Mursal
Group 12
Student
Kabul, Afghanistan
When she was younger, her dreams stretched as far as the sky. Every morning, she woke up feeling like the world was hers to shape. She would close her eyes and see herself in a bright future—strong, unstoppable. The thought alone sent a thrill through her chest.
At night, she lay beside her mother, watching her face in the dim light. Her mother would run her fingers through her hair, her voice full of warmth as she told her stories. Her father’s steady hands rested on her shoulders whenever she spoke about her dreams, his quiet nod telling her he believed in her.
Then, 2021 came.
That year, her sister didn’t return to school. Her books sat untouched on the shelf, gathering dust. She stopped talking about her future, about the dreams she once carried so brightly. She would sit beside her, waiting, hoping she would say something. But every time she asked, her sister only gave her a small, tired smile and stayed silent.
Days turned into months, months into years. She moved up to sixth grade, her books filling with notes and dreams scribbled in the margins. She was determined to make up for the silence in their home, to carry both her sister’s dreams and hers.
In the classroom, her friends and her whispered about the future, their voices full of excitement. They bent over their notebooks, racing each other to answer the hardest questions first. The final exams approached, and they stayed up late, memorising pages by the glow of lanterns.
“Just three more exams,” she said one afternoon, grinning at her friends. “Then we’ll be seventh graders!”
The room fell silent.
One by one, heads lowered. A girl wiped her eyes quickly, as if she could hide the tears before they fell.
“Why are you crying?” she asked.
She didn’t answer. But another voice, quiet and broken, did.
“We don’t know if we’ll ever come back.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than anything they had studied. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her fingers curled into fists, gripping onto something—anything—to keep herself steady.
That night, her books lay untouched. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her sister’s silence replaying in her mind. The weight of it pressed against her chest.
Morning arrived too soon.
In the classroom, the exam paper blurred in front of her. Her teacher’s voice carried through the room.
“This is your last exam. You’ve all done so well.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, then another. She bit her lip, but the sob escaped anyway. Beside her, her friend’s shoulders trembled. She pressed her hands to her face, but the sound of her crying filled the room.
Her teacher rushed over, her eyes searching theirs. “Why are you crying?”
No one spoke.
Then her friend, through her tears, whispered, “We don’t know if we’ll be allowed to study next year.”
The room collapsed into quiet weeping. A chair scraped against the floor as someone stood up, their hands covering their face. Her teacher knelt beside her, pulling her close. She smelled of chalk dust and the books she always carried.
“Don’t think this way,” she whispered. “You will come back. I will be here, waiting for you.”
But even as she spoke, her voice wavered. Her fingers tightened around hers.
That day, when she stepped into her house, she washed her face quickly, scrubbing away the evidence of her tears. She sat at the dinner table, staring at her plate, pretending nothing had changed.
Then her father’s voice cut through the silence. “What’s wrong?”
She opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. Instead, her chest ached, her shoulders shook. Her father pulled her into his arms, his warmth surrounding her.
She felt his body tremble.
Then, she heard it.
A sound she had never heard before.
Her father—crying.
Winter came, and the school gates locked behind them. She told herself that when spring arrived, they would open again. That they would return, just as they always had.
But when the cold faded and the trees turned green, the school remained silent.
No bell rang. No girls rushed through the gates, their laughter filling the air.
She stood outside, gripping the straps of her backpack. Her fingers dug into the fabric. Her chest felt hollow.
Behind her, her sister placed a hand on her shoulder.
She turned to her.
Her sister didn’t have to say anything.
She already knew.
This year, in 2025, girls are still not allowed to go to school.
It has been 1,268 days.
1,268 mornings where classrooms sat empty. 1,268 evenings where notebooks lay untouched. 1,268 days since they were told to stop learning.
She looked at her sister, at the quiet understanding in her eyes.
She finally understood her sister’s silence.
Because when your dreams are locked away behind closed doors, when the future you imagined is ripped from your hands, there are no words left to say.
Maria Fernanda Cossio Calderon
Group 10
Environment and Sustainable Development Professional
La Paz, Bolivia
Where gold flows like poison
Don Felipe is the best cocoa producer there is in Aguas Claras, a title earned after dedicating his whole life to grow not only the most beautiful cocoa plots in the village, but also for his ability to turn his land into a haven, which with the passing of time is becoming more and more needed in Aguas Claras. However, some people in the village, especially the younger ones, seem to forget how valuable this small oasis is.
“Ay, mis wawas, mi orgullo”. Don Felipe would say, his calloused hands gently brushing the leaves of his cocoa plants. “You don’t need gold or mercury to shine. You’re worth more than that, you give life, no diseases. But they don’t get it, do they? Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe no matter what the cooperatives say”.
After working in the fields, there wasn’t much to do in Aguas Claras, so Don Felipe often spent his afternoons at Pedro’s Golden Cantina, the only bar in the village. The cantina was a small room where the heat seemed to gather and linger, made worse by the fan that had stopped working five years earlier. Besides the bar made of unpainted cement, the cantina had three white plastic tables, one of which had a leg held together with duct tape. The routine was always the same: Don Felipe would arrive to find Pedro ready to play cards. After a while, the bar would start to fill up and the music from the jukebox would begin to play. With the music came toasts, dancing and the not that occasional drunken brawl.
One evening, while drinking his fifth glass of the night, a voice nearby called his name. Don Felipe turned and saw a younger man sliding into the chair next to him. “Don Felipe, it’s been a while!” It was the youngest son of his compadre Félix, the one who had moved to the city some years back. Just as Don Felipe stood to hug him, he noticed the cap the young man was wearing, embroidered with the words Aguas Claras Mining Cooperative. “I heard you’re still a legend and that no one has been able to grow cocoa like you in all these years.”
Don Felipe’s smile faltered as his eyes lingered on the cap. He sat back down, his enthusiasm dampened. “So, you’ve joined the cooperatives now. I didn’t think your father would raise his kids to chase quick money without thinking about the community.”
The young man frowned at Don Felipe’s words. “What else am I supposed to do? There are no other jobs here and in the city things aren’t much better. My wife is pregnant and I need to provide for my family. Should I just pray that there are no droughts this year and wait for the crops to grow while my family goes hungry?”
“Real men take care of their land and feed their family with their own hands. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it should always be. Gold won’t teach your children respect for the earth or the value of hard work, but the land will.”
The young man stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “The world is changing, Don Felipe. You can’t stop progress.”
Before he could say anything else, a voice called out from the bar. “Don Felipe! This one’s on the house! Let’s toast to one of the best men in Aguas Claras.” Don Felipe turned toward the bar. As he raised his glass, his thoughts drifted back to a time when life in Aguas Claras was simpler, when the village’s name still made sense.
When Don Felipe was a child, there was no contradiction between the village’s name and the river that flowed through it. Aguas Claras, clear water, that’s what Felipe used to see every morning when he ran down the hill, jumped into the river and caught fish for his mother to cook. This was his favourite part of the day, not only because he wasn’t very fond of school, but also because he felt he was obeying his father’s command to take care of the house whenever he went to work on the cocoa plots. The river was alive then, its waters sparkling under the sun, its banks teeming with life.
Now, if you go to Aguas Claras, the river has a strange turquoise tone, a sickly hue that discloses the mercury used to extract gold upstream. When Don Felipe’s children were born, he forbade his wife from letting them swim in the river. He couldn’t bear the thought of them touching water that had turned toxic, water that had once been his refuge and playground. After the river’s colour changed, rumours began to spread, swimming in it or eating its fish would make children stupid, people said. Don Felipe didn’t know if the rumours were true, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk.
The blurred memory of this river once filled with life, was what made Don Felipe so decisive to make his cocoa plot the best in Aguas Claras. He knew he had no control over what the mining companies did to the river, so he had to focus on what he could control: his land. Just as his father did, he knew he had to leave something to his children and this was his driving force to keep going despite the droughts and floods that were becoming more and more frequent. It was very simple for him: if you know how to farm, you will never starve even if you’re poor. That’s what he used to tell his children every time they worked with him. But he could see the doubt in their eyes and he couldn’t blame them. The promise of quick money by joining a mining cooperative had even appealed him at some point.
Despite all his admirable qualities, Don Felipe was, after all, only human, flawed and far from perfect. For much of his life, it was not uncommon for him to wake up with a pounding headache, the price of a long night of chicha and cumbia spent at Pedro’s Golden Cantina. Too often he seemed to forget that his actions carried consequences beyond him. On those mornings, as he nursed his chaki, his wife, bore the pain of fresh bruises.
After one of those nights, Don Felipe walked into the kitchen, his head throbbing from the night before. His wife Lucila stood by the sink, her sleeves pulled down to her wrists despite the heat. The table was empty. “Where’s breakfast?” he asked.
“I didn’t make any. I was busy trying to cover up. So people wouldn’t see what kind of man I married.” Her face was carefully made up, but there was a tiny hint of a bruise that peeked out from under the powder on her left eye. As she spoke, her hands kept scrubbing the same cup over and over. The porcelain clinked against the sink. She didn't look at him.
He stood in the kitchen, the clinking of the cup against the sink echoing in his ears. He wanted to justify himself, but no words came out. Instead, he turned to the stove and began to do something he hadn’t done in years: breakfast. He fried eggs, warmed some bread and made coffee for two. Then he set the table. Lucila watched him, but her face was as still as the surface of a frozen lake. When he finally gestured for her to sit, she hesitated but after a moment she joined him at the table. They ate in silence. The eggs grew cold between bites, the coffee darker and bitter. When they finished, Lucila rose without a word and cleared only her plate.
Don Felipe couldn’t bear that awkward silence that settled in the house, so he walked out toward his plots, the only place that could bring him some peace in moments like this. As he reached the fields, he noticed that the leaves of his cocoa plants were coated in a thin layer of dust, their vibrant green dulled under a gray film. He ran his fingers over the leaves, trying to wipe it away, but the dust clung stubbornly. It was the mark of the dredges upstream, tearing through the land and leaving their poison in the air. The mining cooperatives were getting closer and their shadow was already creeping into his haven.
Over the next few days, the signs of destruction became impossible to ignore. The river, already tainted with its sickly turquoise hue, seemed to grow darker. The birds no longer sang in the trees, the once-familiar sounds of the land were replaced by the distant rumble of machinery, growing louder each day. Staring at the river’s poisoned water, Don Felipe shook his head with a bitter taste in his mouth: mercury. They were using mercury and no one seemed to care. Not the cooperatives, not the villagers, and the authorities were absent as always. The poison was everywhere, in the water, in the soil, in the air they breathed, in the dust on his plants, in the silence of the birds. And yet, at Pedro’s Golden Cantina and in the square of the village, life went on, as if nothing had changed.
One morning, Don Felipe stood at the edge of his fields, the cocoa plants swaying gently in the breeze. The machines were tearing through the neighbouring plots, their engines roaring as they ripped the earth apart. The green land was shrinking, day by day and soon it would be his turn. As the sun dipped below the hills, Don Felipe returned home to find Lucila sitting on a chair outside their home, her hands resting in her lap. The children were inside, their voices fainted through the open window. He hesitated, then he sat beside her.
“The dredges are getting closer,” he said. “They’ll be at our land soon and you know they don’t care about the previous consultation.”
Lucila nodded, her face calm but her eyes tired. “I know.”
The previous consultation, enshrined in Bolivia’s constitution, was supposed to protect communities like theirs. It required anyone to consult indigenous and local people before approving projects that would affect their land through the extraction of natural resources. But everyone knew that it was just words on paper. The mining cooperatives moved forward without asking, without listening, as if the people who had lived on this land for generations were invisible. And the government just turned a blind eye as long as the gold kept flowing and the cooperatives lined the right pockets.
They sat in silence for a moment listening to the distant rumble of the dredges. “You’ve always taken such good care of the land, Felipe. But the land doesn’t need you the way we do.” Lucila had a soft and steady voice
He looked at her and finally saw the years of quiet suffering in her face, the bruises she hid, the meals she cooked alone, the nights she spent waiting for him to come home. How had she managed to make ends meet if he sometimes spent a week’s income in a single night at the cantina? He had always poured his love into the soil, but what had he given to his family?
“I…” he began, but what could he say? That he was sorry? That he would change? He didn’t know if he could; they both knew it.
Lucila reached over and placed a hand on his. “You’re a good man, Felipe. But you’re not just a farmer. You’re also a husband and a father.”
“Maybe we should try our luck in the city,” he said quietly. “I have a cousin there, he’s a minibus driver. Maybe he can help me join his union.”
Lucila looked at him, her face unreadable. Then, softly, she replied, “Maybe.”
February 2024.
Her journey back to the ruins of home.
She steps out into the street, a sharp breath held in her chest for a brief second before she lets it go. The broken and bumpy sidewalk creates harsh angles in the bottoms of her shoes, yet she hardly feels them. Her feet have mastered the dialect of destruction. The path that one day echoed with the quick footsteps of students and the cheerful conversations of neighbors is now a gloomy area of cracked pavement and distorted metal. A fragment of glass cracked under her foot; a sound that once signified something lost but, in a city, drowned in debris holds no significance at all.
She remembers her city before: the golden glow of the sun against soft gray walls, the lively markets thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and spices, the hum of life threading through every alley. Yet now everything feels so foreign, more suffocating. The buildings that had stood tall, where memories had bloomed, lay broken, mere skeletons of their former selves. Silence weighs heavily except for the whisper of the wind through ruins blending with the distant sobs of a mother embracing nothing but loss.
She notices a group of children, their eyes unnaturally wide, too hollow for their tender years. Their clothes ragged and their faces worn with a grief too deep for words. Orphans of war! In their weary faces, a silent witness to all that was taken. She presses forward, her steps slow and hesitant mirroring the exhaustion of her people. Their bodies, thin and frail, bear the marks of long months of starvation. Their faces are darker, aged beyond their years, their eyes heavy with fatigue. Injuries are everywhere: amputated limbs, bandaged wounds, silent pain carried with each step. Old women are pushed in wheelchairs. Wooden carts pulled by animals are the only means of transportation left. Schools have become overcrowded shelters, filled with the displaced. Their walls echoing with the cries of those who have nowhere else to go. Students, or who once were students, wander aimlessly, without classrooms, teachers, or books. They search for water, food, firewood, or anything that can be used to cook.
A girl in her late teens stopped her, holding a hungry infant in her arms. Her voice is filled with desperation as she says, “Do you know where I can find milk?”. She felt a stone in her throat and could only respond with a silent, sorrowful shake of her head.
Every familiar corner was now unrecognizable, every turn revealing another wound in the body of her city. Then she reaches it… Her home, or what remains of it!
Here, at this spot, her grandfather sat. She shut her eyes, in an attempt to block out the oppressive weight of the world around her, but the memories rushed in. Her grandfather’s stories while gathering around him by the fire. His laughter deep and comforting as he broke bread for them. Now, his chair is empty…more than empty. It's gone! This was where he sat. This was where he died. Everything had vanished with the sound of an explosion that took his life. A martyr claimed by the war, swallowed by the world just like so many others.
Climbing the stairs in the dark, her feet silently count the steps: seven, then another seven, and six more, the pattern repeating once more. With each step, she approaches the place she once called home. The door, once warm brown, now has a blackened frame. She enters, the acrid stink of burnt furniture and plastic filling the air. The walls, once beautiful cream, are now covered in bare brick and soot, leftovers of the fire that devoured the home.
Her fingers slide lightly over the marks on the family dining table. It was where her mother had served warm cups of tea. The aroma of mint and freshly baked cookies is now a distant memory. The curtains, once embroidered with delicate golden patterns, now hang in tatters consumed by the flames. Beyond them is the window. It was where she used to spend hours watching the sun dance and daydreaming about places she had yet to explore.
She hears someone ask, “What time is it?” Without thinking, she glances at the corner where the clock once hung. But there’s nothing left! Only a hole in the wall, a scar from where it had been. On the other side, the shadows of the TV loom, a silent witness to years of news, cartoons, and family arguments. Now lies only a pile of shattered glass and melted plastic.
The space that had once been theirs was now lifeless. The calming warmth of the living room, teeming with sounds, was abruptly replaced by the noise of neglect. Despite everything, her mind fights back, filling the spaces with memories of what used to be.
Then ... she walks into her room. This is not the same room she had before. Previously, it had provided consolation and mirrored her identity. Even in its little chaos, there was a sense of order and coziness in the arrangement of everything. The scent of fresh laundry filled the air, books piled around the desk, and maybe a slight aroma of peach fragrance. Everything has vanished, replaced by the smell of burnt memories.
The bed where she once lay reading before sleep and the desk where she wrote, studied, and planned for a future are nothing but ashes. Her hands linger in the air where the closest used to be, reaching for something that wasn’t there. The closet that held her clothes, childhood memories, charcoal drawings and her mother's precious gift, a radio-shaped plastic pencil case, is gone, leaving nothing but the burnt remains of fabric. What’s left isn’t a room at all! Just walls with gaping holes. A ceiling barely holding together. A floor covered in soot and debris.
Through one of the holes in the wall, she sees the world outside. A world just as broken as this room. The path outside is filled chunks of concrete, and broken pieces of homes and lives. The twilight sky glows faintly with the sun’s final breath. And yet, if she looks far enough, past all the destruction, at the very end of the path, she can still see the sea on the horizon.
Her hand reaches for something, her fingers brushing against something cold and metallic. It was the butterfly necklace. The one a friend had given her. The lone gift that had survived the flames. the only piece of a previous life that was still intact. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but it wasn’t enough to stem the flow of tears. She closed her fingers around it, clutching it tight. It was all she had left of the warmth, the life that once filled these borders. But even the butterfly, once delicate and bright, is now dull, its wings worn down by the ashes of the past. Yet, it still stands, existing just like the people outside, just like her.
Group 11 of Creative Writing for Social Change
Desk Editor & Guest/Interview Producer
Nairobi, Kenya
TRIGGER WARNING: Descriptions of gender based violence
Mary, a mother of three, wakes up in a hospital bed after surviving a brutal attack from her husband, Judah. Her body is covered in scars, her throat aches from being strangled, and her daughter sits beside her, eyes filled with fear and relief. As Mary tries to make sense of her surroundings, fragments of her past surface—memories of a marriage built on charm and promises, now reduced to a nightmare of daily violence. She is not just healing from physical wounds but from years of emotional and psychological torment.
She is forced to confront why she stayed with Judah for so long. Fear of the unknown kept her trapped—she had no financial independence, no place to go, and society constantly reminded her that a "good wife endures." The church elders told her to pray harder. The police dismissed her cries for help. She told herself she was staying for her children, but deep down, she feared the shame of admitting she had made a mistake, of facing a world that might not support her. Even worse, she recognized Judah in her father—the same cycle of violence she swore she’d never repeat.
When she learns that her neighbour was the one who saved her, Mary feels a mixture of gratitude and humiliation. The neighbour had warned her for years, urging her to leave, but she never could. Now, with Judah in police custody for attempted murder, Mary faces a terrifying new reality: What comes next?
But this time, something is different. Instead of fear, there is anger. Not just at Judah, but at the world that enabled him. At the system that dismissed her suffering. At herself, for believing love meant enduring pain. She looks at her children—traumatized but alive—and makes a decision. This cycle ends with me.
After being discharged, Mary seeks therapy, not just for herself but for her children. She partners with organizations that support survivors of domestic violence, determined to help women who, like her, once believed they had no way out. She shares her story publicly, shattering the silence that nearly killed her. Meanwhile, Judah remains behind bars, but the scars he left are not easily erased. Healing is slow, painful, and full of setbacks—but Mary refuses to be silent any longer.
Months later, Mary stands before a packed community hall, speaking at an event for survivors. She grips the microphone, steady and sure, her voice no longer trembling. "For years, I stayed because I thought I had no choice. But I do. We all do." In the front row, a young woman watches with wide, fearful eyes—the same eyes Mary once had. After the event, she hesitantly approaches. "I don’t know if I can leave," she whispers. Mary takes her hands, firm yet gentle. "You don’t have to do it alone." With every woman she helps, Mary’s life is filled with purpose. The cycle of silence is broken. And for the first time in her life, she is truly free.
Luo translation
Mary, min nyithindo adek, ochiew e otanda mar osiptal bang' tony kuom gocho marach mane otimne gi chwore, Judah. Dende opong’ gi mbelni, duonde remo kaluwore gi kaka nodeye, kendo nyare obet e bathe, to wang’e opong’ gi luoro kod kuwe. Ka Mary temo paro gik ma timore aluora mare, ochako paro gik mane otimorene chon—paro mag keny ma ne oger e wi ng’iyo kod sing’o, ma sani osebedo mana lek marach mar goch ma pile ka pile. Ok ni ochango mana kuom rem mag del kende; to bende ochango kuom higni mang’eny mag chand marach e chunye kod pache.
Ochuno ni openjre gimomiyo nodak gi Juda kuom kinde malach kamano. Luoro mar gik ma ok ong’ere ne otweye -nene oonge pesa moluongo ni mare, ne onge kama ne onyalo dhie, kendo oganda ne parone kinde ka kinde ni "dhako maber bedo jachuny." Jodongo mag kanisa nowachone ni olam matek moloyo. Jopolisi ne ok okawo matek ywak mare mar dwaro kony. Ne onyisore owuon ni obet nikech nyithinde, to ei chunye, ne oluoro wich kuot mar yie ni notimo richo, mar romo gi piny ma nyalo bedo ni ok bi konye. Marach moloyo, ne oneno wuon mare ei Juda- ma ne nigi timbe mag anjao ma ne osingore ni ok obi nwoyo.
Kane owinjo ni jirande ema ne orese, Mary nowinjo ka en gi erokamano kod wich kuot moriwore. Jirandeno ne osebedo ka nyise kuom higni mang’eny, ka ojiwe mondo owuogi, to ne ok onyal. Sani, ka Juda ni e jela mar polisi nikech notemo nego ng’ato, Mary yudo ka en gi wach manyien ma miye luoro: Ang’o mabiro bang’e?
Kata kamano, e kindeni, nitie gimoro mopogore. Kar bedo gi luoro, nitie mirima. Ok mana e wi Juda kende, to bende e piny ma ne omiye nyalo. Kuom oganda ma ne ok okawo chandruok mare ka gimoro malich. Kuom en owuon, nikech noparo ni hera ne tiende dak gi lit mosiko. Ong’iyo nyithinde—ma owinjo marach to pod gin mangima—kaeto okawo okang’. Timbegi nyaka rum koda.
Kane osewouk e osiptal, Mary nomanyo thieth mar obuongo, ok mana ne en owuon, to bende ne nyithinde. Otiyo kanyakla gi riwruoge ma konyo jogo ma osekalo e goch manie mier, kendo ochung’ motegno mar konyo mon ma, kaka en, chon ne paro ni onge konyruok ka giwuok. Onyiso ji wachne e lela, kendo oketho ling ma ne chiegni nege. Kata kamano, Juda pod odong’ e od twech, mak mana ni mbelni ma ne oweyo ok nyal ruchi mayot. Chang biro mos, gi lit, kendo opong’ gi gik ma duoko ng’ato chien—kata kamano Mary otamore ling’ kendo.
Bang’ dweche moko, Mary ochung’ e nyim galamoro ei od romo, ka owuoyo e nyasi moro ma ne itimo ne jogo ma ne osekalo e goch mege udi to odong’ mangima. Omako maikrofon, kochung’ motegno kendo gi adiera, duonde okwe kendo ok tetni. “Kuom higni mang’eny, ne abedo nikech ne aparo ni onge gima anyalo timo. Kata kamano, an gi geno. Wan duto wan gi geno.” E laini ma nyime, nyako moro ma rawera neno gi wang’e madongo kendo ma nigi luoro—wenge ma Maria ne nigo chon. Bang’ romono, odhi machiegni kode ka en gi luoro. Okuodhone niya: “Ok ang’eyo ka anyalo wuok.” Mary nomako lwete, motegno to gi muolo. “Ok onego itim kamano kendi.” Kuom mine moro amora ma Mary okonyo, ngima mar Mary bedo ka opong’ gi teko mar konyo. Timbe mege ling’ kisandori osekethore. Kendo en okang’ mokwongo kuom ngimane, owinjo ka en gi thuolo mar adier.
Mahan Aslam
Group 11 of Creative Writing for Social Change.
Final Year Medical Student.
Baluchistan, Pakistan.
Zeba’s eyes, swollen and red, had emptied themselves of tears, her face flushed with the weight of sorrow and constant crying.
She had almost lost the will to live; nothing felt right anymore. For a while, she closed her eyes — her head throbbed from all the crying, and her dry, tear-stained eyes stung as the sunlight hit them.
She found herself sitting face-to-face with her younger self, both silent, looking at each other.
It was the first time they had met after years.
Weak from crying, her back aching, Zeba leaned against her red comfort pillow, embroidered with Balochi Doch Jalarr — a gift from a woman whose story she had written — as she spoke in a weary voice.
Her: Why are you here?
Younger Self: I was missing you.
The distance between them wasn’t much, just the length of the red mat in the veranda — Zeba on one side, her younger self on the other.
Her: But I don’t—
Younger Self (smirking): I know you’ve been missing me too.
Wrapped in a dark brown shawl, stitched by her mother, she tightened it as the winter breeze brushed against her, holding onto its warmth.
Her: You’re the last thought in my mind.
Younger Self (softly): Then why am I still here?
Silence
Her (pausing, voice heavy): You should know… you never really left.
Younger Self: Because you locked me in a room with no other way out.
Her: Maybe that’s why I’m full of memories… yet no peace.
Younger Self: Isn’t this what missing feels like?
Her: Maybe…Yes
Younger Self: Then why run from it?
Her: Because I don’t want to relive the pain.
Younger Self: But isn’t running still carrying it?
Her: Facing it just makes the pain heavier.
Younger Self (with gloomy eyes and a sorrowful tone): Holding on only makes the pain heavier.
Her (with hope in her eyes, waiting for a solution): Tell me how to let it go?
Younger Self: Stop Running from it.
Her: It’s not that easy.
Younger Self: I know. But hiding makes it harder.
She pauses, her words caught in her throat. Her younger self continues, gently yet firmly.
Younger Self: It’s time for you to free me.
She listens, really listens.
Younger Self: Don’t let your future self have this conversation. Because if not now… then never.
She gasps, taking a deep breath.
Younger Self: We’ll both heal if you let me go.
She listens to the way a child, after sobbing into their mother’s arms, finally quiets down — breath still shaky but holding on to the warmth of reassurance.
Younger Self: I’ll be with you, side by side, in every laugh, every cry, healing and becoming whole.
Younger Self (with a quiet voice, soft yet clear enough for someone to hear): Our new reality can be us living side by side, free and happy.
Her face shows a sense of realisation as if she knew it was right and silently agreed.
She hesitates, but without waiting for permission, she embraces her younger self.
And she cries. Like a child who wakes up to find their mother has stepped away in their sleep — clinging, afraid to let go, sobbing with all her heart. But this time, she is holding herself too.
As she sat there, she wondered, If I, even after therapy, medicine, and every possible way of healing, still need a space to talk to someone who carries the same sadness, how many others must feel the same?
As a writer, she had told the stories of women in her community, but it was the moment she envisioned HerSpace — a place where stories weren’t just told but truly held.
The community started small, beginning with friends, and gradually reached more women in the community.
A space not just to endure their traumas, but to reclaim them, share, and heal together.
In her village, every evening, men would gather to share their stories, but women had no such space. Their days never truly ended — burdened with responsibilities and judged if they ever paused.
Zeba grew up longing to be visible — to her parents, to everyone around her. Her parents, who were separated but never divorced, were held back by a society where divorce was too big a step. So whenever they met, it wasn’t peace or closure — just the same old arguments, leaving Zeba caught in the middle, longing for a family that never truly was.
When she stayed with her father’s family, she felt like an outsider — unnoticed, as if she didn’t belong. And with her mother’s family, she was seen as a burden, a responsibility no one wanted to carry.
Though her financial needs were met, what a child truly needs is support and attention — something she was always left longing for.
She stayed with her mother when she started school because a girl, they said, should be with her mother. Her father visited her once a month, and whenever they met, she would wave, sit beside him, and then slowly fade into silence — he felt like a stranger now, a man who appeared only once a month.
She began pleasing everyone around her, desperate for attention — even from those who never truly loved her. Just to be seen. Always. Even if only for a while.
At school, she listened as her friends talked about their fathers dropping them off in the morning, their mothers packing their tiffins with homemade food, combing their hair, and welcoming them home with warm meals before they left for madrasa or tuition. She longed for the same — a home where both parents were there, sharing the little moments.
But now, she knew — that was never meant for her.
In moments of longing, when she sat with her mother, she saw the helplessness in her eyes — she wanted the best for her daughter but didn’t know how. She didn’t know where to find stability or how to hold on to it.
She realised how suffering always seemed to fall on women. She knew her father might have had his low moments, but her mother — whom she had seen every day, whose helpless eyes she knew too well — never even had the high ones.
She was sure, just like every other man in the village, her father ended his days with tea in a dabba and spent his free time at picnics. But for her mother, there was no escape — only responsibilities, day after day.
A woman who had endured her own struggles, yet was blamed for everything — the separation, the chaos of her relationship.
At times, when they sat together, her mother would say to her, “You don’t need to be like me. Dream big, study harder, and become extraordinary.”
In bits and pieces, her mother tried to share her story — never fully, but through broken conversations, just enough for her to understand.
It was in those moments that she was drawn to writing, to tell the stories of women through a woman’s gaze, using words to make sense of a world she never quite felt at home in.
The weight of those early years never truly faded. It stayed in the back of her mind, a quiet voice reminding her that nothing lasts forever.
This longing shaped her into an adult who aches for steadiness but feared holding on too tightly — to friendships, to love, to anything that reminded her of the fragile bonds she once knew.
It shaped her in ways she wouldn’t fully understand until much later.
In writing stories, she saw fragments of her mother. But, after HerSpace, she began seeing pieces of herself in other women too. She realised her pain wasn’t just her’s; it lived in so many others. Her struggles became beads, woven into the bracelets of other women’s lives — each one a story, a pain, a strength — all connected in a circle of resilience and understanding.
With time, she found herself wanting to hear the story of that stranger — the man she called her father. Maybe he had his own story too. But throughout her childhood, she was never given the chance to listen.
She decided to reconcile with her father — to finally hear his side of the story.
She never had a direct conversation with him, but after long, tiring days at work, she would lean on her father when he visited. She would talk, and he would listen. In his silence, she felt his regret — the weight of the role he played. She knew the past was gone, beyond fixing, so she chose to mend their relationship for what remained.
HerSpace was shaping her, helping her let go. Hearing stories from other women made her heal and feel happier. They cried, laughed, and grew stronger together. Oftentimes, they joked about their traumas as if they were nothing — but deep down, each knew that, after a day of grieving, humour must fix the sadness, even if just for a moment. The community gradually became more than just a group of people — it became a family.
After ten years of working and reaching women in different communities, that’s how she got invited to give a TED Talk — to share their stories and the journey that led her there.
Zeba had her TED Talk tomorrow. She was trying to sleep when she checked her phone — it was already 3:00am. A mix of nervousness and excitement filled her as she thought about sharing her journey of self-love, mental health, and how she had spread it through her community space.
Deep in her mind, she wondered, “Do I deserve this chance?” She doubted herself.
Every night before going to bed, she would think about every little detail of her past — how everything she had been through had shaped her. But today was different — there was no sadness like usual, only a sense of pride, with just a sprinkle of nervousness, barely noticeable even to her.
It was 8:00am when her alarm rang. She woke up feeling sleepy and dizzy, but she had a big day ahead.
After getting ready and wearing her favourite pink Balochi dress, the fragrance of her favourite perfume filled her room.
At 11:00am, she arrived at the TED Talk.
She stepped up to the podium, her eyes scanning the diverse crowd in front of her. Her heart raced, and she could feel her hands trembling slightly, but she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and put on her most confident smile. Though nervous, she refused to let it show too much. With a steady voice, she began to share the story of HerSpace — how it all started as a small idea, and how it grew into something much bigger than she ever imagined. She spoke openly about the struggles, the late nights, the moments of doubt, and the triumphs that kept her going. Her words were honest and heartfelt, drawing the audience into her journey, making them feel every high and low. By the end, it wasn’t just a speech — it was a piece of her life, shared with vulnerability and courage.
She ended her speech, “It’s not easy for anyone to let go and relearn — it wasn’t easy for me either. But today, as I stand here, I imagine my younger self beside me, smiling wide, her eyes full of hope. I step forward, making space for mistakes, knowing the world doesn’t stop here — and neither does healing. Every end is a beginning. This is not the end; it’s the beginning of another self-love journey, a new chapter in a new decade of my life.”
As she finished her speech, the crowd clapped loudly. In that moment, she saw herself again in the village — her younger self, happy and playing with the mud pots she used to make in her childhood.
She felt it deep within — she was finally healing, reaching the last stage of grief: acceptance. She was ready to guide others in their journey.