Writings From EmpowerHer | Part 2

In another time, I was… 

By: Suhaila N

Amid heavy worries and weary from the restrictions of our time, I sit by the window of my room, lost in thoughts about my country. A country whose history fills me with pride. Why is it like this that every time we’ve moved to a better future, we’ve been met with invasion?

Even now in our era, women and girls have become victims of politics, not having access to their most basic rights. The rain taps against the window and pulls me out of my thoughts. I move toward my bed and decide to sleep, but when I shut my eyes, I came up with a question in my mind: What if I lived in another era, like the past times?

My mind becomes restless, but I try to fall asleep. After a while, when I open my eyes, I find myself not in my bedroom instead I‘m in the ancient city of Bagram in Afghanistan.

It’s late afternoon, and the air is very beautiful. I ask myself: How did I get here? I was just resting in my room.

Looking around, I see people dressed in strange old-fashioned clothes. Most of the men were wearing Turbans, and women were wearing colorful, patterned clothes with beautiful jewelry. Some wore even more luxurious clothes, clearly showing themselves as people of high social status, perhaps.

The air was cool and calm, and as I walked slowly into the city, I looked at myself and saw that I was wearing a soft, thin silk cloth with an earthy tone, and my shoes were made of old-style leather. I am completely amazed as I glance around at vendors in the

The marketplace is creating a lively noise, and the smell of freshly baked bread fills the air. 

I walk along a stony street lined with tall trees and buildings with strange, ancient architecture. In my hand, I hold a scroll of paper rolled tightly like a scroll from the past.

Just as I want to open it, someone appears in front of me, an old man dressed in semi-religious clothing with a long white turban wrapped around his head.

With a smile, he says to me: The master has been waiting for you. You are late. The court assembly will begin in an hour.

I look at him in surprise, but somehow I feel that I should follow him. Without thinking, my foot began to move and I walked behind him for a while.

Eventually, we enter a large courtyard with a stone-paved walkway. Inside the courtyard, orange trees, apple trees, and grapevines cast pleasant shade. What caught my attention were the most colorful and beautiful flowers that were in abundance in the garden. Soon we pass into another courtyard where a tall, grand palace stands. We enter, and I find myself in a brightly lit hall, wide and majestic.

The Kushan king is seated on his throne, surrounded by elders and noblemen. A number of others are present too, including many women who stand or sit gracefully around the hall.

The old man introduces me to one of the dignitaries, and the man offers me a seat beside him. He looks at me with a gentle smile and says: Your arrival was foretold. You came from the future to teach us what we have not yet learned and to learn from us what has been forgotten in your time.

The master gazes at me deeply and continues: My student, today is your turn to write a legend, one that will live in the heart of history. He gestures toward the scroll in my hand. My heart fills with anxiety, but something in his confident talk makes me feel that I have an important mission, something more than a responsibility.

In the great hall, I hear the footsteps of guards coming. They bring ink and a pen, putting them in front of me. All eyes are looking at me, and the master in a calm voice says: Write what you have seen in your world. Let everyone here know that. Despite the stress and anxiety I was feeling at the moment, my mind came to images of libraries, cars, machines, skyscrapers, and modern technology. The talking in the hall became

I feel a mix of pride and fear, silent and unspoken.

Suddenly, memories of Afghan girls in my own time come through my mind, the limitations they face, and how they are deprived of their most basic rights simply because of their gender. I think of their resistance to injustice, their courage to learn, their bravery to stand for their rights, and to raise their voices against the restrictions that they are facing. And here in this ancient place, scholars, elders, and even the king himself have gathered to hear my story as a girl, and they honor it. When I pick up the pen, I don’t write about technology or scientific advancement; instead, I write about a mother teaching her child at home… about a girl who chooses the pen over the sword… about the women who, from faraway, become each other’s strength and break through barriers like heroes. I write about a woman who stands beside men in politics and art.

When my writing is finished and I put the pen down, I see the master looking proud at me. Then I hear the voice of the Kushan King: These words must be carved into our stone walls, so that history will never forget them. 

One of the elders rises with pride and says: If our women had been like this, our history would have been even brighter.

I reply softly: Your women are like this. Perhaps they were not heard, but I came to carry their voices!

Inside the gathering, I was introduced by my teacher to several remarkable women of the Kushani time. One of them was the Royal artist of the Kushan court. She was responsible for creating cultural and artistic status in Bamiyan.

Another was a writer whose great literary works were collected in the royal archives.

One of them was an advisor to the King who had a great role in the internal and defensive works of the empire. By seeing such strengths and power, I couldn’t help but

wonder: What if today also, women were like this, given respect, space, and leadership?

These women taught me that a woman’s courage is not in the sword, but in her faith and belief in herself. I learned that this journey is not meaningless; perhaps it 

was a gift of wisdom, one I could carry with me to keep my hope alive. I learned that we must know who we are and why we are here.

A moment later, my eyes were covered with a bright light. When I completely opened my eyes, I found myself back in my room. The writings were beside me, and I was deep in thought. I had just returned from a journey I had never imagined, maybe the most

An important and powerful lesson I have ever learned.

Now I feel it in my heart: I and all of the Afghan girls in my era are the girls of the future, with a pen in their hands, ready to start their dreams. From this moment forward, I will write so that one day history will remember the stories of our women and girls, and the world will read them. And maybe this will be my lasting source of strength, to never give up, to always keep going, and for all girls to become each other’s strength and unity.

Her story is now History…

A Bridge Between Two Worlds

By Zahra A

It was night. The electricity had gone out. The house was filled with darkness, and only

the ticking of the clock could be heard. I lit a candle. Its light danced on the wall and

brought the shadows to life to me.

A book was resting on my knees, but I was no longer reading. My eyes slowly became

heavy and then closed. I don’t know how much time passed, but suddenly, I found myself in a place that looked nothing like our world. The streets were bright and silent, yet full of life. The smell of flowers filled the alleys and the air. People passed by each other with smiles, without reason, but truly real.

I saw a woman holding her child in her arms. The child was asleep, calm and innocent,

with a face that looked like morning. The mother was quietly singing a lullaby, and her

The voice had warmed the entire street. A few steps ahead, a man was holding his little daughter’s hand. They walked together, laughed, and danced for no reason at all. In that peaceful place, an old woman was sitting at her doorway. She held a small teapot in her hand and, with a gentle smile, poured tea for the people passing by. When her eyes met mine, she reached out her shaky hand and poured a cup of tea for me too, a cup filled with kindness, not just tea.

A little farther away, under the shade of a tree, an old man was sitting. Several children had gathered around him. He was telling them stories, Stories from a time when houses had no locks, when walls were shorter than people’s hearts, and when war existed only in books. I sat next to him. I asked him to tell one of those stories to me as well.

He looked at me and smiled. Just as he was about to speak, a strange, unclear sound reached my ears from far away.

A sound not from that world, and not from ours. Something was beginning to change. Something cold touched my face. My eyelids moved. I opened my eyes.

The room was dark. The candle had gone out, and the book had slipped from my knees to the floor. That world, that sweet dream, was gone. Reality had returned. I remembered where I was, in a world where the cries of children in the streets are louder than the lullabies of mothers. Where a silent drone can erase a mother from life, a mother who, just moments before, might have been smiling.

The father, who, in my dream, was full of love and hope, in this world, he stands behind a silent wall, his throat was tight with tears, staring at the emptiness in his hands.

I stood up and walked toward the window, and opened it. The night air was heavy. But in the heart of that darkness, a small star was shining. Not bright but alive. Right there, in the silence of the room and the cold of the night, I thought to myself: If I could weave that kind of world in my dream, perhaps we can wake up the real world, too. 

Not with miracles. Not with empty promises. But with words, with voices, with a light that even a candle is born from. I made a decision, not to run away from reality, not to bury myself in dreams, but to stand, awake, on the edge between sleep and reality, and build a bridge from what I saw to what must become real.

Maybe one day, a child who cries today will smile because of the story of this very night.