شریک سازید:

Four stories of Afghan schoolgirls whose lives were torn apart by a single explosion

On a spring afternoon in May 2021, the dismissal bell rang at a girls’ school in western Kabul. Dozens of students streamed out, their schoolbags bouncing, their laughter echoing in the air. A moment later, a deafening explosion turned their joy into screams, their dreams into smoke.

This is the story of four girls who survived — but never returned to the lives they once knew.

Beheshta, 20 – "Something inside me died"

Beheshta was just 16 when her ordinary school day turned into a blood-soaked nightmare. Though her body healed, her soul remains trapped in that moment.

> “I remember holding my best friend's hand as we laughed about a teacher's joke. Her laughter still echoes in my ears. And then — the blast.
Everything turned black. Smoke, screams, blood.
When I woke up, I was surrounded by pieces of uniforms, flesh, and silence.
My friend — the one whose hand I was holding — she was gone.
I’m still alive, but something in me died that day.
I look in the mirror now and see a girl who has cried a thousand times and is still standing. But she’s not the same girl who once dreamed of becoming a doctor.”

Nadia, 19 – "My sister’s notebook is all I have left"

Nadia wasn’t alone when she walked out of school that day — her younger sister was beside her. Only one of them came home.

> “I was a step ahead of her. Just a step.
That one step is the line between life and death in my story.
After the blast, I searched for her. I screamed her name. What I found was a shoe, her scarf, and pieces of her notebook.
That notebook… I carry it with me everywhere. On the last page, she had written: ‘Life is hard, but we are stronger.’
I haven’t been able to return to school since. I still wear her uniform sometimes, just to feel close to her.
Every time I walk past our school, my legs tremble — not because of fear, but because of the emptiness she left behind.”

Fereshta, 21 – "A prosthetic foot, but a living voice"

Fereshta’s physical injury is visible: she lost her leg. But what can’t be seen is the resilience she rebuilt from the ashes.

> “They took my leg, but not my will. I was in the hospital for months, learning to walk again with a prosthetic foot.
Every step I take now reminds me of the ones I took with my friends — girls who never got to take another.
So I write. I write for them, and for myself.
My blog is my battlefield. I want the world to know that we are more than victims — we are witnesses.
If I stay silent, who will speak for those who can’t anymore?”

Raihana, 18 – "The girl who never spoke again"

Raihana has not spoken a single word since the explosion. Her silence is deeper than grief — it is a monument to trauma.

> Her mother says:
“My daughter used to talk non-stop — about her books, her friends, her dreams. Now, nothing.
After that day, she shut down. She hasn’t said a word in four years. She just draws.
Her drawings are terrifying. Girls running in fire. Faces without eyes. Blood on textbooks.
I’ve tried everything — doctors, prayers, medicine.
But sometimes I wonder: what words could she possibly find, to describe what she saw?”

Conclusion:

These are only four out of hundreds of stories — many untold, many erased from headlines and records. The wounds from that day were not just physical; they pierced the soul of an entire generation. These girls didn’t ask for much — just to return home and have iftar with their families. But many never made it home. Those who did, live with pain that words can hardly carry.

The names in this story have been changed for security reasons.
This report was written by Sahar Bayat.