At the peak of my own crisis—when every day felt like a silent battle—I still carried hope with me like a quiet companion. Despite the storm inside me, I found myself yearning to do something good for others.
It was about a week before Children’s Day when I decided to prepare gifts for a group of children I had come to know near a well-known café in Shahr-e-Naw, Kabul. These children, aged between 5 and 14, came from families facing severe economic hardship. Many of them spent their days on the streets, humbly requesting help from passersby in order to support their households.
I carefully put together seven gift packs—each one with shirts, trousers, sunglasses, and treasures I thought they’d enjoy. Because I love the magic in people’s eyes when they open a surprise, I wanted to make those moments even more special. I added chocolates, dried fruits, and even a handful of confetti to each pack—hoping that when they opened them, the sparkle in their eyes would mirror the flutter of confetti and the sweetness of the treats.
Finally, Children’s Day arrived. I carried the gifts and went to see my young friends. One by one, I handed them their presents. The joy on their faces brightened my own tired eyes and quietly healed a part of me.
I had included a pair of sunglasses in one of the gift packs, and when another child saw them, he smiled and asked me if I could get him a pair too. Another one asked if I could bring him a traditional Afghan shawl—a patoo. I promised them I would, but the events that unfolded in Kabul never gave me the chance to return and fulfill those promises.
Still, they remain in my thoughts. I carry the hope that one day, I’ll see them again—no longer little children, but kind and radiant adolescents.
That day, during my own silent struggle, I managed to bring a smile to someone’s face. And in doing so, I found a flicker of light in my own darkness.
Noorin Khwaja Eshaan 