“When I look in the mirror it’s to make sure I’m covered from head to toe”

KabulDuring my university years, from 2018 to 2022, I had a blue pair of jeans that I wore almost every day. They were simple and not expensive, but to me, they were a part of myself. Over time, the fabric had softened, and the knees had slightly faded. When I wore them, I felt comfortable and truly myself. I always kept them on the top shelf of my wardrobe, knowing that I would choose them again tomorrow.

After the Taliban returned, I continued wearing them for a while. I hid them under a long chapan, a kind of long robe that reached my feet, and told myself that as long as no one saw them, not everything had changed. This was my small last effort to hold onto something from the “before”.

But one day at university, the guards announced that girls were no longer allowed to enter wearing jeans, even if they were hidden under a chapan. They said “this clothing is no longer appropriate". That moment, holding the chapan tightly to cover the jeans, was simple but definitive. Right then, I realized I could no longer wear those jeans. Not secretly, not quietly.

I didn’t throw them away. I carefully folded them and placed them alongside other clothes I no longer wear but cannot bring myself to part with. They are still there on the top shelf. Sometimes I just touch the fabric to remind myself that once I walked freely without fear and could dress as I pleased.

After that, my clothing completely changed. Now, I wear a long black abaya, known here as the “Arab hijab.” I wrap my scarf tightly to cover every strand of hair. The fabric is thick and heavy, restricting my movement. I walk slower and more carefully. There is no place for color. When I stand in front of the mirror, it is not to see how I look, but to make sure I am not seen —that I'm covered from head to toe.

Until today, when I write this, wearing the burqa in major cities like Kabul, Mazar-e Sharif, and Herat is not mandatory. But this week, Doctors Without Borders reported that since November 5th women were not allowed into public health centers without a burqa in Herat province, in northwestern Afghanistan. When they protested, they were met with harsh suppression.

Reading this filled me with a quiet but deep fear. I worry that one day the same rule might be enforced in Kabul. Sometimes, it feels as if clothes not only cover the body but also show how narrow the future can become.

The transformation of men

These changes were not only for us women. The men in my family also had to change their appearance. My brother always kept his beard short not out of religious opposition, just because it felt clean and comfortable. After the Taliban returned, my father told him it would be better to grow it long to avoid trouble. My brother was silent for days, stealing glances at himself in the mirror. Finally, he grew it, not out of belief, but out of fear.

In offices, men must wear shalwar kameez, the traditional clothing. Even those who had spent years working in international environments and wore suits as part of their professional identity now had to transform. These outward changes are subtle but deep; no one tells you what to think, only what shape you must take, and gradually, your thinking changes too.

This academic year, xchoolchildren have also abandoned their simple uniforms. Boys who used to run with plain trousers and colorful backpacks now stand in line in uniform traditional clothing, hats, and scarves. Their childhood appearances replaced by a uniform religious and traditional look. When I saw it, I felt that the school’s sense of order had been completely altered.

The city’s walls are covered with slogans reminding us what we are allowed to do and what we are not. They say “observe Islamic dress” and “abandon Western culture”. The words themselves are simple, but in daily life, they become invisible threads wrapping around your body, behavior, and thoughts.

Shop windows have changed too. Pictures of models have been removed, and mannequins are displayed without heads.

It is as if faces, looks, and the presence of people have been censored. The city is still the same the same streets, the same buildings, but the feeling is different. Kabul is like a city whose windows are all closed from the inside.

When I walk past these walls, my eyes often fall instinctively. Not because of the words themselves, but because it feels as though these walls are always watching me.