By: Malala Rana

For five years, the heavy iron gates of my school have remained locked. To the world, "five" is just a number in a headline. To me, it is the sum of my stolen youth—1,825 days of waiting for a life that was supposed to begin. In the years when I should have been turning the pages of textbooks, I have only watched the seasons change from behind a window.

I was in the eighth grade when the world stopped. At thirteen, my head was full of defiance and ambition. I didn’t just want to graduate; I wanted to sit on the bench of justice. I dreamed of becoming a judge or a prosecutor—a woman in a black robe, defending the defenseless and giving a voice to the silenced. I saw myself in the lecture halls of the Faculty of Law, debating statutes and fighting for equity.

Then, the locks were turned. At first, we lived on the fumes of hope. We thought it would be a few weeks, perhaps a few months. But months bled into years, and now, half a decade has passed.

My world has shrunk to the four walls of our home. My days are a repetitive cycle of domestic chores—dusting shelves that hold my old, yellowing notebooks. Sometimes, I open them just to smell the paper. That scent is the only bridge left to the girl I used to be. It is a heartbreaking nostalgia for a future that was snatched away.

The cruelest part of this life is the dreaming. At night, my mind escapes this prison. In my dreams, I am still a student. I see myself running through university corridors, clutching my files, rushing to a seminar. I see myself standing in a courtroom, serving justice for my people. I feel the weight of the judge’s gavel in my hand.

But every morning, the sunrise brings a cold slap of reality. There is no classroom. There is no law degree. There is only the silence of a path blocked by a wall I did not build. This chasm between who I am and who I was meant to be is the heaviest burden I carry.

Yet, despite the silence, I refuse to be erased. These five years have been a forced exile from my own identity, but they have not killed my spirit. I am still that eighth-grade girl with the soul of a judge. I have only added years of resilience and quiet strength to my resolve.

A small, stubborn light still flickers in my heart. It tells me that no door stays locked forever. When those gates finally open, I won’t just be returning to a classroom; I will be reclaiming my soul.