Four years in the shadows: Afghanistan through the eyes of a woman journalist

KabulThe past four years have felt like centuries. Since the Taliban regained power in Afghanistan on August 15, 2021, have issued dozens of decrees, most of them targeting women’s bodies and lives. From education to employment, from movement through the city to dress and behaviour. Restrictions now define womanhood. Thousands of dreams have been extinguished.

I am a 25 year old female journalist that lives in Kabul. I graduated from the Faculty of Journalism at Kabul University in 2022. When the Taliban returned to power, women were still allowed to attend universities under strict conditions: gender segregation, full hijab, and a ban on male professors. I defended my thesis during that brief window, but just one week after graduation, the university gates were shut to women.

I began my professional career in 2019, working part time at a state owned media outlet, continuing until 2021. After the Taliban’s return, women were banned from working in state media, and I was forced to leave my job. After graduation, I joined a private media outlet, working as a reporter. But the profession I had spent years preparing for gradually began to collapse, especially for female journalists.

We were forced to cover our faces, prohibited from sharing studio space with male experts, banned from having our voices broadcast in certain provinces, and warned not to ask political or critical questions. Before the Taliban’s return, female reporters could attend press conferences. But afterward, we were gradually excluded from those spaces, eventually banned altogether.

Face-to-face interviews with Taliban officials became impossible for us. The only option was to send questions via mobile messages or request pre-recorded video answers. Asking critical questions during live programs could lead to dismissal or worse: to be arrested. Many recorded interviews went unanswered, or were met with threats.

Reporting on sensitive topics was also risky. I was arrested twice: once while covering a women’s protest, and another time during a report on pensioners’ demonstrations. In both instances, I was given warnings clearly stating that I should no longer cover such topics in my reports.

Censorship and Fear

During the former government, despite all its challenges, there was still room to ask questions, investigate, and protest. Journalists could report on corruption, poverty, war and even criticize politicians. But today, that space no longer exists. Widespread censorship, deep self-censorship, and the constant fear of arrest have turned the media into a voiceless instrument. According to the Afghanistan Journalists Center (AFJC), at least 20 reporters have been detained this year. Many of my colleagues have left the country.

Taliban pressure, the cut-off of international aid, and lack of funding have forced many outlets to shut down or operate with minimal staff. Some TV stations have also disappeared in the last year because the Taliban have banned the broadcasting of images of living beings in nineteen of the country's thirty-four provinces.

Few months ago, due to staff cuts, I was laid off from the outlet I worked for. Although working in media meant enduring constant threats and censorship, it was more than just a job for me, it was a mission to amplify the voices of the voiceless. Losing this profession was an emotional blow. There were days when I didn’t want to leave my room, talk to anyone, read a message, or even follow the news. Since school, I had always been learning or working. Suddenly, that rhythm stopped. No classes, no activity, no hope. Home began to feel like a silent prison. I often found myself questioning why I was born in a place where being a woman felt like a liability.

Still, I tried to pull myself out of that state. In recent days, I’ve begun searching for online courses in language and graphic design, carving out a new path. I’ve read motivational books, written down my thoughts, and slowly turned my feeling of lost identity into a source of motivation.

I once I dreamed of earning a master’s degree, but now I don’t know whether such an opportunity will ever be possible. The only path to learning for us is through online courses because Taliban have also banned education for women. Even the online courses come with countless challenges: poor internet quality, high costs, and electricity cuts. e.

The Morality Police

The pressure goes beyond journalism. There’s no official decree banning women from going out, but the presence of the morality police in Kabul has created an atmosphere of fear, mainly since last June. Dozens of women have been arrested during the last weeks, according to the TV channel Afghanistan International. These officers monitor women’s clothing, faces, the way they walk, even their smiles. They wear white coats resembling doctors’ uniforms.

Wearing a burqa is not mandatory, but women should cover their faces using Arabic style hijabs or medical masks. Just a few days ago, in the Shahr-e-Naw area, two young girls were forced into a car at gunpoint because a bit of their hair was showing. Even though they resisted, Taliban officers accompanied by two women, forced them into the vehicle. This incident left me unable to leave the house for days.

Alongside this psychological and physical pressure, an economic crisis is suffocating the country. Educated youth, with degrees and dreams, have turned into street vendors. Finding work whether for women or men is nearly impossible in today’s Afghanistan. Over the past four months, I’ve searched every job site, but not a single domestic outlet has posted a job opening. I’ve reached out to international media, hoping to collaborate as a local reporter, but it feels like Afghanistan has disappeared from the world’s radar. No one seems to want to hear our voices anymore.

Without a job or access to education, the only path many see for women like me is marriage. Ever since I lost my job, my family has been urging me to get married and start a family. I believe this pressure isn’t just from culture or tradition, it comes from fear, too. There are rumors though unconfirmed, and I personally haven’t witnessed them in Kabul, that some Taliban members are forcing girls into marriage. This fear has also limited my freedom. Now my family wants me to stay at home as much as possible. If I want to go out, I must ask for permission or be accompanied by my younger brother.

Still, my hope hasn’t been extinguished. I am still a journalist even without a platform, a microphone, or a newsroom. Because journalism, for me, is the commitment to truth and the urgency to tell stories that matter. The world’s silence on Afghanistan is not just political indifference. Silence in the face of oppression is complicity.