By Salima Rahmani*
The Taliban have completely disrupted my children’s lives. When the Taliban forbade them from attending school or university, Parwana was in grade 8, Samia was in her first year of university and Somiya was in her fourth.
My son, Ahmad, could not continue his schooling, either. By now, he should have been in his second year of university. But to help the family’s financial situation, he was forced to stop attending school and look for work. Now, the deteriorating economic situation means he couldn’t find full-time work.
Deprived of university, Samia started a painting course, which she secretly teaches at a private school. Parwana also tried to continue her education, enrolling in an English language course near her home. Eventually, the Taliban discovered both the private school and the course, and closed both of them.
After several months of doing little, Parwana was bored. She enrolled in a new English course at another private school. She is a very talented student, with good memorization skills. She’s the top student in her school. She radiates happiness when leaving and returning from her classes. We feel happy because of her obvious joy. Unfortunately, this happiness did not last.
One day in March 2023, she took her bag and headed out for her course. A few minutes later, while I was standing for noon prayer, I heard her at our front door. “Ahmad, where are you?” she cried out.
She was standing at the door, pale-faced, and trembling with fear. I abandoned the prayer and ran outside, only to see three Taliban, dressed in white clothes and black turbans, surrounding Ahmad in front of our home. A Taliban driver stood near their Ranger, his hands folded, while another Talib, holding a Kalashnikov, stood a few steps away. Ahmad looked scared. “What is your relationship with this girl?” a stout Talib asked Ahmad, while pointing to Parwana. “My sister,” Ahmad responded in a hoarse voice. The Talib began slapping my son on his head and face. I ran forward, saying, “Please stop! What has he done?” The Talib responded, “Why does he allow his sister to attend the course?”
The Talib turned to me, and, while pointing at Parwana, yelled, “Is this your daughter?” I said she was, and asked for forgiveness, promising that she would not attend an educational course in the future. Meanwhile, passersby gathered, watching the spectacle. No one intervened.
“Where is his father?” the Talib asks. “He is at work,” I responded, explaining that my husband was a labourer. Then the Talib decides: “We will take you and your son to the police station. If you spend a few nights in detention, you will learn your lesson.” One of the militants grabs Ahmad to throw him in the pickup truck. I run forward, again apologizing and pleading, “Don’t do it, it was a mistake. We won’t send her to courses anymore.” In response, the stout Talib slaps Ahmad again and then the armed Talib smashes the butt of his Kalashnikov on Ahmad’s forehead.
At that point, a neighbour intervenes, begging, ““Don’t do it. It’s a mistake. They won’t send their daughter to the course anymore. Forgive them. If they send her to a course again, take me with you.” The stout Talib is unconvinced, and turning to the crowd, says, “All vice is Barchi [the predominantly Hazara neighbourhood in Kabul where Salima and her family live]. The people here won’t learn how to be human. We put them in detention, still, the next day we see them going to a course again.”
Finally, with the mediation of a neighbourhood elder, they finally release Ahmad and me. Before they leave, the Taliban militants warn the crowd, “If we see any girl from this area going to educational courses, we will take you all to the police station.”
We go inside our home. Still overwhelmed with fear, I ask Parwana what happened. My pale-faced daughter tells her story:
“I was walking to the course. A Taliban Ranger [pickup truck] stopped me in the alley. They got out of the car and asked, ‘Where are you going?’ Scared, I said, ‘I’m going to my course.’ Then they asked, ‘Which course? I gave that information and one of them said, ‘Jump in the Ranger.” Then, another Talib asked, ‘Where is your home? Is it far or near?’ I pointed to the house, saying, ‘At the end of the alley.’ They took my phone from me, saying, ‘Let’s go to your house.’”
I wanted to slap Parwana in the face. I blamed her, saying, “It’s because of you! If we were taken to the station, what would be left for us! I won’t let you go to course anymore.” Then I regretted my words. It was not Parwana’s fault. This is her fate, the fate of a girl who wanted to study, wanted to go to a course. She always wanted to be the top student. Now she has to sit at home, looking at her books and papers.
She is not alone, Samia and Somiya also have to remain at home, lamenting their sad futures. Thousands of other girls are also crying because they’ve been deprived of lessons and education. They have also lost their dreams. The Taliban did not just imprison their bodies at home, they burned their souls. As a mother, I feel the pain of my daughters who stare at their books.
As a mother, I feel the deep impact that the experience of that day had on my daughter. Parwana stopped talking. She just sits silently in a corner of the house. She used to laugh as she went to school, now she no longer has a smile on her face.
I am scared, afraid that she will become ill. I am afraid that I will lose Parwana. She lost her dreams, and I lost mine – I wished to see her as a university professor or a doctor. As a mother, I’m afraid, God forbid. If they catch her again and take her to the police station, what can I do?
*Salima Rahmani is the pen name for Parwana’s mother. All names have been changed for their safety.
