During my visit to the village Kushkalat, I met another young girl 13, named Iqra – just like my name and whose story stayed with me even after I returned home. Meeting her was not just listening to a story; it was an experience that shook me from inside. She was very young, but the sadness in her eyes made her look much older than her age. When she spoke, her voice was calm, yet every word carried pain.
She told me about her daily life, which was full of responsibility and struggle. Her mornings did not begin with school bags or books, but with work, silence, and worry. She helped her family from a very young age and had never truly experienced a carefree childhood. She spoke about school with longing, as if it was a dream she once touched but could never reach again. While talking, she kept looking down, as if she had already accepted that life would not change for her.
As she continued, I realized how helpless she felt about her future. Decisions about her life were made by others, and she had no choice but to obey. She did not speak of anger or hatred,only quiet acceptance, which hurt me even more. I felt a heavy feeling in my chest because I knew that at her age, she should have been dreaming, learning, and laughing, not worrying about survival.
Standing there, listening to her, I felt ashamed of how often we complain about small problems in our lives. Her pain was not loud, but it was deep. I wanted to say something comforting, but words felt weak in front of her reality. When I left her, I carried her story with me. It made me realize that suffering exists in silence, especially for young girls in forgotten places.
This experience changed me. It made me more grateful for my own life and more aware of the responsibilities we have as a society. I understood that real pain is not always visible, but it leaves marks on the heart. That village visit was not just a trip,it was a lesson I will never forget.