This narrative was recounted to Zan Times via WhatsApp:
My name is Sapeeda* and I am 26 years old, I was born near Faizabad, Badakhshan. I am the third child and the only one in my family who had the opportunity to go to university and work away from my family in the capital. My father never went to school, so he had no interest in securing a good education for me or my siblings – my older brother and sister are illiterate. My mother was my sole support throughout my difficult educational journey.
My life changed in 2012 when I was accepted into Kabul University’s faculty of law and political Science. When I shared the news with my father, he struck me with his shoe. During my four years at university, my father never sent me a single penny. Instead, my mother, a seamstress, covered all my expenses. I studied day and night to be ranked second in my class among 160 students, where seventy percent were men. Those years were the most golden period of my life, chronicled in the pages of my memories. In addition to theoretical learning, I volunteered in one of Kabul’s local courts, and after completing my studies, I chose my primary profession: a lawyer. From 2016 to 2018, I worked as a defence lawyer. During the final years of the republic government, I entered the judicial system in the Sarnewali (Pashto term for attorney) branch, working in a specialized section for women.
With the fall of the republic, my fate, like that of many of my compatriot women, completely changed. Now, I bake and sell bread. I was so discouraged that I threw my lawyer’s papers and documents into the furnace to provide better bread to the market. I was always encouraged by my teachers to have dreams for my future and that of my country.
The Taliban’s return to power shattered all these dreams. I remember the night they reported the president’s escape: I was at home, writing a defence statement for a woman whom a Taliban soldier had sexually assaulted while the perpetrator was in government custody. It was late at night, and Kabul had irregular electricity. I vividly recall using my mobile phone’s light to write. I hoped I would win in court the next day.
Unaware of deals and plans by Afghanistan’s leaders to sell out the country, I went to my office the next day with my usual enthusiasm but was puzzled by the empty taxis on different routes. I called my mother, who informed me that the Taliban had entered Kabul, and the palace was under the control of the mullahs. “Mother! Are you serious? Has the homeland truly been sold?” I asked. She couldn’t respond, instead asking me to return home.
On the way, I saw that people were rushing aimlessly, their minds distracted, and their faces pale with shock. That day, I saw the visible distress and bewilderment of women and girls on the road to Darulaman. Even my elderly taxi driver was crying. Oh, what a dark day it was!
The downfall of the country and the death of a democratic political system marked the beginning of our misery, which grows more hopeless with each passing day. I was forced to return to my father’s house because there was no opportunity to work and earn a living as a lawyer. Worse, the man against whom I had filed a case was released from prison and appointed to a position in one of Kabul’s security offices.
While my mother’s embrace provided a needed refuge, my father treated me with his usual reproach and curses. As I tried to hug him, he angrily told me that my existence endangered them. With no chance of work in Kabul, I returned to Badakhshan, where I eventually found employment in an NGO. At this time, none of my family members had a stable source of income, and even my father couldn’t find work in the job market. My income provided half of the break on our table. Then, the Taliban banned Afghan women from working at non-governmental organizations.
A few months ago, after my father was recovering from a head injury gained during a traffic accident, I was desperate enough to turn to baking bread to make a living. It was a terrifying descent for a graduate who was still unmarried because I had hoped to work on a master’s degree.
In my 26 years, I never imagined such a horrific downfall. I put a lot of effort into obtaining suitable positions matching my educational qualifications, but in the Taliban’s regime, just being a woman is the end of your career, and you must remain imprisoned within the four walls of your home.
There isn’t a day when I don’t cry. The further I go, the darker the horizons become. I see my life and that of my peers turn darker each day, and no ray of hope seems to emerge for our salvation.
History has never witnessed such oppression as what we women experience in Afghanistan. Although I know my peers and I will not have a bright future, I hope that future generations will reach freedom, equality, prosperity, and peace and that Afghanistan will become a cradle for the flourishing talents of its women and girls, not a prison or burial ground for their talents.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Shahab Ariayi is the pseudonym of a Zan Times journalist in Afghanistan.
