Reflection on Mina Sharifi: Uplifting Through Joy, Resilience, and Relentless Love
Written by Dr. Shinkai Hakimi for Sahar Education
There are people whose work moves quietly but leaves a deep, permanent imprint on the world. Mina Sharifi is one of those people. In a conversation that felt like both an interview and a gentle unfolding of truths, I learned more than just about her initiatives, I was reminded of what it means to lead with heart, humility, and unwavering dedication.
Mina didn’t set out to become an activist. Her path began with a springtime New Year’s celebration at an orphanage in Kabul. She described to me the vibrant joy of the girls dancing, laughing, free for a moment in time. But when the boys entered the room, the joy abruptly receded. The girls instinctively stepped back, relinquishing the space without hesitation. “The song wasn’t even over,” Mina said, but their time had already expired. That stark moment, the internalized misogyny, the relinquishing of space without question was the catalyst. From that flash of injustice, Sisters 4 Sisters was born.
“Millions of refugee children are missing out on an education. Without an opportunity to learn, they risk becoming a lost generation with little chance for a better future. Through sustainable programs, our Fellows are working to ensure refugees can learn and develop the skills they need to succeed in life.”
What struck me most is that Mina’s work is never for the community—it is with them. The girls designed the program alongside her. They owned it. They ran with it. Alumni became mentors, word spread through networks of trust, and a program initially created as a response to injustice transformed into a vehicle of empowerment and healing. In our work at SAHAR Education, where we also serve girls in Afghanistan through community-led programs, this philosophy deeply resonates. Mina’s approach is not top-down, it’s inside-out, grassroots, and deeply relational.
In spaces overwhelmed by trauma, Mina chooses joy. She told me that trauma is the backdrop, but never the center. Her programs intentionally create room for lightness, celebration, and shared laughter, even in the heaviest of contexts. There’s a wisdom in that: healing doesn’t mean erasing pain, but it does mean refusing to let it define every moment. That conscious centering of joy is something I hope to more explicitly weave into our work at SAHAR, especially when it’s so easy to become absorbed by the enormity of the suffering around us.
She also emphasized the importance of adaptability—how they took real-time feedback from girls to shift their model as the context demanded. That flexibility paired with a fierce loyalty to her principles struck a chord with me. In a place like Afghanistan, where the political landscape can shift overnight, rigidity can be dangerous. Mina’s work is living, breathing, and responsive.
Her own personal sustainability comes from creativity. She’s a writer, and a storyteller. It’s through art that she metabolizes grief, stays grounded, and continues on. Since leaving Afghanistan in 2019, her work has shifted to remote organizing, connecting grassroots efforts with aid, raising funds independently, and cutting out unnecessary intermediaries. Despite the distance, she remains embedded and accountable.
When I asked her about the role of the Afghan diaspora, she was clear: this isn’t our stage. “It’s not about us,” she said. “It’s about those we uplift.” I appreciated that call to humility. There’s a danger in diaspora advocacy of centering ourselves—our trauma, our voice—at the expense of those still in the struggle. Mina walks that line with grace, never speaking for, only amplifying.
Perhaps the most humbling part of our conversation was her own story: she went to Afghanistan on a six-week internship and stayed for fifteen years. She never planned for the long-term, but her commitment grew in proportion to what the girls needed, and what she discovered she could give. She didn’t seek accolades. She sought dignity for others. She’s protective, direct, and unapologetically herself. And she lets her work live in her stories, in her writing and art. It is legacy not as ego, but as offering.
As board chair of SAHAR, I often wrestle with the ethical complexities of working in a place like Afghanistan. Mina doesn’t resolve those tensions, but she models how to move through them: grounded in relationship, responsive to need, and guided by joy. Our missions overlap in many ways, and I leave our conversation reenergized. In a time when hopelessness feels ever-present, people like Mina remind me that meaningful work is still possible, and necessary.
She gives me hope. And more importantly, she reminds me how to be useful.