She stands in front of the mirror.

Her hair has grown a little longer. She has always wished for it to grow long enough to fall below her waist, long enough that when she runs, it dances in the air behind her. She runs her fingers through her thick, tangled hair, and her fingers disappear somewhere among all that darkness.

She calls for her mother.

She comes. She takes the comb and stands behind her. She combs her hair, and whenever she reaches a knot, she gently loosens it so it will not hurt.

At the end, she ties the blue hair tie around her braids.

For her, her hair is the only thing that remains from her childhood and continues to grow with her.
---
That same day:

Morning is not yet complete. The sky remains somewhere between night and day, and the pale, distant moon can still be seen in the sky.

Sometimes I imagine the moon smiles too. Perhaps those dark patches on its face are its dimples.

I tell myself, I must write.

About children whose childhood ended before they understood what childhood was.

About children who saw kites less often than warplanes in the sky; about those who heard the sound of explosions before they knew the sound of fireworks.

But perhaps it is better to start with myself.

There were days when I dreamed of becoming a footballer.

I wanted to run across a vast, endless green field, with new white shoes and a ball beneath my feet, while people called my name. 

I had been waiting for my father since morning. Waiting for the sound of the key turning in the door and running toward it.

My father was a soldier and was just about to retire, and this was supposed to be his last service.

After every departure, he would turn back once and ask:

“What should I bring you this time, my girl?”

This time, however, he had promised me a new pair of shoes—white shoes.

That cold autumn morning, the smell of winter could be felt in the cool howling wind. My ears were red from the cold. I wrapped my green flowered scarf tightly around my head. I put my hands inside my pockets and slipped my numb, cold feet into my slippers.

With the money in my pocket, I left the house to buy bread.

I had walked that road a hundred times.

It was the same alley.

Until that day, I thought that alley was simply a place between a house and a bakery.

Suddenly, the seconds stopped, and for a moment, the world stood still.

Then the disheveled, broad-built man with a large body and wide shoulders stood in front of me.

I took one step back. But he came closer and blocked the way.

He reached out his hand and grabbed my wrist tightly.

My voice was stuck in my throat, and no sound came out of me.

It was the first time a hand other than my mother’s had come near my body without my permission.

In a muffled voice, I said:

“Let me go.”

He tightened his grip on my wrist.

Then his hand reached my hair and pulled one of my braids so hard that my head jerked backward.

He said:

“If you let me stroke your hair, I’ll give you one hundred afghanis.”

One hundred afghanis.

I understood the number.

But I did not understand why my fear had to have a price.

I tried with all my strength to pull my hand away, but he would not let me.

He stood so close that I could smell the strong scent of his clothes.

He looked at my braids showing from beneath my scarf. Then he reached toward me again, and I felt his rough hand on my body.

Suddenly, something inside me woke up.

I bit his hand with all my strength and ran behind me.

My scarf fell from my head.

I had always imagined running differently.

On a vast, endless green field, with a ball beneath my feet.

One of my slippers slipped off, and I did not look back.

I just ran.

And one word kept spinning in my head:

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

I had only learned that a stranger, a non-mahram man, was not allowed to touch me.

But I was only twelve years old.

I still did not know that breaking that rule was not my fault. 

I was out of breath.

When I reached the courtyard, I hid behind the hallway door.

My mother called me.

I did not answer.

If she asked, “Where is the bread?” what would I say?

How could I explain something for which I did not even have a name yet?

I fell to the floor. I did not cry, because my body was only beginning to warn me that it was afraid.

Suddenly, I wanted fresh bread.

I remembered Eid night; Baba had brought two oily breads and gave me the blue hair tie as Eidi. 

The smell of bread had always been the smell of home to me.

I quietly said:

“I wish Baba were here.”

But Baba was not here.

And I was only twelve years old.

My eyes fell on the scissors in front of me, lying on the shelf.

I took my hair in my hands and began cutting it, one by one.

The scissors closed.

One lock of hair fell.

Then another. And another.

I held the blue hair tie tightly in my fist.

I thought I had to erase something from myself.

Years later, I understood that what needed to be erased was not my hair.

Nor was it guilt.

Guilt had never belonged to me.
----
In my dreams, I still ran.

I still danced.

I still painted my nails, read books, and drew pictures. And I still ran in my white shoes.

Then I learned to write, and finally found the courage to tell someone what had happened that day.

It took years to change one word.

I no longer said:

“Guilty.”

I said:

“A twelve-year-old girl who was afraid.”

Today, I found the blue hair tie among my old things.

I hold it between my fingers.

It is still blue.
---
It is already noon. I have to go.

I hear the call to prayer.

I pray and open the Qur’an. I recite Surah Al-Nas.

Then I open my notebook and begin to write.

My hair has grown long again.

This time, my hand reaches its ends.

Sometimes I still dream that I have become a footballer.

Somewhere far, far away, in another world, I am still waiting for Baba to come.

But I no longer wait for someone to come and save me.

I look in the mirror.

This time, I see a girl who has returned from that alley.

Back to herself.

She was only a girl.

With long hair.

And a dream of running.

And somewhere inside me, that same girl is still running.