By Raha Azad*
October 31, 2022 was a day that started like any other. We got ready and went to Badakhshan University. Most of the girls were wearing jackets or coats as the weather was cold. But this time, the Taliban gunmen at the entrance refused to allow us into the university. Their reason? We were wearing colourful winter coats over our black hijabs. Only those who were completely dressed in black were allowed in.
We grew angry as we remained stranded outside the university and pounded on the closed gates, demanding that they be opened for us. We didn’t want to return to our homes. Then a Taliban soldier opened a gate and began beating the girls who were standing there. He whipped their legs, back, shoulders, and even their heads. His violent attack continued for more than 40 minutes (short videos of the beatings were posted online). It only ended when the university president went to the entrance and told the gathered students to accept whatever the Taliban would tell us. Then he opened the gates, and we went inside.
That wasn’t the end of the conflict that day. Taliban vice and virtue agents insulted us after we were inside. Instead of supporting us, the university president told us to calm our anger. The women students of the department of literature and journalism decided to again protest, demanding an end to the abuse being inflicted on us. By the time we poured out onto the street on our way to the office of the Taliban governor, we numbered more than 70.
The Taliban followed us in pickup trucks, whipping protesters. Our numbers decreased each time we reached a new intersection, as girls who were being whipped could not continue on this dangerous path. When we arrived at the last intersection before the governor’s office, the Taliban gunmen in the trucks pointed their weapons at us, saying, “You can’t continue anymore. Stop! If you continue, we will kill you.” We shouted back, “Kill us. We are not afraid of you anymore. What is left for us to be afraid of – death?” One Talib shouted, “You are very shameless. If we catch you, we will surely punish you.” I did not care and continued to walk.
By the time we walked from Flowerpot intersection to General Raziq intersection, our numbers had decreased to 15. When we arrived at the General Raziq intersection, Taliban intelligence wearing black masks attacked us with bigger whips. I received six lashes, bruising my shoulders, back, neck, and arms. My head hurt. While we were being attacked, locals gathered and just watched. It was as if the men of the city had all become Taliban. No one had mercy.
Soon, only four of us remained. We had no way to escape. When a whip hit me on the back, I caught it in my hand and shouted, “You bastards cut us to pieces. Enough! You killed us! What kind of people are you?” Every time I tried to resist, they hit me harder. I had filmed the demonstration, but the Taliban took the mobile phones of all the girls. They tried to put us in their pickups, but we found a way to escape from the area.
We were afraid that they would come after us. In order to not endanger the lives of our family, we decided to separate and go to relatives’ homes. If the relation that took me in had known I was one of the student protesters, I don’t think they would have allowed me in their home. So I told them there had been protests by university students and I needed to stay with them because the Taliban blocked roads so I couldn’t make it home. The next day, the Taliban announced that they would close the university if students protested again. So we stopped. Finally, on December 22, 2022, they closed the universities across Afghanistan. That’s when we all stopped studying.
Now I sit at the window of my room, reading a book and looking outside. I am waiting for someone to arrive, saying, “Raha, the university has opened!” I am still fighting for my rights. I know I am fantasizing, but if I don’t hope for the reopening of universities, I’d be paralyzed. I feel like I am melting in this hope.
*Raha Azad is a student activist who lives in Afghanistan.
