Students, mothers, widows, workers and artists

explain how their world has altered under ‘gender

apartheid’
One year ago, the Taliban has swept through Afghanistan, taking control of
the country amid the chaos of the US and UK troop withdrawal.

Now women lives across the country have been fundamentally changed,
their rights curtailed and freedoms restricted. Campaigners have called the
Taliban’s orders to deny women education, remove them from their
jobs and force them back under the veil a “gender apartheid”.

Over the past month, Rukhshana Media has talked to women across the

country about their experiences of living under Taliban rule.

Hijab order
Samana, Kabul
I walked home alone when I turned down a deserted alley and found
two Taliban with guns over their shoulders. They shouted I was a prostitute
because I unveiled, and demanded to know why I wasn’t wearing the hijab.
They pointed their guns in my face, and one of them had his finger on the
trigger. I lowered my head and said: “It wouldn’t happen again.” When I got
home, I sat and cried for an hour. I said to myself: this is a warning for what
is coming next. Since then, I fell into a deep depression. I can’t bear to look
at all my colourful clothes in my closet as they remind me of everything I
have lost.

Zahra, west Kabul

After the hijab order was announced, I was caught by Taliban fighters. They
asked why I was not wearing the hijab, and although I have no intention of
following their orders, I apologised and thought they will let me go. But they
visited my home and told my family the next time I was caught in public
uncovered I will be arrested. Since then, my father has rarely allowed me or
my sisters to leave the house, and says we can’t go to university. Even my
brothers now know what I wear and where I go at all times.

Travel restrictions

Zarlasht, Kabul
In June, I was travelling with my brother and we were stopped at a
checkpoint by Taliban fighters. Firstly, they questioned us separately to
understand if we related to each other, then they asked for our national ID
cards. When my brother said we didn’t carry our ID cards with us, they got
angry and one of them hit him with a rifle and was about to fire. We were
made sit there for two hours, and then we must call our families to bring ID
cards so we could return home. Since then, I do not dare leave the house.

University students
Sabira, Bamyan province
Even though it is not mandatory we are being forced to wear the black hijab
to be let to enter university. Once we’re inside, women are under constant
surveillance. There are hijab notices on the doors and walls. I never
imagined that one day, in Bamyan, all female students would be forced to
live like this. I can’t believe what life is turning into here.

Islamic State attacks

Abassi, west Kabul
My friend and I were chatting on the bus on the way to work in the Hazara
Shia neighbourhood of west Kabul when suddenly the world around us
exploded. We found ourselves in the middle of carnage. Since the Taliban
took control, security deteriorated and our bus had been bombed by IS
militants. We later found out that many people were killed. I was wounded
in my leg and chest, and my friend in her right leg. When the bomb went off,
everything changed for me. After the Taliban took over, things were hard
but I continued my work and was determined to live bravely. Now, after the
attack, I live in constant fear. The pain of my injuries has been excruciating.
I went through five surgeries and can’t go to the bathroom or dress myself
without help. But the psychological wounds are also deep. I have to pass the
place where the bomb exploded to get to my doctor appointments, and
every time I feel the vehicle shaking, the heat of the explosion and the sound
of people screaming. It keeps repeating and repeating in front of my eyes
when I try sleeping.

Widows
Sakina, Kandahar
Life has not been easy for a long time. I lost my husband in an airstrike five
years ago, and before the Taliban took power I worked and sold street food
supporting my children. Now I am not allowed to work. The Taliban has
given me and other widows a card to claim a sack of wheat, three litres of
cooking oil and 1,000 Afghani [£9] every three months, but this is not
enough to keep our family going. I live with three other widowed women
and their children, but our rent is 40,000 Afghani a month and we can’t pay
it. If we can’t work, I’m worried we will starve.

Maryam, former policewoman, location protected

Until the Taliban took power, I worked as a police officer. My husband had
died but I could support my two daughters on my police salary, I could give
them everything they needed. Now I have lost my job, and the Taliban have
been hunting down women, who worked in the security services. I am still
terrified they will find me. For the past seven months, I have been reduced
to beg on the streets to feed my girls. I sit all day on the street under a burqa
so that nobody recognises me and informs on me. I don’t recognise who I
have become. One day, two boys threw some coins at me, and one said I was
a prostitute. I went home with only enough to buy two loaves of bread for
my children, and cried all night.

Education
Mah Liqa, 14, location protected
When I told I wasn’t allowed to go to school, I was depressed and had no
motivation to work and study at home. But I kept telling myself I had to
keep going for a better future and for my dreams. I need to find ways
keeping learning despite the ban on girls going to school. So now every day I
study English at home so I can apply for a scholarship, and maybe some day
study computer science abroad. I am still trying to achieve something for
myself.

Cultural life
Khatera, artist, Herat
I have invested more than half my life working as an artist, making
traditional wood engravings and designs. I was the only female engraver in
my region and have created over 1,000 artworks. Since the Taliban came to
power, making art is a dangerous job. Being a woman and an artist is even
more dangerous. The Taliban said I can continue with my engravings, but I
know it is impossible. I am self-censoring because I don’t feel safe. I was
used to engraving faces and figures but now I mainly print verses of the holy
Qur’an on wood. I have to find another way to survive and to forget art. I
used to spend every day in my studio but now I just go back every one or
two months dusting off my engravings and tools. I’ve auctioned off most of
my equipment, and my friends are advising me to leave Afghanistan. My
Iranian customers tell me to move to Iran, when my work will be valued.
But I tell them: I will stay in Afghanistan, some day things might change.
Book club
Bahra, Herat
In the darkest moments and when there is no hope, we tried to follow a
path, which can never be closed, and it is the path of books. I come from a
family of poets and writers, and I have a master’s degree. Two months into
the Taliban rule in Herat, myself and four friends decided to form a book
club. The first book, that we chose was a Persian translation of The Clown, a
1963 novel by German writer Heinrich Böll. We hold our meetings in
secret, but soon others heard about what we were doing. Now we have over
40 members from all walks of life, and hold discussions on Telegram. Some
of us try to meet every two weeks having discussed world literature. We
choose books are available to us in Afghanistan but also say something
wider about the world, many about the hardships women have had to
ensure through history – which they did to make those days bearable. We
also read books written by people lived through the second world war, as we
can all identify with those survivors. It is a struggle to keep the spirit of the
women of Herat alive. These book club meetings have become our haven.