Parks, another place where women can no longer go in Afghanistan

KabulSome days ago I went to Qargha, a green area with a large lake on the outskirts of Kabul. A kite-flying festival was being held, a widespread practice in Afghanistan, and the media outlet I work for asked me to cover it. It was Friday, the weekly day of rest in Afghanistan, during which it was customary for families to go to this beautiful recreational spot to spend the day.

I hadn't been to Qargha for six years. The last time I was there was precisely with my family. Back then, Qargha was a place full of life: women and men sat together by the lake, the water was visible from the restaurants, children played freely, and girls laughed as they enjoyed the swings.

When I returned the other day, I found a completely different place. Officials from the Taliban's Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice were at the entrance, controlling everyone who accessed it. When my cameraman and I approached, one of them raised his voice and said, "Where are you going?" "We are journalists. We are here to report on the festival," we replied. The man then looked at me first, then at my colleague, and answered, pointing at me with his finger, "Leave. This woman cannot enter." We insisted that we were journalists, that we had come to work, and that we were a team. I couldn't stay outside. But the Taliban did not yield and shouted, "In the name of journalism, you cannot come here and spread immorality."

At that moment, I felt like a stranger in my own country. I thought that if this country were truly my home, I would not be denied entry simply for being a woman.

Behind the hills, far from the lake, we found a group of young people flying kites. They were laughing, shouting, enjoying their day without restrictions. We filmed them and did some interviews with them, and thus we were able to save our report. They were enjoying their freedom. But I, dressed in a long black dress, my head well wrapped in a veil and a mask covering my face, could only think of one thing: girls like me, my age, have been erased from life in Afghanistan. Not even there, in Qargha, did I feel calm. I held the veil tightly with my hand, for fear that a gust of wind would unravel it and the Taliban would accuse me of being "immoral" for being in a place where there were men.

A great surprise

When we finished filming, we headed towards other hills in front of the main green area of Qargha. There I saw something that left me frozen: women! They were sitting on that dry, steep hill where there were only a few recently planted, stunted trees, far from the water, far from the place where families used to gather before.

I approached one of them and asked her why they were there. She answered that they came every month with the family. "The Taliban don't allow us to go near the lake, so we come here to at least see it from a distance," she argued. And she added: "I only hope they don't take this place from us too." Her words stayed with me.

There are not only restrictions in Qargha. The Taliban have also banned women from entering all parks. One of the best known, Shahr-e-Ara, often known as the women's park because it was a place where only women were allowed entry. I remember going there with my mother, my aunt, and my cousins years ago, when the Taliban had not yet returned to power. We would bring kitchen utensils and prepare food. We would sit on the grass, talk for hours, and enjoy moments of calm. After long days of studying, it was one of the few places where we could rest, laugh, and feel free. But the park was not only a place for leisure, there were also small workshops run by women: some sewed, others made jewelry, or put henna on girls' hands. It was a place of freedom for us women. Now, however, we cannot enter.

It's not just about not being able to enjoy a day outdoors. It's much more than that. I feel that women are slowly being erased from public life in Afghanistan. The spaces where we can laugh and have a good time with our families are becoming increasingly limited. Children no longer grow up seeing women and men together in the same space, coexisting normally. Now all spaces are segregated. Sometimes I wonder: what future awaits the girls who grow up like this? And what idea will boys have about equality when they rarely see women in public life?

For me, all these restrictions are not just the loss of a place. It is the loss of opportunities, of enjoyment, of breathing, of working, of being seen. And what scares me most is that all this slowly becomes normal, that one day no one will remember that women once sat by the shore of Qargha Lake, laughed, and were part of the public life of this city.