Fatema Hosseini 


There’s so much I need to say, 
but no one to truly listen.
I am a lonely girl, 
lost in a sea of sorrow, 
walking barefoot along the edge of a blade, 
a blade that reminds me of death with every step.
The narrow alleyways of our neighborhood, 
Jabraeil, 
are filled with untold stories, 
each heavier than the last.



It all began the day they came...
Bearded men with loaded guns, ready to kill children who only wanted to learn.
Children so soft, so pure, who do not understand weapons, who do not understand death.
But our homeland taught them fear before it ever taught them life.

They were forced to stay indoors.
To remain in silence.
To live like lifeless objects, discarded in corners, waiting…
Waiting for the day someone would buy their bodies, violate them, use them for reproduction,
and once drained of strength, bury them along with the evidence of their crimes.



The next lesson I, a soft Afghan girl, must learn from life
is the fear of rape.
Because here, in this land, the rapist is always right.

The victim must constantly justify herself:
She shouldn’t have worn that.
She shouldn’t have gone out.
She shouldn’t have worked.
She shouldn’t have lived.
She shouldn’t have breathed.
Because a woman has no right to any of these things.
After all, women have no mind, do they?

They came into our streets and opened fire on men.
while children stood by, watching in horror.
Wounds were carved into our society, deep and raw.
And for what?
Their excuse? They were chasing a thief.
Because, apparently, all our men are thieves.

And our girls?
According to them, all Afghan girls are whores.
In their twisted version of Islam, prostitution is a sin.
But the man who buys a woman’s body? He walks free.
He is “wise.”
He is “righteous.”
He is a man with a white beard.



Only the woman is ever guilty.
Only the woman is unclean.
Only the woman is to blame.

These are the things I hear every day,
and I don’t understand
When will they finally understand?

The men who were shot were not thieves.
The girls they took away, under countless excuses,
were not prostitutes.

More than anything else,
I feel abandoned.

Who do I turn to?
To a God who has forgotten us?
To those who commit oppression, theft, and public executions in the name of Muhammad?

No. I turn to humanity.
Let it be humanity that saves us.

About the Author:
Fatema Hosseini is a self-taught Afghan writer and poet who writes in English and Persian, drawing from imagination, personal experience, and the social struggles around her, especially those tied to her identity as a woman in Afghanistan. Her work often explores pain, resistance, and the deeper meanings hidden within everyday moments. With roots in both personal expression and quiet activism, she sees writing as a powerful way to connect, reflect, and give voice to the unheard. Fatema is currently learning Korean and continues to expand her creative voice across languages and borders.