I fled the Taliban – now I’m helping educate girls in Afghanistan

Growing up in a war-torn country shapes you in ways that are hard to explain. I didn’t grow up like most children in the world. Life has never been ordinary and it never will be for a child of war. The sounds of explosions and gunfire were the soundtrack to my childhood in Afghanistan. The war wasn’t just in the news; it was in front of my door.

I clung to school, not only because it promised me a future, but because it gave me something to hold on to in a world where everything seemed to escape me. Even as a child, I found small ways to resist chaos. When I was 10, I started teaching girls and women in my neighborhood to read and write – right in our backyard. The small amount of money – less than two dollars a month – that I earned went to pay for my English lessons. It wasn’t much, but to these women – and to me – it was everything. It was an act of defiance, reclaiming a small part of what the war had tried to take from us.

From a very young age, I wrote poetry. My poems were not just lines on paper; it was a way to deal with the chaos around me. As I grew up, my passion for writing also developed.

At first, I thought I would become a doctor. I believed that healing the wounds would be my way of repairing the broken world around me. So I studied medicine at university. To pay for college and support my family, I wrote for newspapers, focusing on women’s issues. Although writing has always been my passion, it was through this journey that I realized that stories also have the power to heal.

Going to college meant not only facing the rigorous demands of medical training, but also overcoming significant obstacles within society and at home, including resistance from those close to me. This struggle was shared by many girls, as we all faced a world that constantly sought to limit our dreams and aspirations. Yet, despite these obstacles, I persevered. I worked tirelessly and made so many sacrifices, big and small, to finance my education.

As I continued to write, I discovered that journalism provided a powerful platform for documenting the experiences of those affected by war. This allowed me to use my writing to give voice to victims and share their stories with the world. This is what made me move towards journalism: I came to understand its potential for change.

A few years later, I joined the BBC in Kabul and began documenting these stories. As a young person, the stories I brought to light were those of young people cut short by war, of lovers separated by conflict, and of families torn apart.

These stories didn’t just make headlines; they were my reality, and the voices of parents, lovers and friends who lost loved ones still resonate in my mind. Yet, despite all this heartbreak, I continued my studies and my work, knowing that telling these stories was my way of fighting back.

In a country where every time I left home it felt like I might never return, and every goodbye to my family felt like it might be my last, writing is became my world. But it wasn’t easy. The weight of countless stories of blood and loss, combined with the constant fear of dying in an explosion and never seeing my parents and siblings again, weighed heavily on me. This took a toll on my mental health. But I continued.

Then the Taliban returned in 2021. Afghanistan fell into their hands, as did everything I had built. I fled to the UK, leaving my family, my country behind… Starting over in a new country was another battle. I had to find a place to live and build a new life from scratch, while carrying the weight of everything I had lost in my heart and mind.

In the dark, a year after the Taliban banned girls from attending secondary school, we at the BBC launched the Dars (“Lesson” in Dari and Pashto) educational program for children in Afghanistan. This program was deeply personal to me. I often think of my sisters in Afghanistan and other young girls like them, whose futures are at stake.

Serving these teenagers and contributing to their education with engaging courses such as math, English, and history seems like a way to honor not only my own journey, but also the dreams of countless others. It’s a reminder of what we endured. It is also a glimmer of hope.

Each return of experience in Afghanistan means a spark of light returning to my life. And a sense of purpose and hope. Poignant and powerful, every text or voicemail, every photo they send of themselves watching “Dars” revives my spirit – it reaffirms the importance of our work.

I think of one of our teenage viewers in Afghanistan, who dreams of becoming a doctor, like me. But now she is no longer allowed to go to school. She watches “Dars” every week to stay connected to learning – and always adds the word “doctor” before her name.

Another message from a 12-year-old girl in Kabul still touches me: “Our future is very uncertain. But the new program launched by the BBC has given us hope… It’s like a light in a very dark tunnel.

As I always say, although the Dars program cannot replace school, it helps these girls keep their hopes and aspirations alive.

Now, as we prepare to start the fourth series of our program, I know that my story is not only one of survival but also of purpose. Through war, loss, and fear, I discovered that life is about more than surviving—it’s about finding something worth fighting for.

Sahar Rahimi is a journalist at BBC News Afghan Languages. The fourth series of ‘Dars’ begins on Saturday September 28 on the BBC’s Afghan Service. Watch “Afghanistan: for the good of my sisters”– a BBC Eye Investigations film about four BBC presenters who fled Afghanistan after the Taliban takeover in August 2021 and are helping to bring education back to Afghan children.