As I prepare to engage more deeply with the women of Aghbar, a small, quiet village hidden high in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, I am not coming as a stranger. Though the language is different and the paths unfamiliar, I carry stories that feel hauntingly similar to theirs. I carry the voices of women from the Central African Republic (CAR)—my home—where generations of pain and perseverance live side by side. This article is my attempt to build a bridge between two worlds that, at first glance, seem far apart, but whose women share more than anyone might expect. It is also a mirror, a reflection of myself as a woman who has known struggle, who has seen women survive with so little and still smile like queens.

In the Central African Republic, girls are often forced to grow up too quickly. I’ve seen with my own eyes as young girls are pulled from school, wrapped in clothes they didn’t choose, called "wife" before they even understand what that word means. Early marriage is more than a tradition, it is an unchallenged thief. It steals time, education, dreams, and identity. In my community, many girls become mothers before they even finish learning how to care for themselves.

When I arrived in Aghbar, I didn’t need to ask many questions before I began to see similar patterns. Girls here, like Fatima and Asmao, do not go to school. Not because they don't want to, but because there are too many obstacles like distance, money, family expectations, the list goes on. “There is nothing to do here,” Fatima told me, her voice quiet, her eyes tired. “At first it looks like there is something, but then... there is nothing.” She spends her days cleaning, cooking, sometimes walking around the village, or watching Bollywood movies. And when she dreams, she dreams of flying to France, to Germany, to any place where life might feel fuller. But she doesn’t have the money. She doesn’t work. Like so many girls I know from CAR, she is stuck between what she wants and what she’s allowed. She experiences a constant tension between her dreams and the reality of her environment. Fatima wants to move forward, but she is held back by what is often expected of her: to stay at home, help with household chores, marry early, and not dream too much. This sentence highlights the silent injustice that many girls experience. Society does not allow them to freely choose their destiny. They are therefore stuck between the desire to rise and the reality that pulls them down. They do not lack aspiration or intelligence, they simply lack freedom. Even when their dreams grow, the path to reach them stays narrow and uncertain.

One thing that struck me hard was that many of the girls and families in Aghbar live in tents. Not just for a few days, but for years. Imagine that. Living in a plastic or fabric shelter, through the cold mountain nights, when the wind cuts through every layer and there is no fire to keep warm. “We’ve lived in a tent for two years,” one girl told me. She said it plainly, like it was normal, but I felt the weight behind her words.

Once again, my heart turned home. In CAR, tents are everywhere, not because people choose them, but because war has taken everything else. Entire families have been displaced throughout the ongoing conflict. Homes burned. Schools turned into ruins. Mothers fled with their babies on their backs, hoping to find peace. Many of them still live in tents to this day, not in the mountains but in camps, in the bush, or on the outskirts of cities. Their children no longer go to school, not because they don't want to learn, but because there is no money for books, no teachers, and no classrooms. When a child is hungry, school becomes a distant dream. When water is miles away, there is no time for homework. And when there is no light, how can a child study at night?

Water is the foundation of life, and yet, it is the most fragile part of life for so many women in both Aghbar and CAR. In my country, many women walk for hours each day just to reach a borehole or river. Sometimes, they wait in long lines for just a few buckets. The water is often dirty, but they drink it anyway, because there is no other choice. Diarrhea, typhoid, and cholera become part of daily life.

In Aghbar, it’s the same battle. When I asked girls what they would change if they had the power, they didn’t say clothes or phones or jobs. They said water. Water comes before everything else. “Water first,” said Fatima. “Then we can think of other things.” It reminded me how development must begin with dignity, and dignity begins with clean water.

Thanks to the High Atlas Foundation, Aghbar has recently received some water infrastructure including tanks, pipes, and irrigation. But not everyone is connected, and not every tent feels the benefit. It is better, but still far from enough. In CAR, most of the country hasn’t even reached this stage yet.

Even in the hardest places, joy finds its way. And in Aghbar, it arrived through music. I was lucky enough to witness a traditional Moroccan celebration. The moment the drums started, I felt something shift in the air. The rhythm was alive, deep, earthy, and powerful. Women clapped, sang, and danced in perfect unity. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the energy. It was contagious. The beat moved me, literally, and I found myself dancing too. The music wasn’t just sound. It was identity. It was resistance. It was pride.

Moroccan culture values these traditions deeply. The clothes, the instruments, the community spirit, it all made me feel like I was part of something sacred. It reminded me of my own culture back home in CAR where we also sing and dance with purpose. Our style is different — our drums, our movements, our songs speak a different language. Our traditional dances are often more grounded and heavy in steps while Moroccan dances are filled with spins, flowing garments, and clapping rhythms. Even so, the soul is the same.

In both places, music is memory. It is how we remember who we are and pass it on to the next generation. It brings people together when words fail, and it reminds us that no matter how poor or forgotten we may feel, our culture is wealth.

I came to Aghbar not as a tourist and not just as a student but as a woman carrying the weight of two worlds. One of them is mine, shaped by war, hunger, strength, and silence. The other I am still learning, but it speaks to me in familiar ways. I am here to listen, to compare, and to connect; to write down what the girls say; and to tell their stories as truthfully as I can because they deserve more than silence.

And through this writing, I hope to remind them and the world that they are not alone, that there are girls in CAR just like them, that we, as women, are stronger together, and that even when we are denied education, denied freedom, and denied safety, we still find ways to survive, to hope, to laugh, and to love. This article is only a first step. A draft of a bridge that I am still building. As I walk with the women of Aghbar, I carry with me the resilience of Central African women. And, as I return to CAR, I will carry the warmth and wisdom of the women here in Morocco.

Despite language, despite borders, despite pain, our stories echo one another. We may live in tents, carry water on our head in buckets, or watch the world pass us by — but we also carry dreams. We sing. We fight for our daughters. We imagine better lives, even when the world tells us not to. These dreams are not only about escaping hardship, they are about claiming the right to learn, grow, and build futures that belong to us alone.

We are women. And we are not waiting anymore.

Benicia Sephora Zouma Infeïna is a student and writer, committed to amplifying the voices of women and girls across Africa and beyond.