On World Refugee Day – Invitation

I was born in 2002 in Afghanistan—just after the fall of the Taliban regime and at the dawn of a fragile new era. Like millions of others around the world, I had no say in where I was born, into what kind of family, or even what gender I would be. But simply being born a girl in Afghanistan meant that I entered the world already weighed down by barriers I could not yet understand. I didn’t know that to dream as a girl in my country would one day be seen not as ambition, but as defiance. I didn’t know that going to school, attending university, or working in public would eventually be forbidden. And I certainly didn’t know that surviving would become a daily act of resistance.

I grew up in a country beset by violence, political instability, and foreign interference. My generation was raised amid war, but we were only children. We didn’t understand what it meant to live under occupation or what ideological forces battled around us. Terms like “ISAF,” “Taliban,” and “Mujahideen” were just words adults used—until we saw what they meant on our streets, in our classrooms, and in the blood of our neighbors.

Despite these challenges, we persevered. We went to school. We studied by candlelight. We took exams under the looming threat of attack. Every morning, I walked to school knowing there was no guarantee I would return home. But like thousands of young Afghans—especially Afghan girls—I held on to my dreams because education was our only hope. Our faith in its power was unshakable, even as the walls around us cracked.

This faith came at a cost. Our classrooms were often targeted. I still remember the attacks: Kabul University in 2020. The Sayed Al-Shuhada girls’ school in 2021. The Kaaj Educational Center in 2022. The American University in 2016. The Mawoud Institute in 2018. Each was an act of terror aimed directly at students—at our hope for a better future. The message was clear: our very act of learning was a threat to those who feared an educated generation.

But we did not stop.

I was among the top students in my class and later in university. I worked tirelessly because I believed the root of my country’s suffering was ignorance, and that education would be our path to healing. I thought that if I studied hard enough, I could lift not only myself but also my family and my community.

But over time, that belief began to change.

I realized that many of the world’s greatest atrocities—wars, weapons, propaganda—were not the result of ignorance. They were engineered by the educated. The scientists who build bombs, the politicians who wage war, the leaders who manipulate truth—they are not unlettered. Intelligence, I learned, is not the same as wisdom. Without compassion and moral grounding, even brilliance can become a tool of oppression.

Then, in 2021, the Taliban returned.

I still remember the day the republic collapsed and the Taliban retook Kabul. We watched as the lives we had built over the years in a fragile country were de-stroyed before our eyes. I remember the day the school gates were shut, and my sisters returned home with tearful eyes. It was the day of my final university exam. I went there hopeful and excited, knowing that the next semester would be my last, and I was about to graduate. But we were not allowed to enter the university. Tanks and armed soldiers stood in front of the campus. It felt as if we, the girls, were holding weapons instead of pens—as if we were a threat. I had always dreamed of celebrating my graduation, but I never even began my final semester.

Writing these words is painful. There are memories I would rather forget. But they are part of me now—scars I carry not only as reminders of what was lost, but as fuel for what must still be fought for.

Girls in Afghanistan are denied opportunities because of their gender. And abroad, Afghans are marginalized because of their nationality. When I received a scholarship to study outside the country, I faced an impossible choice: stay in the comfort of family and lose my future—or step into the unknown, alone, in search of education and freedom.

I chose the unknown.

I left behind my family, friends, and the only home I had ever known. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. But it was the only way forward.

What Afghan girls ask for is not impossible. We do not dream of luxury, fame, or fortune. We dream of things many take for granted: to walk freely in our cities, to go to school without fear, to have careers and contribute to our communities. These are not extravagant demands. They are basic rights.

And yet, they are denied to us.

Still, we endure. Hope, more than anything, keeps us going. Hope to achieve our goals. Hope to return home one day. Hope to rebuild what has been broken. This hope has kept me alive.

But I have also come to understand that injustice is not limited to my country. Even in places that champion democracy and human rights, I have seen hypocrisy. I saw it most painfully in the world’s silence over the genocide in Gaza. I saw it in the arrests of women and activists in Iran and Afghanistan, in the wars in Syria and Yemen, and in the mistreatment of refugees in Europe. I saw how easily the language of rights and freedom is twisted when it threatens power.

In every conflict, I see that both the oppressor and the oppressed are human. The weapons used to kill are built by brilliant minds. Those who preach peace often fund war.

Where, then, is our world going?

In today’s world, wealth and power are concentrated in the hands of a few, while millions go hungry. In India, one billionaire spends over a billion dollars on his son’s wedding while millions live below the poverty line. In the UK, royal wed-dings are televised globally while refugees are denied safe shelter. Tech tycoons build rockets to Mars while entire populations lack clean water on Earth.

These contradictions are not accidental. They are designed. They reflect the deep systemic injustice that shapes our global society. And they demand that we ask ourselves: What kind of world are we building?

Despite everything, I still believe in a better future. I imagine a world where no one is denied their childhood, where no woman is punished for learning, where no family goes hungry while another flaunts excess. I dream of a world where human dignity is not a privilege, but a birthright.

Maybe this is naïve. But I believe that as long as there is humanity, there is hope. And as long as there is hope, I will keep going.

M. Sabe