My name is Maryam, and I used to be a 12-year-old girl living in a quiet town in Herat, Afghanistan. I had just started the 7th grade at our local school, and life was full of excitement and possibilities.

I loved going to school more than anything else in the world. Each morning, I would pick up my backpack and head out the door, eager to learn new things, make friends, and laugh with my classmates. The school was my haven, a place where I could dream big and let my imagination soar.

But then, one day, everything changed. The Taliban, a dark force we had heard about but never imagined would come to our peaceful town, took control. Overnight, my world turned upside down. The school that had been my second home was closed, and my dreams were put on hold.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I watched as my schoolbooks gathered dust on the shelf, my pencils grew blunt, and the corridors of our once-vibrant school turned silent. I missed my friends terribly, their laughter, and the stories we used to share during recess.

My days became a blur of uncertainty. I longed for the routine of school, the excitement of learning, and the warmth of my classmates' camaraderie. The world outside my window had grown darker, but inside my heart, I clung to hope.

I would often sit by the window, staring at the road that to our school that lays empty and forlorn. In my mind, I could still hear the echoes of our laughter, feel the excitement of discovery, and see the faces of my friends. I missed them all so much.

But no matter how bleak things seemed, I held on to the belief that one day, the clouds of conflict would clear, and our school would reopen. I knew that my dreams of a brighter future were still alive. Someday, I would return to my seat, my textbooks, and my friends. In my dreams, I could still be that girl who laughed, learned, and hoped for a better tomorrow.

   In the wake of sweeping changes brought about by the Taliban's rule, countless Afghan children have been denied access to education, and among them is Amir, an 11-year-old boy residing in Charikar. 

Each day, the sun rises at 6:30 in the morning for Amir, but instead of making his way to school, he finds himself at his father's car repair shop, ready to assist in any way he can. Sweeping the shop floor, cleaning oil-covered tubes, and various other tasks have become a part of his daily routine.

Amir's face, which once eagerly absorbed the knowledge imparted at school, now bears the marks of hard work and responsibility. "I loved going to school and dreamed of becoming a doctor one day," Amir fondly reminisced, gazing at his hands, which bore the telltale signs of being stained with black oil. "But everything has changed now. I have work to do."

Amir's older sister shares a similar fate, as both siblings have been forced to set aside their textbooks, which now rest on a windowsill, slowly accumulating layers of dust. There is little time to revisit those cherished pages or trace them with their fingers, as their lives have taken an unforeseen turn.

Their father, Mahmood, carries the weight of a heavy decision on his shoulders. He had always yearned for his children to receive an education and carve out bright futures for themselves. However, the changing circumstances have eroded his trust in the safety of sending Amir to school. Mahmood's voice trembled as he shared his concerns, "Last year, one of the school's teachers was arrested, and no one heard from him until his lifeless body was discovered in the river. I can't bear to risk my children's safety any longer."

In the face of these uncertain times, Amir and his sister now find themselves trading in their school days for responsibilities beyond their years, their dreams hanging in the balance. The car repair shop, once a backdrop for occasional visits, has become Amir’s daily world—a place where dreams once soared, and where, despite the circumstances, a vague hope flickers like a faint light in the distance.