Short Story by Zohal Faizi, Translation to English and Visuals by Shahzad Mudasır

Location: Ioakimion Girls High School

15.11.2024 – 30.11.2024

Journey Through Time

The sunlight hitting my eyes woke me from a deep sleep. My shoulders felt heavy, as though they had been carrying a great burden. Tired and groggy, I got up. I glanced around and then laid my head back on the pillow, hoping to catch a little more sleep. After a few moments, when I half-opened my eyes again, I realized I was in a different place. Everything around me felt unfamiliar, even the location I was in. I found myself in the middle of nowhere; a place where I couldn’t tell where I was or how I had gotten there. I was in a ruined house, no longer fit for living, built of stone and earth. Shattered glass littered the house, picture frames filled with dried blood lay in the middle of the room, and tattered clothes wandered around them like ghosts. I didn’t know how I had arrived here or what sad corner of the world this was. My mind was racing, and I was lost within myself. I heard voices—men yelling at each other in anger. Their faces looked strange, with wild fury in their eyes, dressed in disheveled clothing. What drew my attention most were the light and heavy weapons slung over their shoulders. They seemed to be discussing punishing someone, preparing for action. As they moved out of sight, I began to search, desperate to understand where I was, what I was doing, and who these men were. I left the ruins of the house and ventured into the desolate streets of the city.

Everything seemed strange to me—the polluted air, the people’s odd and different clothing, the strange cars, the broken and sorrowful homes. It all consumed my mind, and I had no idea where I was heading. The presence of girls and women in the city’s streets and alleys was rare. At times, I wandered, disoriented and confused, looking around me. Sometimes I moved forward a few steps, and other times I stepped back. I was searching for my own home, the place where just moments ago I had laid my head on a soft pillow. But the ruins of the city and its mournful people filled me with curiosity. My gaze fell on a calendar held by a child who seemed to be learning to count from it. The calendar was dated 1997. I wasn’t sure if I had read it wrong or if I had somehow traveled back in time. I thought to myself, “We are in the year 2024, so how could a calendar from 27 years ago still be in use?”

As I continued walking, I saw armed men with whips standing by the roadside, inspecting cars. Their faces radiated anger, an anger that seemed capable of devouring people. Fear gripped me as I passed by them on shaky legs. They stopped a car, and moments later, I heard the screams of women and the sound of whips striking. I saw the women being pulled from the car, whipped on their legs, and being scolded, “Do you have no shame, traveling in a car with unrelated men and showing your bare legs to them?” The women did nothing to defend themselves; they simply stared at the ground and wept. It was a painful, strange scene. Moments later, the driver of the car, a man driving a minivan, was pulled out and punched repeatedly in the face for allowing women in his vehicle. Fear tightened its grip on me. The only crime of the veiled women and the driver was that they weren’t related to each other, yet they were traveling together. I thought to myself, “What kind of time is this, where strange men, without any right, can violently oppress women?”

I continued walking, searching for a place where I could find peace. My eyes caught sight of a few boys in school uniforms entering a school. The sound of the school bell rang in my ears, reminding me of the good times when I, too, used to go to school. I walked a bit further and saw the entrance of a girls’ school—a dark blue gate with black flowers—but it was sealed shut with a large padlock covered in dust. It was clear the school was closed. I looked around and saw no sign of girls; only boys were attending school. Tears flowed uncontrollably down my face as I continued walking. There was no music to soothe my ears, nor were there happy faces among the people of this city.

I grew very tired from wandering aimlessly around the city. I found neither my home nor my family or friends. With exhausted feet, I passed by a park and decided to rest there for a moment. I looked around. Everything was quiet and peaceful, except for the absence of women and girls in the park and throughout the city. It seemed strange to me. On my journey, I had seen maybe three or four women, and the rest were all men and boys. I thought to myself, “What does it matter? Maybe all the women are busy with their lives and work. Perhaps they don’t want to go out in the scorching sun at this time of day.” I got up and continued my way.

It was the end of the day, and the sun was setting. Still, there was no sign of my home or family, and a sense of hopelessness began to settle in. I decided to return to the ruin where my day had started. On the way, I saw a young girl sitting on the ground, crying. I wanted to approach her and ask why she was crying, but suddenly a stone was hurled at her, hitting her in the head. Another stone followed from the other side. I looked up, and I was surrounded by men gathered to stone this girl. She tried to run, but half of her body was buried in the dirt, and her hands were tied under her veil with rope. The men shouted vile names at her. Amid the furious shouting, I heard the cries of an old woman pleading, “Please, spare my daughter! I swear to God she will never go against Sharia again.” She wept bitterly, but no one paid attention to her. I, too, stood frozen in the square, unable to do anything for the girl and her elderly mother. I looked at the girl’s face, blood dripping from her head and face. I screamed, “Aren’t you afraid of God? What kind of humans are you? Please, show mercy!” But no one listened. The girl collapsed from the pain and blood loss. On one side lay a girl soaked in blood, taking her last breaths, and on the other was a mother whose heart had been shattered into pieces. I didn’t know the girl’s crime, nor did I understand the Sharia ruling. That scene was incomprehensible to me, and it made me long for my own mother. I sat down on the ground, wanting to comfort the girl, but my hands were numb. Even my legs lacked feeling. I thought perhaps I was just exhausted and that’s why I couldn’t feel anything. But then I realized I, too, was standing in the middle of the square, next to the young girl, with dozens of stones being thrown at her, yet none of them were hitting me. I struggled with myself, trying to understand, when strong men came and carried away the bodies of the girl and her grieving mother. I was left alone in the square, confused and bewildered. With numb legs, I rose and headed back to the ruin where my day had begun. I sat in a corner and pieced together the events of the day: the stoning of the girl, the women being whipped, the closure of girls’ schools, the old calendar, the diminished presence of women and girls in the city and parks, the numbness in my legs… all these events weighed heavily on my heart. I searched for answers to my questions and even recalled that when I passed by the shops, I couldn’t see my reflection in the mirrors, and I walked past everything indifferently. I thought to myself and came to the conclusion that perhaps, like in the movies, this wasn’t my world.

Perhaps I was a spirit in the body of a helpless girl. I was tormented by my loneliness and my gender, but there was no one to console me, to ask how I was doing or to help me. With tears streaming down my face, I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall of that ruined house.

Suddenly, I heard a girl’s voice: “Are you asleep or awake? I don’t know when you’ll stop being so lazy!” My senses returned, and I realized it was my sister, shouting at me, “Your eyes are open, but you’re still asleep!” I realized I was in my room, surrounded by my family. I thought to myself, “Did I just experience time travel?” It intrigued me, as I had felt the period that had plagued my fellow Afghans for five years, eight years before I was born, and now, history was repeating itself.

I hurried to the mirror in my room and saw my reflection. I looked tired. I noticed a burning sensation in my right palm. When I opened my hand, I saw the marks of my nails, pressed into my skin. I sat at my desk, picked up my pen, and without any introduction, I began writing down everything I had experienced in that dream world. I had little control over my hands; they wrote down all the events I had witnessed on their own. After finishing this short piece, I decided to publish it so that all those who think the Taliban have changed, and that they no longer oppress the girls and citizens of Afghanistan as they did between 1996 and 2001, will know that these are the same monsters from 27 years ago, still ruling over people’s hearts with iron fists.