Shadows in Kabul and stolen dreams!

Shadows in Kabul and stolen dreams!

Frishta Kargar

Roya stood by the small, cracked window of their Kabul home, staring out into the dimly lit street below.

The familiar sounds of the city were different now — quieter, haunted. Kabul, once so vibrant with life, now felt like a city under siege by fear and uncertainty. The walls of her home felt more like a prison, but it was all Roya had left to shelter her family.

Before three years, Roya had a high-ranking position in the Afghan government. She had worked as a senior advisor in the Ministry of Women’s Affairs, a job that had taken her years to earn.

Roya had been a voice for women’s rights, advocating for education, health care, and legal protections for women across Afghanistan. She had believed in the progress the country was making, slowly but surely, toward a brighter future for women and girls.

She had sat in high-level meetings, advising policymakers on how to build a better society, speaking on behalf of those who often went unheard.

But that world had vanished overnight when the Taliban took control of Afghanistan. Roya’s office was immediately shut down, her colleagues scattered, and her position erased. The work she had dedicated her life to was outlawed, dismissed as irrelevant by a regime that saw women as second-class citizens.

Roya had gone from being a respected government official to just another invisible woman under Taliban rule. Her husband, Hamid, had died six years ago in a traffic accident, leaving Roya as the sole provider for their four children.

In the years since his death, Roya had taken on the burden of both mother and father. She had worked tirelessly to provide for her daughters and son, and her only wish was for them to receive the education she never had.

Roya had gone from being a respected government official to just another invisible woman under Taliban rule. Her husband, Hamid, had died six years ago in a traffic accident, leaving Roya as the sole provider for their four children. In the years since his death, Roya had taken on the burden of both mother and father. She had worked tirelessly to provide for her daughters and son, and her only wish was for them to receive the education she never had.

But now, even that dream was slipping away from her. Her oldest daughter, Negina, was 21 years old. Negina had been a bright student with a fierce determination to succeed. She had spent years studying for the Kankor exam, the gruelling university entrance exam, and passed with high marks. Her goal had been to study Computer Science at Kabul University, a dream Roya had proudly supported. But with the Taliban’s rise to power, those dreams had been shattered.

Negina, like so many young women, was barred from attending university. The pain in her eyes cut through Roya like a knife. “Mother,” Negina’s soft voice broke through Roya’s thoughts. Roya turned from the window to see Negina standing in the doorway. Her daughter’s once-vibrant eyes had lost their light, and her shoulders sagged with the weight of stolen dreams.

“Do you need anything from the market?” Negina asked, her voice steady but hollow. She had taken on more responsibilities since Roya had lost her job, often braving the dangerous streets to buy food and supplies. Roya shook her head gently. “No, my dear. Sit with me a moment.” Negina nodded and came to sit beside her mother. Roya reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. She could feel Negina’s quiet despair, a reflection of the loss of freedom and future that now defined their lives.

In the other room, Roya’s 12-year-old daughter, Zayneb, sat cross-legged on the floor beside her younger brother, Mohammad. The two of them were poring over a small stack of schoolbooks, the remnants of Roya’s teaching days. Zayneb had always been the curious one, full of questions and an insatiable desire to learn. Mohammad, just 10 years old, had a sharp mind that Roya could already see would grow into something brilliant—if only the world would allow him the chance.

“Zayneb,” Roya called softly as she entered the room. “What are you studying?” Zayneb looked up, her young face lit with determination despite the circumstances. “I’m reading the history book, Mother. Mohammad is helping me. I miss school so much… I miss my teachers and my friends.” Roya felt a lump rise in her throat.

Zayneb had been in the sixth-grade last year, and she had loved school more than anything. But the Taliban had banned girls’ education beyond elementary school, and Roya’s heart broke knowing that her youngest daughter’s love for learning would soon be stifled by ignorance and oppression.

“Mother,” Zayneb continued, her voice faltering. “Will I be able to go back to school next year?” Roya knelt beside her daughter, pulling her into a tight embrace. She wanted so desperately to promise Zayneb that things would change, that she would once again sit in a classroom surrounded by books and possibility. But Roya knew that it was a promise she couldn’t keep.

“I don’t know, my love,” Roya said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “But I will teach you here as best as I can. You and Mohammad. You must never stop learning, no matter what happens.” Zayneb buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, and Roya held her close, feeling the weight of her daughter’s lost future like a stone in her chest.

Frozan, Roya’s middle daughter, entered the room quietly, her steps soft and cautious. At 17, Frozan had been in the eighth grade when the Taliban had taken over. She had always been a quiet girl, more introverted than her sisters, but smart and capable. Since the schools had closed, Frozan had found work as a seamstress, sewing clothes for meagre pay. The work was hard on her hands, and her once-delicate fingers had become calloused from the hours spent stitching fabric in silence.

“I brought some money, Mother,” Frozan said, setting a small handful of bills on the table. Roya smiled at her daughter, grateful but filled with sadness at the sight of Frozan working so hard when she should be studying, dreaming, living. “Thank you, Frozan,” Roya said, reaching out to squeeze her daughter’s hand. Frozan returned the gesture with a small smile, though Roya could see the exhaustion in her eyes.

The burdens of life were too heavy for one so young, but there was no other choice. As the evening grew darker, the family gathered around their small dinner table for a simple meal of rice and beans.

Roya looked at her children—Negina, once so full of promise, now trapped in a world that wouldn’t allow her to pursue her dreams; Frozan, resigned to a life of labor without the education she deserved; Zayneb, desperate for knowledge that the world was denying her; and Mohammad, who was still too young to fully understand the injustice around him, but who could feel the weight of it nonetheless.

Roya felt the absence of her husband deeply in these moments. Hamid had been her partner, her anchor. Together, they had dreamed of a better life for their children, and Hamid had always believed in the power of education to change their lives. Now, Roya was left alone to carry the weight of those dreams, even as they crumbled around her.

As Roya rose to clear the table, she heard a soft cough from the corner of the room. There, in a small bed covered with old, worn blankets, lay Hamid’s mother, Khadija. Roya’s mother-in-law had lived with them since Hamid’s death. At 78, Khadija’s body was frail, her joints stiff with arthritis, and her health was in steady decline. Roya had become her caretaker, a role that added yet another layer of responsibility to Roya’s already heavy burden.

Khadija had once been a strong woman, a matriarch of the family who had survived the Soviet occupation, the civil wars, and the first Taliban regime. But now, she spent most of her days in bed, too weak to move on her own. Roya tended to her needs—preparing her meals, helping her bathe, giving her medicine when they could afford it. Though the care was draining, Roya never complained. Khadija had been like a second mother to her after Hamid’s death, offering guidance and love during the darkest times.

“Mother, how are you feeling?” Roya asked gently, kneeling beside the old woman’s bed. Khadija smiled weakly, her eyes soft with the wisdom of age and the sorrow of a life filled with too much loss. “I am fine, child. Just a little tired.” “I’ll bring you some tea,” Roya said, standing up to fetch a small cup of the precious leaves they had managed to save.

Khadija’s hand reached out, grasping Roya’s wrist with surprising strength. “Thank you for everything you do, Roya,” she said softly. “I know it is hard. But you are strong. You always have been.” Roya felt tears sting her eyes, but she blinked them away, unwilling to show her weakness. “I am only strong because I have to be,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You are strong because it is who you are,” Khadija said, her voice filled with a quiet conviction that had carried her through years of hardship.

As Roya prepared the tea, she thought of the future, uncertain as it was. Her days had become a blur of survival—finding food, caring for her children, teaching them whatever she could from the old schoolbooks, tending to Khadija, and somehow trying to keep hope alive in a world that seemed intent on extinguishing it. The night was quiet, saved for the occasional distant sound of gunfire or shouting in the streets.

Roya tucked her children into bed, one by one, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. She lingered for a moment by the door, watching them sleep. In the darkness, Roya’s heart was heavy with grief for what had been taken from them. But even as she stood there, surrounded by shadows, she knew that she could not give up, let the darkness consume her entirely. The weight of the world bore down on Roya’s shoulders, but she stood strong, a pillar of resilience in a land crumbling under oppression. She moved silently through the dim house, her footsteps light as she returned to Khadija’s bedside, holding the small cup of tea with careful hands.

As she helped the old woman drink, Khadija’s eyes searched Roya’s face, and in them, Roya saw something she hadn’t felt in a long time—pride. Khadija’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “You are the legacy of our people, Roya. No matter what happens in this world, remember that. You carry the strength of generations in your blood.” Roya bowed her head slightly, taking in her mother-in-law’s words. It wasn’t just survival anymore—it was defiance.

Roya realized that even in the darkest of times, their existence, their love, and their continued fight for dignity were a rebellion against those who sought to erase them. Every lesson she gave her children, every meal she prepared, every quiet prayer she whispered was an act of resistance.

She sat by Khadija’s side for a long time, the two women sharing the silent understanding that some battles were fought not with weapons, but with willpower, endurance, and the quiet nurturing of hope. The older woman drifted to sleep eventually, and Roya rose once again, this time to face the small window she had stood by earlier in the day.

The night outside was pitch black, Kabul’s once lively streets now eerie and hollow. But as Roya looked closer, she saw something she hadn’t noticed before—small flickers of light, distant but persistent, peeking out from behind curtains, rooftops, and cracks in doorways. Candles. Lanterns. Small fires.

Roya stood in silent awe. It was as if the city, too, had refused to give in to the darkness. Despite the fear, despite the oppression, despite the crushing weight of their collective grief, people were still keeping their light alive, however small and fragile it might be.

Roya smiled faintly, the sight renewing something deep within her that had long felt depleted. Kabul, even under siege, still held onto its soul. She turned from the window and walked back to her children’s room. Zayneb stirred in her sleep, murmuring quietly about school, her small body restless even in dreams. Roya knelt beside her, brushing a hand through her daughter’s hair. Frozan and Mohammad lay peacefully in their beds, unaware of the weight their mother carried, but Roya knew they trusted her to carry it.

As she stood, Roya felt a new determination rising within her. Her dreams for her children had been stolen, their futures rewritten by the cruel hand of tyranny, but she would not let them go without a fight. She would continue to teach them, to shelter them, and to remind them of their worth—every single day. And one day, perhaps, when the world finally opened its eyes again, when the shadows receded, her children would be ready to step into the light with their heads held high.

The stolen dreams had left scars, but Roya knew that as long as she was still standing, there was still a chance for new ones to be born. She whispered into the darkness, her voice filled with quiet defiance, “We are not done yet.” And as she closed her eyes that night, surrounded by the quiet breaths of her children and the distant flickers of Kabul’s undying light, Roya clung to the promise of hope—fragile, yet enduring—just as she always had. 

Frishta Kargar is living in Poland and she is the correspondent of Mahabahu

Mahabahu.com is an Online Magazine with collection of premium Assamese and English articles and posts with cultural base and modern thinking.  You can send your articles to editor@mahabahu.com / editor@mahabahoo.com (For Assamese article, Unicode font is necessary) Images from different sources.