Sahar’s Story of the Last Bell That Never Rang
When the Taliban returned to Kabul, the first news that shook my heart was the closure of the girls’ school where I used to teach. I, Sahar, had spent eight years of my life within those four walls — a place that was not just my workplace, but my second home and my refuge. The day the principal, with a pale face, told me, “You are no longer allowed to teach,” I felt as though a part of my identity had been torn away.
In the beginning, I woke up each morning with hope that this decision might change. But weeks passed, and I was still sitting behind my window, hearing the laughter of children playing in the street, unaware of the storm raging inside me. My old books and notebooks still lay on the desk, as if waiting to be opened again.
Over time, I decided not to surrender to this darkness. I started a small class at home for the neighborhood girls. We have no chairs, we sit on the carpet, and the dim light of a single bulb is our only illumination. Yet every time one of my students smiles or learns something new, I feel like a teacher again. The Taliban may have closed the school doors, but they cannot extinguish the flame of learning in our hearts.
