From Kabul to the World | Column 2

'The Day, We Lost Our Sky'

Let’s go back four years.

My name is Zarghona, a medical student in Kabul university. I’m on my way to the university, worried because exams are close, and I must study harder. After all, I’m supposed to become a doctor one day. 

Zahra, today you have an important meeting ahead, as the head of your office, everyone is waiting for your presentation. 

Aryana the famous singer of Afghanistan is busy managing her clothing brand in Kabul. 

And, Amina, why don’t you want to go to school? “I’m tired of waking up every morning” she says,” I just want to sleep” but I have to go, because I’m the hope of my parents. 

I’m Wahid, a journalist at TOLO NEWS. My mission has always been to deliver true news to the people. Lately, there are rumors that the Taliban might soon take power over Afghanistan. But the fall of this country will not be easy…

Suddenly everything takes me back to August 15, a day that left a deep pain in every Afghan’s heart. The TV’s were on and the voice of Wahid Omar echoed across the screen. “Attention to breaking news: two sources have confirmed to TOLO NEWS that president Ashraf Ghani has fled the country.” 

A strange wave of fear covered the nation. Panic, despair, helplessness but above all, the fear of losing a future that might never come.it did not take long before Kabul, with its all beauty was back to the shadow of Taliban. What happened to Zerghonas? No more white coats, no more exams and no more dreams of being a doctor. What happened to Zahra who once managed groups of men in offices? Now they are the ones being controlled by men. What happened to Aryana Sayeed, the singer who stayed in Kabul? And what about Amina, who once wished for just one morning of extra sleep? She never imagined that her wish would turn into more than a thousand mornings away from school. The whole nation had only one hope; maybe one escape, maybe a small light of survival. Thousands of men, women, and children rushed toward Kabul airport, hoping to leave the country on American planes. The chaos was so heavy that no one noticed the children lost in the crowd, the mothers separated from their babies. One of the saddest scenes in the world: three young men holding on to an airplane, fell from the sky. What did they want? Freedom. But the freedom they wanted ended in death. They wanted to fly away from oppression but they fell with broken dreams on the soil of the most injured homeland. Yes, some people escaped and reached safety. But Afghanistan remained full of talented girls who were left behind. They were not Aryana who had the chance to leave. They had no protectors, no supporters and no way out. Schools, universities, offices, all were closed for them. The image of women disappeared from public life as if they never existed. Yet we witnessed resistance, Afghan women stood on streets, raising their voices. They were silenced, beaten and some even paid the price with their dignity and lives. Afghanistan was once again injured, and this time the blood dripped from the eyes of its women. Now in August 2025, four years have passed since that dark day. Afghanistan is not moving forward, it's locked on time. Every new month is a repetition of that dark day. Schools remain closed for above six grades, the university which was once filled by young women is now guarded with men who decide who is worthy of knowledge. Many of my friends who once dreamed of careers in medicine, journalism and law are now sitting at home. Some have left the country, their dreams carried with them across borders. Others remain fighting in small ways, attending secret schools. 

As part of my monthly writing for Amplify Afghan Women, I find it impossible to separate my personal memory from my people’s memory. Each august returns heavier. When I sit in my university classroom in Pakistan, and watching books, teachers, I remember those girls who remained in Afghanistan, when I walk freely I imagine those who should cover their face and silence their voice. Three years ago the world watched Afghanistan fall on their television screens. But for us, especially Afghan women, August 15 is not history, it is our present. As I reflect on this august, I remember the girls in white medical coats, the women in offices, the laughter in classrooms. They are waiting, for a day the doors reopen, waiting for a day in August no longer be the symbol of loss but symbol of our resistance. 

Until then, we write, we resist, we remember.