The streets of Kabul felt suffocating, quieter than they’d ever been. It had only been a few weeks since the Taliban had taken control, but it felt like years. Zaynab pulled her chador tighter around her, the fabric heavy, the weight of it a constant reminder of the world she had woken up to—one she no longer recognized.

The city she had known as a bustling center of life, with its crowded markets and laughter-filled cafés, had grown still. The laughter, the freedom, the faces of her friends and colleagues—all of them now buried beneath a veil of fear.

Zaynab stood at the window of her apartment, watching the soldiers march past, their boots echoing in the silence. The checkpoints had returned. The voices of protest that once filled the streets had been replaced by whispers. Women were no longer walking freely to their jobs, to their schools. The signs of the old Kabul, the one she’d fought for, the one she had dreamed of, were vanishing.

She didn’t want to admit it, but the restrictions were already taking hold. The law was clear: women could no longer work outside the home. They could no longer leave without a male guardian. She had been a lawyer, proud of the work she had done for women’s rights, helping survivors of violence seek justice. But now, her office was closed. Her colleagues scattered. Her dreams were tied up in an invisible knot.

Zaynab had always been a quiet rebel, the kind who didn’t march into the streets, but instead, worked behind the scenes, fighting for what was right with every case she took, with every person she helped. But now, with her hands tied, she felt powerless.

"Zaynab, come away from the window," her mother called from the kitchen. "It’s dangerous to watch them."

She pulled herself away from the window and stepped into the dimly lit living room. Her mother was hunched over a stove, stirring a pot of soup. The smell of spices filled the room, a small comfort in a world that had turned bitter.

Her mother looked at her with soft, worried eyes. "You need to be careful, my daughter. The world has changed. I know you want to fight, but this… this is not the time."

Zaynab’s chest tightened. She wanted to scream. She wanted to rage at the injustice, at the sudden crushing of everything she had worked for, everything she believed in. But she couldn’t. The walls of their home felt like a prison now, the doors locked, the windows covered. It was no longer safe to be who she was.

Her mother placed a bowl of soup in front of her, urging her to eat. But Zaynab’s mind was elsewhere—on the young girls she had helped put through school, on the women who had once sat across from her at her desk, eager for their voices to be heard. They were all gone now, scattered in the wind.

“Do you remember your sister?” her mother asked softly, almost as though she was testing the waters. “The one who left when the Taliban came before… she didn’t come back.”

Zaynab nodded, the memory of her sister’s departure haunting her. When the Taliban had first risen to power years ago, her sister had left Afghanistan, unwilling to live in a world that forced women to disappear. Zaynab had stayed, believing things would get better, believing the future would be different.

But her sister had been right, hadn’t she?

Zaynab’s eyes blurred with tears, but she wiped them away quickly. She couldn’t break down now. Not now.

A knock at the door startled her. She rose quickly, crossing the room and opening the door to reveal her old neighbor, Salima. The woman’s face was tense, her eyes scanning the street before she stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her.

"Zaynab," Salima whispered, "I’ve heard about a secret school for girls. It’s in the outskirts of the city. They’re teaching in hiding. You should come. You could help them."

Zaynab’s heart skipped a beat. A secret school. The thought seemed impossible, but the spark of hope lit up inside her like a flame.

“They’ll catch you,” Zaynab said, her voice trembling with fear. “It’s too dangerous.”

But Salima’s eyes were unwavering. “It’s worth the risk. The girls need you. You’ve always taught them how to fight for what’s right, now it’s your turn to show them.”

For the first time in weeks, Zaynab felt something stir inside her—a sense of purpose. She wasn’t ready to disappear. She wasn’t ready to let this be the end.

“I’ll go,” she whispered, her voice steady now. “I’ll go.”

The road ahead was uncertain, the risks were high, but Zaynab knew one thing: she wasn’t giving up. Not while there was still a glimmer of hope, not while there were still girls waiting to learn, waiting to believe that they could be more than what the world had planned for them.

She had always believed that the power of knowledge could change the world. And even under the weight of the veil, even in the shadow of a regime that sought to silence her, Zaynab would fight for that belief.

She had no choice.

The flame of resistance had not died. It lived in the hearts of women like her, and no force, no regime, could ever extinguish it.