Daricha stands as a beacon of hope in a world where support for Afghan girls’ education often feels more like empty rhetoric than actionable commitment. Despite being consistently overlooked by donors and organizations that proclaim their dedication to women’s rights in Afghanistan, Daricha draws its strength and inspiration from extraordinary individuals like Gunce Arkan.
Her story, shared below, is a testament to the unwavering courage and determination of Daricha’s volunteers and students. It highlights the resilience of those who refuse to let darkness prevail, even in the face of overwhelming challenges. This is why Daricha endures — because of souls who dare to bring light where it’s needed most.
Read Gunce’s powerful words and let them remind us of the transformative power of education and the indomitable spirit of those who fight for it.Hazrat Wahriz
Gunce Arkan
For the past few months,with the help of Daricha, I’ve been breaking all sorts of laws in a foreign country. While these actions carry no real consequences for me, the stakes are far higher for the locals who aide and abet me. If discovered, they could face severe penalties — imprisonment or even death. Yet every Thursday, without hesitation, they join me on Google Meet for lessons in English, in Literature, and its more practical applications. Their dedication is unwavering, driven by the hope of building a better future — not only for themselves and their families but also for the country that currently holds them hostage.
When the Biden administration decided to withdraw all U.S. troops from Afghanistan in 2021, the far-right Islamist extremist group, the Taliban, swiftly regained control, resuming the oppressive rule they had left behind two decades earlier. To be clear: there are 1.9 billion Muslims around the world, and the Taliban represents Islam no more than the KKK represents Christianity. The Taliban is a corrupt organization fueled by hate, misogyny, and bigotry. And today, no one suffers more under their rule than the thirteen million women of Afghanistan.
As Meryl Streep recently told the UN General Assembly, “A squirrel has more rights than a girl in Afghanistan today, because public parks have been closed to women and girls by the Taliban. A bird may sing in Kabul, but a girl may not.” Just two days ago, the Taliban issued a new edict banning women from speaking even in their own homes if there’s any chance they might be overheard by a stranger. Yet none of this has stopped my students from joining me every Thursday, using any device they can find. They lock themselves in closets and attics. I’ve never seen their faces — just a black circle on the screen. I’m not sure I even know their real names. But I’ve heard their voices, their intelligence.
We started slowly as I gauged their English skills. They had all been in college before women were suddenly barred from attending. One was training to become a teacher, another a journalist, the third had dreams of joining an NGO. Now, they’re all homebound. Basically prisoners. But their drive to learn remains undiminished, fueled by the hope of a future where they’re seen as more than voiceless reproductive husks.
We started appropriately by Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise.”
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Unfamiliar with Maya Angelou — the students feel a powerful resonance with her words. “This author, she’s strong,” one of them says. Another adds, “I want to be like her. I want to hold onto hope, even when things are hard.” Their discussion deepens, turning to the idea of how future generations might view them. It sparks a back-and-forth debate that lasts until the end of class. Though heavy, the conversation seems to leave no one feeling isolated. I assign Amy Tan’s short story “Two Kinds” for the following week, with an essay due by Wednesday. By Monday morning, my inbox is filled with responses.
We flit and flutter between Amy Tan, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison and Amrita Preetam. As an avid reader, I’m reassured that we’ll never exhaust the wealth of voices from powerful female authors — an abundant source of wisdom and resilience that will support me in guiding my students. Our goal is clear: to help them acquire the skills to apply for and succeed in remote jobs that require English proficiency. This is more than just earning an income; it’s a lifeline to dignity, purpose, and a measure of independence. In a place where Afghan women face rising rates of suicide, this opportunity to feel accomplished and self-sufficient is anything but trivial.
What unsettles me most is knowing that my students are among the fortunate few. They have access to a mobile device, to the internet, and to a small space in their homes where they’re left undisturbed for an hour or so each week. They already have a solid grasp of English. Millions of other women in Afghanistan can only dream of such privileges. Only 23% of Afghan women can read, one of the lowest literacy rates in the world. The average age of marriage is just 19, with many girls married by 16 — the age my own daughter will reach in less than six months.
Despite being extremely young, two of my students are already wives and mothers, with two children each. The other, at twenty-two, is still unmarried, a circumstance she attributes to her progressive relatives. In fact, all my students seem to have supportive men in their lives — husbands, fathers — who make room for education, who recognize, at least in part, the injustice of what is happening in Afghanistan. But in a calculated strategy to oppress an entire population; the Taliban jails the husband if his wife is caught walking alone. If any of my students were discovered participating in my class, they would not be the only ones to suffer. We can assume every male who resides in their home would be in jeopardy too.
As an anxiety-ridden woman, I must admit that I’ve never possessed even a fraction of the courage my students demonstrate. Before my current disregard for the laws of Afghanistan, I would have broken into hives at the thought of committing any social faux pas, let alone a crime. Yet this feels bigger than me. I am after all my mother’s daughter, and how dare they? How dare they condemn millions of women to a life of suffering, silence, and misery? Does evil know no bounds?
I am also my daughter’s mother, and I refuse to leave her a world where this kind of oppression is deemed acceptable. I reject it with every fiber of my being. It may begin in Afghanistan, but where does it end? When will denying women autonomy over their own bodies, minds, and futures cease to be a political strategy for men seeking power?
So I will continue to teach these women — and any others who wish to join us — for as long as I can. I will do this for my daughter and for my mother. I will do it because it’s my one small act to create a pocket of light in a world filled with injustices. And let there be no mistake: education IS light, and women everywhere suffer in darkness.
This design was created by one of my students who has incredible skills in graphic design. Please DM me for details if you would consider her for your next remote design project.
