It was 6:30 in the morning. Dark, heavy clouds obscured the blue sky, and as I searched for the morning birds, all I found were shadows. I stood in front of a popular juice shop in the narrow alleys around Malviya Nagar, New Delhi. It was usually bustling with auto rickshaws, but today it was eerily quiet.
Across the alley, a girl, perhaps 14 or 15 years old, waited for her school bus with her mother. As I watched her, my mind drifted to a place where girls her age are denied the right to education, silenced and invisible. Where now, even their voices are banned to each other.
I recalled my own childhood in Kabul, where at the age of five, I was desperate to go to school. My male cousin, just two years older, would show me his school bag every morning, and I couldn’t understand why I was left behind. In Kabul, children typically start school at 6 years of age, but my mother insisted I was too young and I cried, demanding to know why he could go while I could not.
It was a snowy day when my mother finally took my hand and led me to Zarghona High School, one of the oldest and largest girls’ schools in Kabul. To our dismay, when we arrived, the guard informed us that the school was closed. My mother assured me we would return the next day, but that never happened. When I asked why, she replied, “The Taliban have shut the school’s doors for girls.”
That sentence made no sense to me. Why were my male cousins allowed to go to school while I was not? I felt like a prisoner in my own life. An older male cousin took it upon himself to teach me and my best friend, who was also denied schooling. He used our drive, with a wooden gate as a makeshift blackboard, writing with a piece of coal since we had no chalk.
I think back to a girl in our neighbourhood who was in her second year of medical studies. After the Taliban took over in 1996, she confined herself to a dark room, unable to face the world. I remember everyone in her family believed she was possessed by a spirit, so they took her to mosques or shrines for treatment. No one understood that she wasn’t possessed or affected by any spirit, she had simply lost her dream of becoming a doctor, a dream she had nurtured for years.
My aunt was in the 8th grade at that time. She used to play with me, but after the government forced women to wear a chadari (veil), she became fearful of stepping out. Once, she fell down on the street, and some boys laughed at her. Since that day, she has stayed at home.
My mother, once an independent woman and a teacher, had to rely on my father’s income. That year, she had a miscarriage due to deep depression. She had always been kind and calm, but during those years, she was constantly yelling over small things.
Another aunt, who was forced to wear a chadari, developed migraines and always had a bad headache from wearing it. I could go on with these memories, and share story after story of the women in my family, each of whom had their dreams curtailed by oppressive forces.
Now, as I live in exile and witness the Taliban taking control of my homeland once again, I watch in horror as they seek to erase women from society, isolating them not only from the world at large but even from each other.
The ban on girls and women praying or speaking aloud in public by the Taliban and the requirement of coverings are more than an infringement on their rights. It is designed to obliterate a social structure within which women view and draw strength from one another. Where women are exploited and alienated, and where simply talking to each other about issues, aspirations or strategies becomes out of the question. The lack of such connections among women means it is harder to work collectively against injustice. Which is what the oppressive forces want.
I witnessed this growing up around my mother, my aunts and other women in Kabul, whose lives were dislocated by the Taliban’s rule in the 1990s. They were silenced, their aspirations were dashed, and the very notion of sisterhood was undermined. These women were cut off from one another. They forgot how to support each other and how to share their resilient shoulders. This fundamental connection that made some of them feel visible, comforted and some powerful— was taken away. The present ban also seeks to do this with the present generation of women in Afghanistan.
On the other hand, this ban gives men the opportunity to view women in their families as insignificant or subordinate. Women are not only “seen” as empty cocoon-like bodies, but their very ability to actively participate in their environment is diminished. This disconnection makes oppression seem so tangible, it feels like an inescapable chokehold. However, it is also this very disconnection, that once mended, becomes the strongest motivation in seeking justice.
The significance of women’s voices arouses fear in many due to an ingrained awareness that women do not speak for themselves alone when they raise their voices; they speak for communities, for causes, for justice, for equality. Women’s voices have the potential to disrupt the status quo and alter the existing power dynamics which unnerves a plethora of oppressive regimes such as the Taliban.
One of the most remarkable forms of resistance has been the audacious protests in the streets of Kabul led by fearless activists, along with many more women of Afghanistan rising up in other parts of the world. These women have fought for their rights and have paid the price even in oppression. As they confidently march to the front lines, many men choose to stay passive. It is these women who have remained undeterred, and are waging the war with a ferocity that is admirable.
The writer is an Afghan refugee in India
* Name changed on request.
