Trapped in Afghanistan: I have to invent a husband who doesn't exist to be able to leave the country
KabulAfter months of uncertainty, a door finally seemed to have opened for me. Following the reading of my chronicles in the newspaper ARA and learning that women in Afghanistan have no possibility of continuing our studies in the country due to the Taliban's restrictions, a Catalan businessman, an ARA reader, contacted me to offer to cover the cost of a journalism master's degree so I could complete my studies abroad. When I received the news, I cried with joy, and I felt that years of effort, hope, and resilience were finally leading me somewhere. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to imagine a future beyond mere survival.
But I soon realized that in the Afghanistan of the Taliban, there are always barriers, even when a path to freedom appears. One of the requirements to apply for a visa abroad is to have a criminal record certificate. To obtain it, I went to the Taliban's Ministry of Interior with my older brother.
We arrived shortly before eight in the morning, but by that time there was already a long queue. Many young women were waiting there, accompanied by their parents or brothers, and carrying folders full of documents in their hands. Some had traveled from distant provinces. Others spoke in low voices about the scholarships they had obtained after years of hard work. Their faces radiated hope, the hope that appears when a door has been closed for years and suddenly opens a little.
My brother carried my documents. We had prepared them carefully. Knowing that the Taliban would probably refuse to issue a certificate to a woman traveling alone, my brother had also applied for a criminal record certificate for himself so we could pretend we were traveling together. To avoid possible suspicion, we had even said that our destination would be Saudi Arabia.
My brother's consent
When the ministry doors opened, my brother and I had to separate. He had to go into the men's section, and I into the women's. An official looked at my application and my ID, and asked, "Who did you come with?" "My brother," I replied. Then he asked me to bring a copy of my brother's ID and a written declaration confirming that he was letting me travel. I didn't put up any resistance. If a signature could help me get the certificate, it wasn't an inconvenience.
My brother wrote the letter and took it to the relevant official for approval. Then, however, everything suddenly changed. Because there were so many young girls applying for a criminal record certificate that day, the Taliban suspected that most of us wanted it to continue our studies abroad. So they decided not to issue any more certificates to women.
A man accompanying his daughter protested and assured them that he had personally given his daughter permission to travel. The response from one of the Taliban was: "Do you want your daughters to become prostitutes? We will not allow it."
When my brother came out of the ministry with the other men, I knew immediately from his face that things had gone wrong. Those fathers and brothers had personally accompanied their daughters and sisters, had written letters of consent, and had done everything necessary, but none of it mattered. The Taliban would not let us travel.
That day, more than ever, I felt what it means to be a woman in Afghanistan: you have no authority over your own future. Even if your father agrees. Even if your brother supports you. Even if you have secured a scholarship or meet all legal requirements, someone can still decide that your future does not belong to you.
I couldn't help but start crying. My brother tried to comfort me, but in my head there were too many questions: what will happen if I can't get a criminal record certificate? What if this opportunity to study abroad vanishes? How many girls have it happened to like me: they had an opportunity and then couldn't leave the country?
A lie
Among all the faces of disappointment, there was a single girl who seemed relieved: she had managed to complete the biometric process and could collect her certificate in two days. Curious, I asked her how she had done it. At first, she told me she was engaged to a man who lived in the United Kingdom. But when she saw more and more girls approaching her in despair, she told us in a low voice that she actually had no fiancé. It was all a lie. And she advised us what we should do.
We had to return to the Ministry of the Interior in a few days and say that we were traveling to meet our fiancé abroad. If we had a friend or relative outside of Afghanistan, we had to ask them to send us proof of residence and present it as if that person were our future husband. We also had to explain to the Taliban that we would travel to a third country with one of our brothers, and there we would marry our fiancé.
As I listened, I was speechless. In a country where we are taught from childhood that lying is wrong, the only path left for women who want to continue our education is to invent a husband who does not exist.
What worries me is not just my own future, but the future of an entire generation of Afghan women. When women are denied education in Afghanistan and, at the same time, prevented from studying abroad, dreams disappear. The teachers, doctors, journalists, engineers, and researchers who could have been trained will never be. No country can deliberately exclude half of its population from education and expect its future not to be affected.