day, I cried. For a few hours, I felt completely hopeless. At the time, there were reports of girls going missing, and my family was afraid for my safety. They did not allow me to go out.

Then, a few days later, I heard news that brought hope back into my heart: girls would be allowed to register for the university entrance examination. 

My father heard the news before I did. He contacted my school, and my name was registered as the first student. When my father told me, I was so happy. I thought there was still a way forward. I did not need to travel to Kabul. I could study here, prepare for the examination, and take it.

Then the day of the examination came. 

My brother went to Ghazni to take the exam. I stayed at home. 

Until a few hours before the examination began, I still had hope. But when the exam started and I was not there, something inside me changed. 

That day, I did not simply miss an examination. For the first time, I felt that I might be losing the future I had spent years dreaming about.

I remember thinking: If I am not allowed to take an exam today, perhaps tomorrow I will not be allowed to work. If I cannot leave home freely to pursue my education today, perhaps one day I will not even be able to make decisions about building an independent life for myself. 

Five years have passed, and I am still waiting.

For five years, I have been waiting for the doors of schools and universities to open again for girls like me. Five years is a long time for a young person. During those years, many people my age started university, some graduated, and others began their professional lives. I, however, have been trying to continue a path that was interrupted five years ago.

Still, my family never allowed me to lose hope completely. They always told me that this situation would not last forever. They encouraged me to look for scholarships abroad or find a way to continue my education online. 

So I tried. 

The first year, I applied to a university in Turkey, but things did not work out. I waited another year. Eventually, I began looking for an online university, and I was finally able to return to my education through online learning.

Today, I study Computer Science. 

The first day I entered my online university, I felt something difficult to describe. On one hand, I was very happy. I was finally a student again. After years of waiting, I had regained a part of my future. 

But alongside that happiness was a strange sadness.

I had always imagined that one day I would get ready for university in the morning, put on my clothes, take my books, and leave home excited to attend class. The simple act of getting ready to go to university, with all the excitement that comes with it, was part of my dream. 

But my first university was a screen on a computer. 

I was happy that I could study again, but deep inside I knew that I still had not experienced the university life I had always imagined. 

Even so, that small screen meant something enormous to me:

I was still moving forward.

I chose Computer Science because I am interested in technology and the digital world. I believe technology can make people’s lives easier and create opportunities for progress. I know that Afghanistan still has limited access to many technological resources, but even under these circumstances, technology has become a window to the world for me. 

When the doors of a physical classroom closed, an online classroom gave me a way to keep learning.

The journey has not been easy. Resources are limited, and reliable internet access is not always available. But these years have taught me that sometimes you do not need to have everything you need in order to continue. Sometimes, you simply need to refuse to let your hope disappear completely.

Before the Taliban returned to power, I imagined my future differently. Girls living far from educational centers could travel to cities such as Kabul to learn languages, study computers, and continue their education. Families made plans for their daughters’ futures, and girls worked toward their dreams. 

Today, life is much more difficult for many girls. The restrictions do not stop at schools and universities. Safety, movement, employment, and independence have also been affected. 

That is why I sometimes think that what happened did not only change the future of one girl or one family. It affected the future of an entire generation.

Despite everything, I still want to continue. 

Five years of waiting have taught me that having dreams is still worthwhile, even when reaching them becomes difficult. 

I still want to earn my bachelor’s degree. I want to pursue a master’s degree, have a career, become independent, and live in a safe environment—a place where I do not wake up every day afraid or worried about my future.

Sometimes, I look at my old schoolbooks. 

I still have my school uniform. I have kept my notebooks and my pens too. To someone else, they might look like nothing more than old school supplies. To me, each one is a piece of a life that suddenly stopped. 

They remind me of the girl who, five years ago, put on her uniform with excitement, picked up her books, and believed that her future was beginning that day. 

That girl is still here. 

She is simply five years older. 

She is still studying. She is still dreaming. And she is still waiting. 

But this time, she is not only waiting for the school doors to open. 

She has found another door—a door called education, technology, and hope. 

People may close doors in front of you, but as long as you keep searching for another way forward, your story is not over.