Robina Muqimyar - The Afghan girl who lost her classroom and built a path to education for thousands others

This is probably one of the deepest questions I have ever been asked, and honestly, one of the hardest to answer. There are two parts to it: growing up in Afghanistan, and growing up as a girl in Afghanistan. Both carry a lot of pain.

When people think about childhood, they often think about playing with friends, watching cartoons, or not having to worry about tomorrow. My childhood was different. I grew up much faster than I should have. Instead of thinking only about school and games, I was thinking about safety, the future, and whether there would be another attack.

My father always followed the news, and every time there was an explosion or a Taliban attack, we would sit together, worried about our relatives, calling them to make sure they were still alive. That became part of everyday life. Even going to school or to the market meant wondering whether we would come home safely. Fear became something we lived with every day.

At the same time, I loved learning. I loved school, and I loved writing. One of my favourite childhood memories is from when I was about ten years old. I had saved a little money before the new school year and bought myself a pencil. It sounds like such a simple thing, but that pencil changed my life. I loved the way it wrote, and I started writing down my thoughts, my feelings, and stories about peace, education, and the future I dreamed of for Afghanistan.

I would imagine myself speaking on television about why peace mattered and why children deserved a better future. I didn’t know what advocacy or activism meant. I simply wanted to live in a country where children could grow up without fear.

Those writings eventually brought me to television. As a child, I was invited to speak on live TV programs about writing, education, and children’s rights. By the time I was fourteen and fifteen, I had participated in many live interviews. Looking back, I realize I had already become an advocate before I even knew the word “activist.”

Growing up in Afghanistan taught me resilience, but it also took away parts of childhood that every child deserves. I experienced gender discrimination, insecurity, and uncertainty from a young age. Yet it also taught me to dream, to write, and to believe that even one voice can make a difference.

When I think about my own childhood, I also think about the children who are growing up in Afghanistan today. They deserve the same thing every child deserves: to feel safe, to go to school, to dream freely, and to simply be children.

Education has always been one of the most important parts of my life. When I think about my childhood in Afghanistan, I remember how deeply I wanted to learn. I was always curious, always trying to gain more knowledge, achieve the best grades, and become a better version of myself.

Growing up as a girl, I often saw how society underestimated girls. Many people believed that girls could not become leaders, that they were not capable of achieving great things. But instead of accepting those limitations, I wanted to prove that girls are capable of much more. I wanted to become one of the smartest girls in my community, someone who could read, write, think independently, and create change.

At school, education was not only about lessons for me. It was where I discovered my voice. I participated in different activities, took leadership roles, supported my classmates, and shared my writings with others. Writing became a way for me to express my thoughts about peace, human rights, and the future of my country.

One of the most unforgettable moments of my life happened when I participated in a writing competition about peace. I was only a schoolgirl, competing against university students and human rights activists. I never imagined that I could win, but I received first place. I remember holding that award and feeling that maybe my dreams were possible. I thought I could become a writer, an advocate, and someone who could make a difference in Afghanistan.

At that time, I did not know it would be the last competition I would participate in inside my country before losing my access to education.

Education also became my family’s strength during our journey as refugees. I learned that education is not only about personal success; it is a tool that helps families and communities survive. The knowledge I gained, especially my ability to communicate in another language, helped me support my family during difficult moments when we needed to navigate a new reality.

My father saw firsthand how important education is for girls. Through my education and my sister’s education, we were able to support our family, solve problems, communicate with others, and build a new life after displacement. My brothers also became strong supporters of girls’ education because they witnessed the impact education had on our own family.

For me, education changed an entire generation of my family. It gave us confidence, independence, and the ability to contribute to our community. That is why I believe denying girls education does not only harm individual girls—it affects families, societies, and future generations.

Education gave me a voice when I was young, and today I use that voice to fight for every girl who is still waiting for the same opportunity.

In 2021, I was living in Mazar-e-Sharif and was continuing my education with so many dreams for my future. I wanted to graduate, attend university, study law, and use my voice to advocate for women’s rights and justice in my country. I never imagined that one day I would become one of the millions of Afghan girls who would lose access to education.

I still remember the last day I went to school. I was in the middle of my midterm exams. I had just finished one of my exams and was preparing for the next day’s exam. Like any other student, I was thinking about my studies, my grades, and my future.

But that day felt different.

When I was leaving school, I had a strange feeling that I might not return. I looked carefully at my classroom, the streets of Mazar-e-Sharif, and the places that had been part of my everyday life. I wanted to stay longer with my classmates and hold onto those moments. I did not know it at the time, but it was the last time I would walk out of my school as a student.

Soon after, I was forced to leave my home and my education behind. I left with my notebooks, unfinished studies, and dreams that suddenly felt uncertain. Leaving my school in the middle of my exams was one of the most painful experiences of my life because I had worked so hard for my education, and suddenly everything changed in one moment.

When I later watched other girls continue going to school while I could not, I realized the deep meaning of what millions of Afghan girls were experiencing. I understood that being denied education is not only about losing a classroom—it is about losing opportunities, confidence, dreams, and the ability to shape your own future.

But I refused to let this experience stop me.

After losing my access to education, I continued learning through every opportunity I could find. I studied online, improved my English, continued writing, appeared on national television programs, and used my voice to speak about the importance of girls’ education. I also started supporting other girls in Afghanistan by connecting them with online learning opportunities and reminding them that their dreams still mattered.

That experience changed the direction of my life. I became more determined to stand with girls who were facing the same situation. I realized that I was not only fighting for my own education—I was fighting for every girl who was waiting for the chance to learn.

Losing my classroom showed me the power of education. It taught me that education is not only about knowledge; it is about freedom, confidence, and the ability to create change. That is why I continue my work today through Girls on the Path of Change, so that girls who have been denied education can still have hope, opportunities, and a future.

Girls on the Path of Change was not something I started because I wanted to become an activist. It started because I was one of the girls who needed it.

When I lost my access to education, I experienced firsthand what it means to be denied something that should be a basic human right. I was a student who loved learning, who had dreams for the future, and suddenly I became one of the millions of Afghan girls who could not continue their education. At that moment, my first thought was not about changing the world. It was about fighting for my own right to learn.

But as I looked around, I realized I was not alone. I thought about my classmates, my childhood friends, and so many girls who were facing the same reality. Some of my friends were forced into early marriages. Some lost their dreams before they even had the chance to pursue them. I saw their pain, and I felt that I could not stay silent.

Before creating Girls on the Path of Change, I was already supporting girls inside Afghanistan. I was speaking about education, sharing opportunities, and encouraging girls to continue learning through online platforms. But I realized that girls needed more than information. They needed a space where they could come together, share their stories, support each other, and feel that they were not forgotten.

When I became a refugee in Pakistan, my understanding of education became even deeper. I experienced what it felt like to be away from school and away from opportunities. I saw many other girls, not only inside Afghanistan but also among refugee communities in countries like Pakistan and Iran, facing similar struggles. I wanted to create hope—not only for others, but also for myself.

In 2023, I started Girls on the Path of Change with a simple idea: to create a community where girls could learn, connect, and believe in their future again. Our first initiative, “School Girls’ Stories,” brought girls from different parts of Afghanistan and refugee communities together. We shared our experiences, cried together, encouraged each other, and created a connection that many girls had been missing.

What made GPC special was that it was created by one of them. It was created by a girl who understood their pain because she had lived it herself.

Slowly, that small idea grew. We started online classes, connected girls with teachers and volunteers from around the world, and created educational opportunities for girls who had lost access to traditional schools. We organized workshops, learning programs, and spaces where girls could develop confidence and leadership skills.

The girl who started GPC was only sixteen years old, with one device and a dream. I did not have a large organization, funding, or a big team. I only had the belief that girls deserved opportunities. Today, that small beginning has grown into a global community with volunteers, educators, and supporters from different countries. We have supported thousands of girls and reached many more through education, advocacy, and storytelling.

Through this journey, my understanding of education has changed. I used to see education as something that would help me achieve my own dreams. But after losing it, I understood that education is much bigger than personal success. Education gives people confidence, independence, and the ability to create change. When a girl receives education, she can support her family, contribute to her community, and inspire future generations.

The experiences that shaped my advocacy are not only the moments when I spoke on international platforms or received recognition. They are the moments when a girl tells me that she found hope because of the GPC. They are the messages from students who continue learning despite every challenge.

When I think about the girl I was before starting Girls on the Path of Change, I would tell her: “You are stronger than you think. The small beginning you are afraid of will become something bigger than you can imagine. The device you started with, the doubts you carried, and the moments you thought you could not continue will become the foundation of something that gives hope to others.”

I would tell her to believe in herself, because every step she takes matters. She did not only build an organization—she built a community where girls know they are not alone.

I believe this generation of Afghan girls is different. They are intelligent, talented, brave, and determined. Despite facing enormous challenges, they continue to search for opportunities, continue learning, and continue believing in their future. They are not a generation that wants to stay silent. They are speaking, sharing their stories, asking for support, and finding ways to continue their education even when many doors have been closed for them.