Every morning, the young men of my country pass by my window, their backpacks filled with the promise of tomorrow. As I watch them, I feel as though someone is quietly tearing pages from the unwritten book of my life.
I, too, once built a city of light in my mind for this homeland. I longed to pour fresh hope into the exhausted veins of this earth. Instead, for years now, I have been melting away inside these silent walls like a candle burning in broad daylight—extinguishing without anyone ever noticing the spark was gone.
It is a profound anguish to watch the world move forward for others while you remain trapped in a closed chapter of time. Sometimes I think we, the women of Afghanistan, are the only people on earth forced to attend the funerals of our own dreams long before we die.
June 16, 2026
By Touba Azizi