Meals in Kabul restaurants: separate dining rooms for men and women

KabulNot so long ago, going to a restaurant for me was not just about going to a public place; it was a way to breathe. Among the smell of hot rice and fresh bread, among the clinking of spoons and laughter, I could, for a few hours, forget what was happening outside those walls. For my generation -I am 25-, restaurants were something between home and the outside world; a space where family, partners, and friends could sit together and simply be “normal.”

Over the past twenty years, going to a restaurant has become one of the few leisure options available in a country like Afghanistan. Even after the Taliban returned, for a while, restaurants were among the few places that remained largely unchanged. Girls and boys sat together, families ate side by side, and the Taliban for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice” officers rarely entered these spaces. I still don’t know exactly why; perhaps they were too busy enforcing restrictions elsewhere, or perhaps the rumors were true and some restaurant owners paid them off to avoid trouble. Whatever the reason, for a time, restaurants were the last semi-normal spaces in the Afghan capital. But even this has now changed.

A few months ago, after a long time, I went to a restaurant in Shahr-e-New in Kabul. From the moment I entered, I realized the space had completely changed. The garden area, which used to be where families sat, had become entirely “women-only", and men were not allowed to enter. I was with my family, but my father and brothers were not allowed to sit in the garden. We were told: “Ladies stay here, gentlemen go to the men’s section.”

Nonsense

It had nonsense. We were a family, yet it was as if we had to split ourselves just to be allowed to sit. When we protested, the staff said: “Go to the second hall; that’s for families”. But that “second hall” was an enclosed space. In the summer heat, I wanted to sit among flowers, under the shade of trees, enjoying the fresh air with my family. But we had to choose between fresh air and being together. In the end, we entered the enclosed hall.

Inside, the restaurant was divided by wooden walls. Walls that separated not just space, but people. When we sat down, the first question that came to my mind was: “Do the Promotion of Virtue officers come here too?”. I asked the waiter. Calmly, he said: “Yes, every week. The timing is unpredictable, so we’re always on alert”. If a woman was with a man who wasn't a relative—that is, her father, brother, or husband—she was forced to sit somewhere else and keep the distance. And not only that: even men and women who belonged to the same family had to prove it with an identity document or a wedding photo. The Taliban checked this table by table.

Just this week, at the insistence of a friend, I went back to the same restaurant. It was cold, so this time we went straight to the family section. As we sat talking about life, the table next to us became crowded: two girls and two boys with a birthday cake. It was one of the girls’ birthdays. Her boyfriend wanted to sit next to her and take a photo. The waiter stepped forward and said: “Do not sit together”. His voice was loud enough that my friend and I looked over unconsciously. You could read both of their frustration and humiliation on their faces. The boy asked “why don’t you allow it?”. The waiter said: “Last month, another branch of this restaurant was closed just because a photo of a girl and boy sitting together was posted on Facebook”. I couldn't believe it. A simple photo could lead to the closure of a place and the destruction of many livelihoods.

When I left the restaurant, the air was cold, but what weighed heavier than the chill was the heaviness pressing on my chest. I looked at the city lights; the same Kabul, the same streets, the same buildings… but something in this city was no longer the same: we constantly feel watched.

Perhaps one day, I will be able to sit with my family, under the trees, without fear of someone arriving, just eating and laughing. But for now, every time I enter a restaurant, more than hunger, I feel the emptiness of longing for a normal life.