The privilege of English class

A quick slideshow presentation explained the urgency and gravity of the situation. In 2021, terrorist group the Taliban again took control of much of Afghanistan. There are several horrific aspects of their regime, among them being their gross restriction of women’s rights. Right now in Afghanistan, women cannot attend school after sixth grade. They cannot leave the home without a male escort. They cannot even show any part of their body; their entire frame must be covered by burkas, save for a small slit in front of their eyes. Moreover, the United States has recently frozen asylum application and visa processing for Afghani immigrants, meaning that Roqaia and Noorya’s visas would soon fail to be sufficient for residency. 

I’m sure everyone has heard descriptions of the atrocities in Afghanistan. But what I’m pretty sure everyone hasn’t heard are firsthand stories of what it is like to live under the Taliban rule. 

I wish I could share their entire stories, but I’ll deliver what stuck with me the most — their dedication to learning English. After the Taliban took control, it became not just dangerous, but illegal for teen girls to attend school. Roqaia told us that she walked over two hours as a young teen just to attend her classes. After the Taliban took over, she was forced to secretly practice in her own home. Noorya shared her experience of sneaking out of her home, with her brother accompanying her as her male escort, to attend a legal “religious school” that secretly taught English. Upon prods from Taliban soldiers, the girls would quickly hide their English books, pulling out religious materials instead to keep up the illusion. When Taliban soldiers grew suspicious of the girls, they were forced to run, often to locations hours from their families or even across the border into Pakistan and Iraq. 

The detail and weight of their stories made me feel as though I was right alongside them, fearing for my life in pursuit of education. When they finished their speeches, I found myself startled, suddenly transported back into the ornate Hillsborough home in which we were seated. 

Even after the fundraiser’s host thanked the girls for their talks and recommenced her description of the situation, I ruminated on what I had just heard. Looking at Roqaia and Noorya, I didn’t see two hardened warriors, changed by their hardships and wise beyond their years. I saw two girls who looked like they could be my classmates, eating their lunches with me at picnic tables, working on projects or playing sports with me after school. Though our experiences were different, at our core, we were really all just teenage girls. Had I been in their shoes, or they in mine, we may have actually had quite similar upbringings. 

Their stories made me feel a lot of emotions. Anger at the state of women’s rights in Afghanistan, sympathy for their separation from their families, but most of all — shame. Here were these two girls, literally risking their lives to attend school and get an education. Meanwhile, I spent my weekdays half-skimming my AP literature readings, groaning about how it was too hot or too cold in my classroom, and complaining about my essays being awarded an 89% instead of a flat A. My problems embarrassingly paled in comparison to those of Roqaia and Noorya’s. 

It’s something that I’ve heard my entire life growing up: Education is a privilege. You should be grateful to attend school. Not everyone has this opportunity. Of course, this is true and relevant. But amidst the various pressures and stressors of college applications, competitive classmates and extracurriculars, it’s easy to lose sight of why the actual thing I’m doing every day is important: learning. In fact, I think that’s the case with most of the goals in our lives. The accouterments of our plans can create often unnecessary fog around our actual actions, making it harder to see the fruits of labor. I think the greatest thing we can do to overcome this is to remind ourselves of the privilege of our positions by extending our worldview. 

That Wednesday night has fundamentally changed the way I’ve been approaching my English class over the past few weeks. Instead of yawning at Shakespeare, I’ve been striving to fully understand and appreciate the text, staying after class to ask my teacher about the etymology of words and googling context for references. And on late nights when I’m barely able to keep my eyes awake at my desk, I think about all the girls in the world who would like to be in a safe home, under working lights, with a book and laptop in hand.

Ayana Ganjoo is a senior at Carlmont High School in Belmont. Student News appears in the weekend edition. You can email Student News at news@smdailyjournal.com.