HerVoice

The Bitter Silence of Our Alley

The sky was just beginning to brighten, but our alley was unusually empty. The bare branches of the trees stretching over the yards were covered with glistening white snow that shimmered softly for anyone who walked by. The air in Kabul was cold, smoky, and filled with the stillness of winter, but it felt as though another kind of cold had settled over the city first—a cold that could not melt with the changing seasons. Though it was no longer early morning, there was no sign of girls and boys leaving for school. Their footprints were nowhere to be found in the fresh snow that had fallen during the night. The alley was eerily quiet. There was no laughter echoing through the streets, no children playing in the snow, no movement that usually brought the neighborhood to life. Even the women passing by walked quickly with their heads lowered, as if carrying burdens too heavy to speak aloud. It was a familiar yet sinister silence. It was as though I had felt it before, many years ago. My heart tightened, and tears filled my eyes like a curtain slowly falling. My thoughts carried me back—five years and a few months—to the day I went to school for the last time. That day, I had a history and geography exam. The night before, I stayed up late surrounded by books and notes, trying to review everything one last time. At 5:30 in the morning, I woke up, put on my beautiful blue-and-white school uniform, wrapped a white scarf around my head, and carried my books to the kitchen, where my mother had already prepared breakfast. I hurried out the door, boarded the bus, and spent the ride reviewing the most difficult parts of my lessons. Although I was completely focused on my books that morning, everything around me felt different. There was an unusual silence, something unsettling in the air. Still, I ignored it. I was just a student, concerned only with passing my exams. When I arrived at school, I looked for my friend in the courtyard. Students sat quietly with their books, some anxiously reviewing their notes while others studied with determined focus. There was only one thought in my mind: "How am I going to pass these exams?" After the exam, I waited nearly an hour to speak with one of my teachers. I was exhausted. My friend and I bought some juice and cake, sat together in one of the classrooms, and talked for a while. By then, news had already begun spreading that province after province was falling. Yet I never imagined Kabul would fall. I simply could not believe that something so enormous could happen without a long and devastating war. As my friend and I continued talking, a man I had never seen before entered the classroom. In a loud voice, he told everyone to leave the school and go home immediately. I assumed he worked with the school's security team. He quickly moved from one classroom to another, repeating the same urgent message. I threw my unfinished juice and cake into the trash and reached for my friend's hand. Confused, she asked, "What is going on?" I looked at her and said quietly, "Perhaps Kabul has fallen. Let's go home." A strange uneasiness spread through my body. Holding hands, we ran down the long school corridors. I remember feeling grateful that she was beside me. Instead of taking the main road outside the school gate, we chose a smaller side street and ran faster and faster. Police vehicles sped past us with their sirens blaring. Everywhere there was confusion. Some people stood frozen in shock while others rushed to close their shops. Suddenly, a woman stopped me and asked, "What is happening? Did the Taliban take over?" I couldn't answer. I simply shook my head and kept running. Eventually, after what felt like hours, I reached our alley. It was empty. Too empty. My steps slowed. The silence pressed down on me like a weight, as though darkness itself had settled over the neighborhood. I walked carefully toward our house, afraid of what I might find. When I reached the gate, my brother was standing outside. My mother waited anxiously in the yard. The moment I saw them, I ran into my mother's arms. For the first time, I cried in front of her without holding anything back. I clung to her as though she were the only safe place left in the world. The day after that, nothing was ever the same. Although the sky remained blue, it no longer seemed beautiful. The birds no longer sounded joyful. A sadness settled over every street and every home. The alley became more crowded, yet somehow darker and quieter than ever before. There were no girls playing outside. No cheerful voices drifted through the neighborhood. Only silent windows stared into the distance, waiting for something that would never return. Even now, I can still remember the feeling of those two schoolbooks in my hands on that exam day, as though time itself had stopped. I checked the time. I was already late. Carrying fresh bread, I hurried back home through the snowy alley. As I walked, I noticed something that made me stop for just a moment. My footprints were the first footprints of a girl on the untouched snow, breaking the silence. It felt as though, even in a country where there was hardly any room left for girls, a small trace of freedom still remained.