The story was compiled and written by: Nasrin Nastaran, Ruqia’s schoolmate and neighbor

In the Dasht-e-Barchi area of Kabul, a poor family lived. The father and mother had to work day and night just to find a piece of bread. Despite his old age and illness, the father would roam the alleys with a worn-out pushcart. In the heat of summer, thirsty and hungry, and in the cold of winter without warm clothes, he would shout: “We buy scrap iron, old bottles, stale bread!” But his earnings were never good. Sometimes he didn’t even make ten Afghanis and returned home empty-handed, yet he never gave up. At times he fainted, and people helped him.

The mother of the family was ill, and the father couldn’t afford her medicine and doctor’s visits. They had three daughters: Ruqia, Khadija, and Somaya. Ruqia and Khadija both went to school and also wove carpets to help support the family, but carpet weaving didn’t bring enough money either.

Ruqia, the eldest, was in 12th grade, and Khadija was in 10th. Both were hardworking top students. Ruqia dreamed of becoming a doctor so she could treat her parents and help the underprivileged. She studied with the fewest resources and constantly struggled with poverty. There were days she wasn’t allowed into class because she didn’t have a uniform and had to stand crying at the school gate, begging to be let in. Sometimes she worked in people’s houses to earn money for her and her sister’s school fees. She always wore second-hand clothes but bought new ones for her sisters and mother.

Ruqia couldn’t afford a preparatory course for the Kankoor (Entrance exam) university entrance exam, but she asked friends for study plans and schedules and followed them at home. She always advised her sisters not to give up and not to let poverty block their progress. She believed that through hard work one could defend their rights and change their life. She wanted to become someone who would save her family from suffering for a piece of bread.

In her final year of school, Ruqia often told her father: “Father, the day is near when I’ll become a doctor, and you won’t have to work anymore. I’ll work so hard that you’ll live well, eat good food, and have new clothes and shoes.” Hearing this, her father felt joy and longed to see that day.

Ruqia saw the Kankoor (Entrance exam) exam as the first step toward success and believed that the color of the pen she used on that exam paper could change her destiny. This year was full of excitement and effort for her. Spring rains had turned the alleys of Dasht-e-Barchi muddy. With summer and the holy month of Ramadan, Ruqia studied with even more determination. She fasted without suhoor, telling herself: “This hunger will one day end, and that day will come when I can fast with a full stomach.”

One night in Ramadan, Ruqia wove carpets late into the night and then started studying. That night they had enough food, thanks to a neighbor’s charity. She happily stayed awake until dawn, studying. The next morning, she finished her chores earlier than usual. Before her father left for work, she told him: “Father, if your work goes well today, can you bring me two notebooks? All of mine are full.” He replied: “Of course, my daughter.”

Ruqia was delighted. She put on her black dress and white scarf, kissed her mother, and left for school. Everything seemed like a normal day. Near noon, as the dismissal bell rang and students prepared to leave, suddenly a loud, terrifying explosion shook the school. Darkness and dust filled the air. Screams and cries rose everywhere. People ran in fear, begging for help. Ambulances and police vehicles arrived, but it was of no use. The ground was covered with lifeless bodies. Broken pens, open books, blood-soaked notebooks, and fallen shoes lay scattered in the dirt.

Ruqia’s father, who had neither a phone nor news of what had happened, had earned a small sum that day and bought notebooks for her. Returning home happily, he said: “Ruqia, my daughter! Come, see what I bought you.” Her worried mother replied: “She hasn’t come back from school yet.” Just then, the sound of an ambulance came closer, and Khadija, the younger daughter, was brought home injured. The parents were shocked. The mother cried out: “Where is your sister? Why isn’t she here?” Khadija couldn’t speak. The doctor said that the Sayed-ul-Shuhada school had been targeted by a suicide attack that day.

Ruqia’s father rushed to the mosque and found his daughter’s lifeless body in a corner. He collapsed and cried out: “My daughter, get up! Weren’t you going to be a doctor? Weren’t you, my hope? Get up! I brought you notebooks!” But Ruqia could no longer hear him.

That morning, Ruqia, with all her hopes and dreams, was laid to rest. Her parents buried a piece of their heart, and her story ended in bitter tragedy.