Aziza Azizi, Afghanistan

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“I Don’t Want Money, I Want to Be Seen”

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At 24 years old, I carry more than just the weight of years—I carry experiences that have aged me far beyond what my passport declares. I come from Balkh, a region rich in history and memory, but my own past is shaded by injustice and survival. My story, like that of many women who rise despite being told to remain silent, is not about wealth or power. It is about being seen.

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I earned a law degree because my mother—my first teacher, my fiercest supporter—believed in me. In a country where education for women is often discouraged or blocked altogether, she paid for my schooling and gave me the chance to dream. I pursued driving lessons, a decision that would one day save her life when no one else would. When COVID-19 struck and she was gravely ill, my father refused to take her to the hospital. "She is sick, and therefore she will die," he said, dismissing her existence. But I did not. I took the keys he flung at me and drove. Not just the car, but our future, our survival, our right to live.

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My father, the man who was supposed to protect us, betrayed us instead. He punished me for refusing an arranged marriage with violence. He cut my wrist with a blade. He throw us out on cold winter night while he indulged in pleasure with another woman. What do you call a man like that? And how do you continue to live when such betrayal comes from your own blood?

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Despite everything, we refused to become invisible. My uncle helped us relocate to Kabul, and later to Istanbul. There, I found moments of peace—I worked, learned a new language, and met kind people. I started to taste freedom and understand happiness. Today, I live in Cyprus, working in a mall and caring for my mother. I dream of reuniting with my brother in Austria. Not for comfort, but for connection. We are a family, and families belong together.

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I find joy in simple things: writing in my diary, painting, remembering the laughter of my friends back in Afghanistan. Those memories—of being 18, full of hope—are bittersweet. I miss my homeland, but I also know that home is not a place; it is where we are safe, where we are loved.

So no, I do not want money. I want something much harder to earn: visibility. Recognition. Dignity. To be seen for who I truly am—a woman who survived, who hopes, who creates, who loves. A woman who is not defined by the cruelty she endured, but by the light she still carries.