cross-posted from: https://sh.itjust.works/post/64920457

My day begins at four in the morning. After waking, I pray and read the Qur’an until the sky begins to brighten. Then I pick up empty water containers and walk to the nearby spring to collect fresh water.

I have breakfast with my son – tea, sugar and tandoori bread. We live in a remote village in Day Kundi province, but unlike many other villagers, our table is not filled with eggs or cheeses. My name is Sediqa*. I am 41 years old, and I have been teaching at my village’s girls’ school for 18 years. I studied at this same school. After the fall of the previous Taliban regime, when Hamid Karzai came to power in 2002 and girls’ schools reopened, I was among the first to return – although I was over 20 years old at the time, I started my education from first grade. Eventually, I became a teacher.

I married a man who promised to support my work and education, because I hoped to build an independent life. But after my son was born, he failed to support me, did not allow me to study at university and opposed my going to work. Then, when the government collapsed and the Taliban took power, my husband left Afghanistan. My son and I were displaced, moving from one person’s home to another. The house I built through years of hardship and with the money I earned from teaching was taken away from me by his family. We eventually settled in a mud house near the school.

In the morning, I prepare dough and go to an area among the trees near my house to gather firewood. I light the clay oven and bake our bread, then leave for school with my son. We each take separate mountain paths and walk to our schools alone. My son walks an hour on foot while my journey takes 45 minutes.

Eighteen years ago, many girls and I gathered at this school under a single tent. There were no professional teachers, our school had no building and the tent was unbearable in the heat and cold – yet we gathered beneath that roof with great enthusiasm and a deep desire to learn.

Today, our school has a building, and classrooms with desks and chairs. But our girls can no longer study beyond sixth grade. The school uniform has been replaced with large black prayer garments, chador namaz, which education officials come to inspect. The youngest girls are just six years old. Despite their age and the long distances they travel, they must carry these heavy garments through the difficult journey, enduring the heat and cold.