The Journal Of Mojdeh Aktar​

As I sit down to recant the intricacies of my day, to attempt to even describe the fear that is ripping at every inch of my pounding chest, I lust for the naivety of the pages before.

I long to be bothered by Azyah’s disorganization, by the voice cracks of my new school teacher who hasn’t quite lived up to the ones prior. I long to have chipped nails and boyfriend troubles. I long to live the normal, elusive, repugnant life of any other 17-year old girl who isn’t right here, right now, streaming salty fervor on this notebook, who isn’t stalemated in Taliban-run Afghanistan.

Oh the Americans: they have been here all my life. They have ensured I don’t get shot in the head for merely being a female, a new prospect I will now have to fear. Mother says there was long a time without them, but I can’t imagine my walk to school in the morning without my daily talk with Johan. 27, an American soldier with emerald-green eyes, dreams of opening an ice cream parlor one day- he’d tell his daily joke to Azyah, myself, and the Mohammad twins, and would then escort us across the street. I wonder if when he left in those planes—with Afghani men pouring off the wings like scattered showers—he remembered to bring his joke book with him. I then shudder at the image.

Am I wrong, to feel betrayed? To feel neglected and lost? I understand, they have a country of their own to run, but to leave us like mice with the Taliban ready to pounce? This is no Tom and Jerry (the American cartoon I grew up knowing and loving)—in the real world, the cat almost always wins. I am not ready to be prey. More specifically, I am not ready to be preyed upon.

A 17-year-old Afghani female. In the eyes of the Taliban, I am not Mojdeh Aktar, first chair of the school flute section, reciter of 231 digits of pi—I am merely a fleshsack prime for childbearing. They marry off girls as young as 12, to disgusting men with disgusting intentions with no regard for who they are or what they’ve done or what they could’ve accomplished. “It’s Islam,” they declare, with their conniving gleams. Is it Islam? Is it really Islam? Would Allah so great and powerful and kind really want an entire population to be rendered destitute and useless? Does he take out his hearing aids when he senses the prayers of his women?

I fear that we are headed back in time. I fear my days of flying kites and playing marbles are no longer, of attending school and having dreams and ambitions. I fear that if I have children one day, they will be deprived of the basic freedoms that I have so enjoyed. I fear tomorrow. I fear the next day. I fear so much that if I were to write it all out, I could not keep it confined to this one notebook.

I gain comfort in knowing that if the Taliban were to gain access to this journal, they would shoot me point blank in the face. This little book will be my act of rebellion towards them. This little book will keep me sane.