It is late at night, and I have just arrived at Lisbon Airport after a five-and-a-half-hour flight.

The flight was relatively comfortable. I had plenty of space, and the two seats beside me were empty. Sometimes I slept; other times, I stayed awake, excited to watch the sunset. After my documents were checked, I collected my luggage and headed towards the metro station. I had to catch a train to another city in Portugal.

The elevators were broken, and the escalators were switched off, so I had no choice but to use the stairs. My backpack was heavy, and my large suitcase was even heavier, despite having packed as few clothes as I could. And on top of everything, my shoelace had come undone. Again.

There were no tickets left for tonight. The first train tomorrow would leave at five in the morning. I decided to spend the next four hours somewhere nearby. With all this luggage, my belongings, and an empty stomach, waiting around here didn't seem like such a bad idea.

The worn-out steps, the rough, faded tiles of the station, and the wiring of its lights told me that this was an old place, a place full of stories.

I couldn't find a bench to sit on. I looked around, assessing my surroundings, hoping to find a clean corner somewhere.

Just then, a man came up the stairs.

Brown complexion, black hair, average height, around forty years old. His shoes were reasonably neat, and even his clothes were clean. These were the details I noticed in those first few seconds.

As he climbed the stairs, our eyes met. Now he was looking directly at me. Staring at me, really. And I was looking back at him, too.

The man slowly pulled his left hand out of his jacket pocket and moved it towards his trousers.

He scratched himself between his legs.

He looked at me and gently bit his lower lip.

Then he continued touching that part of his trousers, his eyes still fixed on me.

His stare was deeply disturbing.

I was frightened and lowered my eyes. I put my wallet back around my neck, checked my phone, and pretended to keep myself busy. My ears were buzzing with fear and embarrassment. My little heart was thumping like a startled, frightened rabbit.

A few seconds later, when I looked up again, the man was standing just a few steps away from me.

With his lustful eyes, he seemed to be swallowing me whole, luggage and all. He looked me up and down, taking in my pink blouse, my simple black jacket, my trousers, and my white shoes.

Once again, I was being assessed.

His gaze lingered longer on certain parts of my body. He stared. His eyes narrowed, and then his filthy gaze slid lower.

With his right hand, he played with his nose. Sometimes he scratched it, sometimes he stuck his finger inside, and sometimes he picked something out. He spat a thick mouthful onto the floor, then crushed it under his foot.

His left hand was still resting in the same place as before.

I couldn't bear it any longer. I decided to leave immediately.

I had no idea where to go at that hour of the night. I only knew that I had to get away from this creature.

I found a taxi and left. I decided to head back towards the airport.

During the five-minute ride, all I could see were empty streets and orange streetlights. I felt terribly alone, like a stranger in a strange world. There was a sickening taste in my mouth, like raw oil.

Then I remembered. Years ago, in Kabul's Mandawi neighbourhood, a hand had touched my body. I was only ten.

Pul-e-Surkh came to mind. I had been harassed on the local buses there, too.

Then I remembered the bakery near our house, and one by one, other places came back to me.

I paid the taxi fare and got out. I found somewhere to sit, took a deep breath through my nose, and slowly let it out. I calmed myself down and gave my face a smile.

I threw what I had witnessed that night into the rubbish bin of my mind. I put the man at the metro right where the man from Mandawi, the bus, and all the others belonged.

I was eighteen when, after facing countless difficulties, I escaped the clutches of the Taliban and their beards. I went to university for four years.

During those years away, little by little, I learned a few things: about life, about human beings, about the sky, about sunsets, and about myself.

I want to live. I want to be free, to travel the world, and to lose myself in the wonders of my Creator's creation. I want to discover that colourful world of mine.

Yes, there are heavy, unwelcome stares in every corner of the world, stares that burrow deep into a person's soul without permission and leave them carrying a sense of guilt that was never theirs to bear.

But the weight of those stares must not become chains around our feet, holding us back from living.

I want to learn. I want to keep discovering. I want to build a life from the opportunity I have been given to be human.

Not merely to survive life, but to live it. My soul is clear. It is pure. It is beautiful. And it is full of flowers.

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