Around 19 million Afghan women are facing a harsh reality and an uncertain future under the Taliban regime that took power last August following the withdrawal of U.S. forces in Afghanistan.
For younger women, the change has been a dramatic setback after 20 years of gains.
The U.S. invasion of Afghanistan in 2001 ousted the previous Taliban rule, which had kept women from working, going to school, expressing and moving freely. Over the last two decades, women were able to study and work in a variety of fields, enjoy social freedom, and engage in government, civil society, media, business and athletics.
But the Taliban regained power for the second time last Aug. 15, instating the same oppression once more.
HuffPost talked to four young Afghan women about what that has meant for them, presented as as-told-to stories. We are using only last names and withholding information that might jeopardize their safety.
Begum, 19, athlete and high school student
Like every year, it was ski season in Bamyan. I asked the club to take me to the skiing tournament. They refused, telling me, “We cannot accept responsibility.”
I contacted the club’s driver, who is a kind and caring man. I call him “Kaka.” “Kaka, can you sneak me into the game?” I asked. He declined, too. I had a feeling he wanted to help, but it was just too risky for him. I told him not to worry since I could cover up my face. “All I want to do is watch,” I said.
A few hours later, he called back and said, “There is a foreign journalist, if you can come with her to the games, the Taliban is probably not going to hurt you.” He agreed to take me there. When I was there, I had a mixed feeling of joy and regret. I was watching my male peers compete in the tournament, and now I was simply a spectator. I burst into tears for a little while.
It was just a year ago that I was ranked second in the competition. I cried then, too, but for a completely different reason. I was proud of myself.
“All I do now is remain at home and do nothing, like a caged bird.”
It was three years ago when I first saw other girls skiing. It piqued my interest. I enrolled in a one-year training program held by international coaches. Even when it wasn’t winter, I would go for a run every morning at 5 a.m. to prepare. My family was at first reluctant, but when I received the prize, they began to support me.
My goal was to represent Afghanistan in an international tournament one day. I would have qualified for the national team if I had competed in this year’s tournaments, and I would have been one step closer to achieving my goal.
Bamyan was Afghanistan’s safest city. I had no idea what it was like to be in the middle of a conflict. Girls could be seen riding bicycles to school, skiing down Bamiyan’s snowy slopes, singing and dancing. We felt free and joyful. I am not even allowed to go to school now. All I do now is remain at home and do nothing, like a caged bird.
Zahra, 27, artist and entrepreneur
I would get out of bed in the morning with the sole excitement of going to my gallery. Seeing my collection of clay art plates on the wall of my little gallery was enough to keep me going for the rest of the day. Every day, the collection would look different as they were being replaced by new ones because my customers loved them. It was a beautiful art form. I was the first to pursue it in Afghanistan.
After work, I remember going to nearby cafés with friends, grabbing coffee and discussing ideas and future plans; on the way home, I’d stop by a small bookshop to pick up a new book for the week.
“Art is no longer alive inside me.”
But who would have thought that a normal day in your life may suddenly turn into a crime? And it is not just about what you do, but also about who you are. You’re an artist and a woman, this is a fairly uncomfortable combination for the Taliban. I stayed at home for two months after they gained control. I finally decided to be courageous enough to go out. Seeing a Talib for the first time, I was afraid as a woman but also disappointed as an artist because they made me realize that art is impossible; that art would be extinguished if they are in control. I was surprised that they hadn’t trashed my gallery.
I launched my art gallery in early 2021. It was new, but it was growing. I had customers from both inside and outside the country. I hoped to put on an exhibition last year. I was one step closer to achieving my artistic aspirations. In despair, I shut it down and brought all of my plates back to my room, intending to sell them online again. I haven’t received any orders in months now. They’re on my room’s wall, but I no longer see them being replaced by new ones. Those are my last works, and they will probably remain such for some time. Creating art requires a peaceful mind, and when you don’t have it, your creative inspiration starts to fade.
Taliban took everything away from me. My creativity, my excitement, my routine, my future. Art is no longer alive inside me, nor is it alive in society.
Taiba, 25, police officer
When the Taliban took over Kabul, I was expecting my first baby. Only a few days later, my baby was born. We heard of the deaths of several female police officers after barely two months of Taliban control. They assassinated Negar, a pregnant police officer in the province of Ghor. That news crushed me. I couldn’t help but imagine myself in her position. I was also terrified. My mind was racing with many possibilities of how the Taliban might track down and harm me and my family.
Even before the Taliban, it was unusual for a woman to be a police officer. When I was a kid, I recall seeing movies where the hero was a female cop, and I wonder whether that affected my choice to go into law enforcement. But it was mostly my brother who persuaded me. He was a special forces officer who was killed on a mission just two months before Kabul fell.
“I feel betrayed.”
After enrolling, I went to Turkey for six months to complete my course. After returning, I spent the next two years as an instructor at the academy. Because we were mostly at the office, the duty of a policewoman in real life was not as heroic as it seemed in the movies. But it took courage to be a policewoman in a culture that was not very supportive of the profession and where terrorist groups were openly threatening your safety.
Last week, the Taliban searched our home, and I had to burn or hide any documents that said I was a police officer. They were unable to find anything. But fear is always present. We’ve heard they’re going to ask us to come back to work, but we don’t trust them. We have our worries about how they will allow a female police officer to work beside them if they don’t even want a woman to go out without a mahram (a close male companion).
Even though it was a low-paying and risky position, I found great satisfaction in my job. In this new reality, half of Afghan society is being ignored and mistreated, while the world is silent about it. I feel betrayed.
Zahra, 27, prosecutor and activist
I just passed the exam to become a prosecutor last year. I returned to my province with the good news. The next day, it was my introduction session and I should prepare for the introductory statement. I was nervous, but I knew that this was just a reflection of my excitement for my first day as a prosecutor. I actually did great and everyone wished me luck. The first thing I did that day was to approach other female prosecutors. We made a pact to protect and defend women who have been abused or denied access to their rights in the province. We had no idea that all would change in a matter of months.
“We spent 20 years building everything just to see everything fall apart in a matter of hours.”
We spent 20 years building everything just to see everything fall apart in a matter of hours. It wasn’t only about what the U.S. or previous governments had done for us; it was also about our own struggles and fights. We paid a price for our freedom; we had to fight for it. It took me years to persuade my parents, family, and even distant relatives that a woman can also get a good degree and a decent job. We gained in years, but lost in hours.
One afternoon, I stopped by the attorney’s office after a long time. A Talib sat at the window, guns slung over his shoulder and legs dangling from the open window. That scene alone reminded me of how much things have changed.
I wanted to buy a house and teach at a university. Why wouldn’t I, after all? What is so wrong about having this vision as a woman? Some might claim that “the Taliban is a reality” in Afghanistan, but are we not a reality too?
