Gisoo Uruzgani
University bathrooms—and the dorm ones too—always felt kind of odd to me. The trash bins were constantly overflowing with papers, and some of them looked unfamiliar. I used to stare at it and quietly wonder how people even used that stuff. One day, I finally asked my roommate about Kotex. She was a nursing student at Kabul Medical University, and at first, she looked a bit surprised—like, really? You’ve never used sanitary pads? But then she softened and patiently explained everything—where to find them, how to use them.
A few days ago, I asked my father for 100 Afghanis. He didn’t even hesitate—just reached into his pocket, pulled out the cash, and placed it in my hand. Then he asked me, “What do you need it for?” I wanted to say, “It’s for sanitary pads—my period’s coming,” but the words just froze. Before I could think of anything else, my mother jumped in and said I needed it to buy henna for Eid.
My father walked away, but the whole thing left me feeling heavy. Why is it that I can’t even meet my own basic needs without asking someone else? Why is it so hard to tell our fathers that we need money for sanitary pads?
I first came across the term sanitary pads back in 2015. It was when I started studying at Kabul University and moved into the girls’ dormitory. There, I overheard my roommate asking another girl to bring her some pads from outside. They didn’t call them sanitary pads; they used the word Kotex. Before then, I couldn’t even talk to anyone about my period. It just wasn’t something we discussed. All I really knew was what my mother had told me: that I wasn’t supposed to pray or go to the mosque while I was on my period. She’d told me to use pieces of cotton cloth, wash them afterward, and hide them away so I could use them again next time.
Then one day, while shopping with friends in an area called Kot-e-Sangi in Kabul, I finally bought a pack of sanitary pads. They cost 50 Afghanis. I could’ve probably found them for 30 or 40, but the other girls insisted that the 50-Afghani ones were better, so I went with that.
Using a sanitary pad for the first time felt good. Way softer and way more comfortable than the cotton cloth. And the best part? I didn’t have to wash and reuse it.
Even though I was studying math, I was always flipping through my roommates’ pamphlets out of curiosity — reading about childbirth, menstruation, sexual relations between men and women, and all that stuff no one ever really talked about. I also started asking them questions about these issues. And over time, those conversations — about menstruation, childbirth, sexual relations, even things like sexual orientation — became normal between us. That’s how I really began to understand my own body and realized how important it is to take care of it.
When I went back to the village, I brought a pack of sanitary pads with me — sort of like a gift for my mother and my friends. I wanted them to get to know what they were and hopefully start using them during their periods. At first, they were unsure. My mother hesitated too. But little by little, they started to understand how useful they were. Eventually, every time I came home, my bag was packed full — pads, underwear, some makeup for the girls.
But now, after all these years, I find myself back in a place where I can’t even afford to buy sanitary pads regularly. I can’t talk to my students about them either. I see their faces, and it takes me right back to my own teenage years — when I didn’t understand anything about my body, my health, or what was happening to me. These girls might only realize the importance of hygiene and how menstrual problems can affect their health far too late.
And now, with girls being shut out of schools and universities, it feels like everything is slipping away. They can’t work, they can’t earn money, and they can’t even bring up something as basic as menstrual health with the men in their families. It honestly feels like we’ve been pushed back by centuries. Like girls don’t even have the right to live. Like we’re slowly slipping into an age when girls were buried alive.
