Our departure from Afghanistan doesn’t end our struggle: Nayera Kohistani
My name is Nayera Kohistani. Before the fall of the Republic of Afghanistan, I, like thousands of other women in the country, hoped for a better tomorrow. I worked for nearly 10 years at foreign NGOs and development projects.
In recent years, I worked with private schools and was serving at the Kardan school when the republic fell. The fall of provinces, one after the other, revived in me the nightmare of life under the Taliban. The thought of not being allowed to work one day sent shivers down my spine.
I was a child during the Taliban’s first rule in the late 1990s but I remember them – how they tortured my father and disrupted our lives. I remember them setting schools on fire. Occasionally, there was fighting in my homeland, the mountainous Kapisa, and then the corpses of innocent people were discovered in nearby fields. Due to those turbulent times, I had to repeat the first grade three times. I remember fleeing from one village to another, from one province to another. My father became displaced, and my mother, fearing the Taliban’s lashes, would not leave the house. I will never forget when the Taliban found a music tape, and, for that reason alone, wanted to burn our home down.
In 2021, I spoke with my colleagues, and we concluded that Kabul would never fall; that the U.S. had invested in Afghanistan; the UN and the international community were present; they couldn’t possibly hand us over to the Taliban. But, sadly, everything collapsed, and I fell along with Kabul. I reverted to the terrible past, to the absence of my father, to wounds, agonies, and psychological tortures. I imagined myself in my mother’s place, holding her children, walking two or three hours to buy a loaf or two of bread, and then waiting in long lines outside the clinics.
The day Kabul fell, even though my family insisted that I shouldn’t go to work, I went because our school had been closed for a long time due to the pandemic. We wanted to test the students after such a long break. It was a very bad day. I cried a lot, having seen the Taliban’s injustice. I remembered that during their first regime, the Taliban would whip anyone if they found even a single photo in their house.
The day Kabul fell, I returned home in fear and burned all my essential work documents, including certificates of appreciation. I thought the Taliban would massacre everyone. Like me, everyone was scared because we all knew that the Taliban had killed and are killing people in mosques, hospitals, streets, universities, and everywhere else.
People were terrified, wondering what to do with their work documents, certificates, military uniforms, and thousands of other items so that they wouldn’t become a source of danger for them.
The initial days after the fall were very hard for me, especially considering the chaotic situation the Americans had created at the Kabul airport: thousands of families rushing to it, and women and children trapped outside. The day I burned my documents and buried them, I didn’t leave my room, thinking this fear would consume me. I didn’t even dare to check social media or visit someone’s house. I tried not to pick up my mobile or turn on the television. When I finally watched TV, I got a headache, yet didn’t dare to open the window and look out at the street.
I was encouraged the day Ahmad Massoud called on the people to take to the streets and they shouted the Takbir from their homes. When I heard these chants, I too opened my window and shouted along, and the sounds of people’s voices caressed my ears. I thought this nightmare would end, and the people would prevail. My fears gradually faded, and I prepared to confront the Taliban.
The first time I left my home, I went to my father’s house. I walked because our houses were 20 to 25 minutes apart. I stepped onto the streets of Kabul and again encountered Taliban caravans and their soldiers. The city was completely silent as if it was no longer alive or breathing. After that, I slowly overcame my fears and ventured out more until the day that my father needed a passport to leave the country. No one dared to go and inquire about getting a passport, but I did.
When I went to the passport office, the situation was terrible. People stood in long lines. The Taliban were dealing violently with them, lashing them with whips. I returned home and blacked out due to intense fear. It was a lesson for me. When I saw women and girls taking to the streets to protest, I thought it was now time to fight, not to fear. I told my family not to stop me from joining them.
Fariha Esaar had left a call on her Facebook page. I messaged her upon seeing it, but she didn’t see my message since we weren’t friends on Facebook. I asked every activist girl I met to include me in their groups until Hoda Khamosh replied to my message and I managed to join the group of protesting women. I couldn’t sleep the night before my first protest, both from fear and from the excitement of knowing I would go to the streets and raise my voice.
I barely convinced my husband. He is a good calligrapher so he wrote my slogans on a board. The first slogans I had written were “Women’s rights are human rights,” “A nation died of hunger,” “The international community was a spectator,” and “Bread, Work, Freedom.” Aside from my husband, no one else in my family knew about my activities.
The day of the protest, I performed my ablutions, said my prayers, kissed my children, and left them with my mother. I told her my colleague was sick, and I was going to check on her. However, I said a proper goodbye to my family and children because I didn’t know what would happen. When I saw the courage of the women and girls, my fear melted away.
I was the first to arrive at the scene. When I got there, I saw that the Taliban had already arrived; they had spies among the protesters who informed them about our protest plans.
The Taliban had all the alleys under surveillance. There was no place to hide. I went to a bolani (a type of flatbread) stand to keep myself occupied. The seller saw the rolled-up protest slogans in my bag and realized I was one of the protesters. He advised me to go home, saying it was dangerous for me there, but I continued on my chosen path. Even though the Taliban had surrounded the area, I recognized one of the protesters, a woman named Teacher Shahla. She opened her car door and gestured for me to come, and that’s when other women started arriving one by one.
Our group on WhatsApp had more than 200 members, but many didn’t dare to come out to the streets. Even so, about 50 to 60 of us were present that day. Men were with us, and our protests were covered by both local and foreign journalists.
I knew that news of our protests were reaching the world, and thought the U.S. and its allies would realize the mistake they made against the people of my country. I had no demands from the Taliban, as I never accepted them and never will. Among our slogans was “Death to the Taliban.” Our audience was the United Nations and the international community, not the Taliban.
That day, we fulfilled our duty and mission as citizens. Our protests were made at the cost of our lives and the lives of our children. In a very short time, our voices went global — even those who had fled were shaken by our protests.
I participated in six to seven street protests. My face became very recognizable because I was often at the forefront of the protests. Later, we protested from inside homes, and I tried to ensure that my face was not seen. I participated in Twitter Spaces conversations during the night. Our Spaces sessions, which started at 10 or 11 p.m., would continue until 5 or 6 in the morning. I drank thick coffee and tea to stay awake. It was encouraging for us when poets, writers, and other figures participated and spoke in our Spaces.
After arresting Tamana Zarriab Paryani and her sisters, the Taliban pursued other women protesters, including me. They distributed our pictures among Taliban soldiers and pursued us relentlessly. I knew this would happen because, in the past, my father had been captured by the Taliban despite his own attempts to hide. I knew that the Taliban would eventually catch me since they controlled all of the country.
We lived in safe houses, moving from one to another to avoid detection. From within those safe houses, we continued to protest for the release of Tamana, Parwana, Zahra, and other arrested women. Finally, the Taliban discovered our location and took us to jail.
Though we had bad experiences inside the Taliban prison, I had a better spirit compared to the other girls. We would say that we would get out of there alive. We knew that the Taliban couldn’t just silence us – we had become too well known.
I couldn’t sleep inside the prison, scared that the Taliban could enter cells at any time, day or night, for their investigation. Even though they obtained written and video pledges from us that we would face serious legal consequences if we continued to protest, I came to believe that we’d become stronger than before, once we were out of prison.
Being in jail was very hard for me and others who were mothers and had children. Every minute inside posed a danger for our loved ones.
We made a pact to not work under our real names, and chose pseudonyms for each other, like a code or password. We decided that we’d use those names to reconnect with each other on social media after being released. The Taliban didn’t return my phone when I was released from prison. My family didn’t allow me to use one, either. After a week or two, my friend Wahida contacted me and then secretly interviewed me about my experience in prison.
After my interview was published, relatives, friends, and acquaintances called me. They said that the Taliban was trying to arrest me yet again and asked me to leave the country. On the other hand, an organization that cooperated with us during the protests told me that if I decided to stay, I should go to a safe house they had arranged for me; but if I decided to go, then I should leave Afghanistan the next morning. It was impossible for me to stay in Kabul. As my daughter and husband didn’t have passports, I would have to leave only with my son. My father was also worried about me and asked me to leave Afghanistan.
Those who got us out of the country told us not to bring any belongings. I left Afghanistan like a thief — from a place where I had worked hard for years, built my own house, and wanted to turn my dreams into reality. Holding the hand of my seven-year-old son, trembling in fear, and dressed as the Taliban required, I departed from my country.
I left Afghanistan in March 2022. I saw that the situation in Afghanistan was getting worse every day. Our street protests ended after our arrests and imprisonment. No one dared to take to the streets anymore.
My three-and-a-half-year-old daughter was away from me for six months, sometimes staying in my mother’s house, other times in safe houses. She fell ill, and finally, a relative helped her get out of Afghanistan to be with me. A few months later, my husband joined us, too.
Some of the protesters left Afghanistan, while some are still there. I am in Pakistan, where we have protested several times. I participated, while wearing a disguise. I was interviewed by media outlets and collaborated with investigative teams (whose names I cannot mention). My case is under review and it may take a long time for me to be transferred to a third country.
Those who left Afghanistan did so to save their lives. Leaving the country does not signify the end of the struggle. We have a long journey ahead and are committed to our pledge.
