It’s honestly so fun to be a teenager, I can dress up how I want, make new friends, and wear makeup to showcase my femininity—I just love being a woman, my feminine energy has always made me who I am; from the way I carry myself to the way I radiate this blooming energy to the world… Ever since the iconic “Mean Girls” movie came out, I quickly became inspired by Regina’s clique—how the actresses portrayed their popular personalities and even wore the best outfits I have ever seen!

You don’t see those here in Afghanistan.

Growing up, I have always been told that “Blue is a boy’s color”, which made sense since a lot of girls during my childhood would wear or play with something pink, therefore, I’ve spent my entire life associating blue with masculinity and pink for femininity.

Though, as I pull the heavy fabric over my head, I feel like a candle being snuffed out. Through the mesh screen, the world is a series of tiny, distorted diamonds, except diamonds don’t twinkle in the night sky anymore, they’re oppressed by the Taliban’s law—I can no longer recognize who is who, including the one who is under this so-called ‘modest’ clothing, for I am no longer a teenager, but a zombie covered in injustice. The pink lip gloss I once tucked into my pocket feels like a contraband soul. I can feel the small, cylindrical weight of it against my thigh—a secret rebellion hidden beneath meters of heavy, suffocating polyester. It is a relic from a lifetime that ended when the world turned grey. In my mind, I am still the girl who radiates "blooming energy," but under the burqa, I am a garden paved over with concrete.

I pass a figure in a burqa, and instead of feeling the warmth of sisterhood, I feel a jolt of ice in my veins; Is that a woman seeking the same air as I am? Or is it a pair of eyes belonging to the morality police, hiding behind the same lace to hunt for the flash of a painted toenail or the sound of a voice raised too high? We have been forced into the same uniform, yet we have never been more divided.

Divided in the way we are prohibited from classrooms,

in the way we are not allowed to speak in public,

and in the way we have lesser rights than men,

to the point we have lesser rights than animals.

I wanted to see the "Regina" I once admired. I wanted to see the girl who believed pink was a power move and blue was just a sky she was allowed to touch. But the mesh did its job too well. The diamonds of light didn't reveal a face; they only highlighted the cage. I reached up, my fingers trembling, to touch where my cheek should be, but I only felt the rough, synthetic weave. I realized then that I wasn't looking at a girl anymore. I was looking at a void.

Turns out, a Regina judges your shoes, but a Regime forbids your footsteps—the difference between these two words is the two last letters, -na, and -me.

Regina wants to be the only name you remember, but a Regime ensures you don't even have a name to give.

The wind picked up, tugging at the hem of my garment, and for a moment, the blue fabric fluttered. It was the color I was told belonged to boys—the color of strength and sky. But as it wrapped tighter around my throat, I realized it was actually the color of a deep, drowning ocean.

I am still under here. I am screaming. But the world only sees the blue, and the blue is silent.

And beneath the misunderstandings from all around the world, telling us that the religion of peace is a facade, I feel the weight of their judgment from across the oceans, heavier even than the pleated fabric on my shoulders. They watch the news and see my silhouette, using it as a canvas to paint their own fears and prejudices. They whisper that our faith is a cage, that the "religion of peace" is merely a shroud for a thousand different cruelties.

But they do not see the girl inside.

They don't understand that for my mother, a scarf was once a choice of grace—a crown of dignity she wore while she felt safe underneath that burqa. They don't see that they are doing exactly what the men with the guns are doing: they are looking at the blue fabric and refusing to look at me. To the world, I am a political statement. To the Taliban, I am a liability to be hidden.

But between the two? I am simply erased.

On Wednesdays, we wear blue indeed, symbolizing the sky—the painful cries I’ve sent to Allah wishing he hadn’t created women if we are going to be this unlucky. The girl who loved pink was gone, buried under a Wednesday that would never end. I wasn't "fetch." I wasn't "popular." I was just...

gone.

The Frontman