Art by Elsa Li

Content Warning: the experiences described may be distressing to some readers

A personal memoir traversing a girl’s resilient journey from Taliban-controlled Afghanistan to Melbourne. She shelters hope in education, the future and writing herself home. 

I am Ahura, a girl from the land of rubies and emeralds, from a place where the mountains reach the sky and the winds whisper silent epics through the valleys. Northern Afghanistan, my birthplace, has always been a cradle of legends, history and memories. But for me, that land was more than just home; it was a battlefield where I had to defend dreams considered dangerous for girls by my society.

I was raised in a traditional Muslim family. A family where kindness lived in my mother’s heart and strictness lingered in my father’s gaze. In a society that reduced a woman’s role to silence, veiling and homemaking, I was a girl with a grand dream: to one day study at a university beyond the borders of my homeland. These dreams may have seemed like fantasy to others, but to me, they were like oxygen—I couldn’t survive without them.

My mother, a simple yet deep woman, was my only refuge and supporter. With her calloused hands, she worked tirelessly to keep our home afloat. At night, I would sit beside her, seeking shelter in books by the dim light of a lamp. Those pages were my window into a world that didn’t yet belong to me. I visited educational centres (small private tutoring classes outside the public school system) many times, but I had no money. So I worked, even at jobs deemed “unfit” for girls. With the little I saved, I enrolled in a training centre. 

But society wasn’t kind. Disdainful looks, harsh remarks and judgment—all simply because I was a girl—often crushed my spirit. But I had made a promise to myself, to my mother and to the thousands of girls whose voices had already been silenced. So I pushed forward. I studied alongside boys, participated in academic competitions and eventually earned a place at our local university.

My mother had cried and laughed, my father looked at me with pride and my heart was overflowing with hope. I wasn’t studying just for myself, but for every girl who had been denied education.

But then, one night, darkness fell. With the return of the Taliban, women were barred from working, thousands of girls were forced into marriage and universities slammed their gates shut to girls. I was no longer allowed to study. Everything I had worked so hard to build was destroyed in a matter of days. My hope turned into exile.

I had to leave my country. Not to run away, but to save my future. So that maybe, one day, I could return and fight for justice. Leaving my home and land was not easy, but staying silent would have been a slow death.

My brother, a father of two kids, risked his life taking me to the border of Iran. I wore a veil as black as the night above. My heart pounded as if it wanted to leap from my chest. A heavy silence filled the car. We both knew this might be the last time we’d ever see each other.

We approached the checkpoint. Every step felt like it could be my last. The air was dry, filled with dust and fear. A middle-aged woman in a white chador approached.  She took my hand and said, “Come, my daughter.” Her hands were warm, her eyes calm. With her and two other women, we passed through a narrow path.

Midway, my veil shifted slightly, and a few strands of hair slipped out. A shout rang out from one of the Taliban fighters stationed at the border. He called out to my brother, raised his weapon, and yelled, “Shameless woman!” In that moment, I wanted to turn back and scream. But the woman shouted, “No! Go! Now it’s your turn to save your life.” 

My legs were heavy, but my mother’s spirit whispered behind me. “Don’t run, fight.” I crossed. In the darkness, with tearful eyes and a burning heart. That moment was more than a physical crossing: it was when fear loosened its grip and defiance took its place. The image of my brother encircled by the looming shadows of the Taliban is etched into my memory forever. A bitter and eternal farewell. Though the guilt and anxiety stay with me, that decision changed my life.

In Iran, I boarded a bus to Mashhad. The terminal was crowded and merciless. I had no money, no ticket, no familiar faces. I spent long hours there crying, praying and making unanswered calls. My brother arranged for me to stay the night with an Afghan couple who, despite not knowing me or my family, offered kindness that was a shelter in a storm.

The next day, I went to Tehran to visit distant relatives and begin my paperwork. Every day I waited, checking my phone with anxiety. Then, one cold morning, the email arrived. My visa had been approved.

I screamed, I cried, I ran through the room. My mother sobbed and laughed over the phone. My father said, “Go, my daughter. I’m proud of you.” 

It was my first flight. The sky at the airport was cloudy, but it was bright inside me. No one knew me, but everyone looked at me with kindness. That was one of the most human moments of my life. I realised that home isn’t just where you’re born—it’s where you’re accepted, unconditionally.

Melbourne was the beginning of a new world. One where I could walk without fear, speak out and shout my dreams louder than ever. Still, entering a completely different culture wasn’t easy. Homesickness, cultural and language differences made me feel lost and alone. But every time I entered a classroom at the University of Melbourne, I reminded myself that I was representing a generation of girls whose right to education had been stolen.

Australia was a land of opportunities, but my role wasn’t just to benefit from them. I had to build a bridge between the pain I left behind and the world I now stood in. I decided to be the voice of Afghan women still breathing in the dark behind closed doors. Through writing, speaking, and volunteering in academic spaces, I try to present the real image of an Afghan woman as resilient, thoughtful and worthy.

My goal is more than education—it’s rebuilding. I want to return to Afghanistan one day, not necessarily with my feet, but with my voice and my pen. I want to revive the place where my dreams were buried for the next generation. For the girls who are silent today, but may one day rise and shout.

Currently, I am studying at the University of Melbourne. The classes, the books, the projects—all are joyful, even if they’re hard. But I never forget where I came from. Every step I take, every word I write, is a tribute to all the girls who remain alone with their dreams forbidden behind walls.

Migration is more than a physical movement—it’s a rebirth. I have suffered, feared and cried, but I never gave up. Now, I am here with a louder voice and a brighter hope. I came to fight, to learn, to build.

I am Ahura—a girl from high mountains and deep sorrows, a girl who learned that even in the darkest of times, one can still light a lamp.