We expected the Taliban to change, but we changed
KabulOn August 15, 2021, I had to go to university like any other day. News was reaching us that province after province was falling into the hands of the Taliban, and fear was gradually taking hold of me. But I still couldn't believe that Kabul would fall. We thought that if the Taliban entered Kabul, it would be through an agreement with the central government, not through war or force. In our WhatsApp group, my classmates and I had agreed to go to class the next day.
But August 15th ended up being the last day we would study together under the same roof, alongside our male classmates. It was the first hour of class, but the atmosphere was completely different. Everyone was talking about the Taliban, and the girls were particularly worried. When the teacher entered, he didn't teach. Instead, he asked us what we thought the Taliban would be like and what we feared losing.
Each of us had something to lose: one was suffering for his life, another for his job, another for his freedom, while the girls feared losing their studies. The professor asked me: "What would you do if they told you that "studying wearing a burqa?". I replied: "As long as they let us study, that would be enough for me". One of my classmates said: "I don't want an education at the price of losing my freedom".
Around nine in the morning, the dean of our faculty entered the classroom and told us to go home because the situation was deteriorating. Before leaving, four of my closest classmates and I went to the cafe in front of the university. We thought it might be the last time the five of us would sit together. We took a photograph of ourselves.
Around half past ten, one of my friends said: "Let's go home. I'm scared." My friend Sodaba and I got into a vehicle carrying other students. As we drove away, I saw people running towards home, streets clogged with traffic and military vehicles everywhere. That was when I understood: Kabul was also falling. Sodaba started crying. Every day, on the way to university, we talked about continuing our studies, pursuing a master's degree, and building our future. That day we cried because we were about to lose our right to education. We remembered the stories our mothers had told us about the first Taliban regime, when women were confined to their homes and girls were forbidden from going to schools and universities.
When I got home, my mother had also just returned from work. I hugged her and cried. I couldn't believe that, after more than twenty years, our lives were so similar again. My father was still out. We kept calling him again and again. He told us that the streets were blocked, that people were abandoning their cars and returning home on foot, and that shops were closing.
The president fled
Finally, he arrived around half past three in the afternoon. Seeing him safe and sound provided me with a moment of relief. But then came the news that the Afghan president had fled. The Taliban had officially entered Kabul. That day I experienced fear, rage, despair, powerlessness, and anguish all at once.
In the evening we learned that the Taliban were searching the houses in our neighborhood. My father had been an army officer, so we started hiding his belongings. We burned his medals and his certificates of recognition, things that in another time had represented his achievements, but which could now put him in danger. Fortunately, the Taliban did not enter our house that night. But the next day, August 16, a different life had begun.
A month later, I left the house for the first time. I saw Taliban fighters in the streets, men with long hair, unkempt clothes, and with weapons, stationed at checkpoints. I was terrified, but I still didn't understand the extent to which they would transform our lives.
During the first few months, women still worked in many governmental and non-governmental offices. Many people had returned to work. At that time, the biggest problem for me was the closure of schools and universities.
First restrictions
Six months later, universities reopened, but restrictions were soon imposed. Male students were separated from female students. Class schedules were changed. Our way of dressing had to conform to new rules. Finally, in December 2022, universities again closed their doors to women.
Even so, in those early days we still had hope. We thought the situation might be temporary. Perhaps the Taliban would change. Perhaps schools for girls would reopen. Perhaps the restrictions would ease.
But the opposite happened. Decrees arrived, one after another. Women were expelled from education, work, sports, parks, travel, and many public spaces. Restrictions on dress and movement became stricter. House and phone searches continued. Even our appearance changed. Women were expected to wear black, with long garments to cover themselves and their faces veiled. Men were also pressured to follow certain dress codes.
Change in behaviour
Little by little, families also changed. Before leaving home, many women now have to ask permission or reassure their families by assuring them that the clothes they are wearing are acceptable. Families are afraid that their daughters will be arrested on the street.
I also changed. Five years ago, if someone had told me that one day I would check my clothes over and over again before leaving home, I wouldn't have believed it. Today, many of us change our behavior before the Taliban have to tell us to. And perhaps this is one of the most profound changes in these five years.
The media has also changed. During the first few years, journalists could still report on the war, human rights, women's employment, and girls' education. But after some journalists were arrested and several media outlets were threatened, self-censorship spread.
Today, some topics receive almost no coverage. Information about women and human rights is often based on statements from international organizations, rather than on information obtained directly from within Afghanistan.
And people have changed. Five years ago, when I saw the Taliban on the streets for the first time, I was afraid of them. But I still believed that I could continue to live my life as I pleased. Today, fear no longer consists only of seeing a Taliban fighter on the street.
Devastating data
Recent data from UN Women –the United Nations agency specifically dedicated to gender equality and the empowerment of women– show the extent to which this transformation has affected us: half of the women interviewed said they only leave the house once or twice a month.
When I read this data, I think of that twenty-year-old woman who, five years ago, was sitting next to Sodaba in that university vehicle, crying about the future she thought she was losing. That day I thought the Taliban would take my university away from me. I didn't know that one day I would have to think twice before going to work, choosing what to wear, speaking freely, moving around the city, or simply being present in a public space.
Five years ago, we expected the Taliban to change. They didn't. We changed. We learned to go out less, to cover ourselves, to remain silent, what to write and what not to write. We learned to live within the limits they imposed on us. And perhaps this is the most terrifying part of these five years.
On August 15, 2021, my friends and I were sitting in a cafe and we took a photograph together, not knowing it would end up being a testament to the last day we still considered our freedom normal. Five years later, I still think about that photograph. Five girls who didn't know what we were about to lose. We were supposed to wait for the Taliban to change. Instead, they have forced us to change in order to survive.