Migration by wheelchair: escaping Taliban persecution
This is the story of Niloufar, a 39-year-old journalism graduate from one of Afghanistan’s universities.
At the age of 20, I began feeling weakness in my hands and feet. After consulting a doctor, I was diagnosed with the progressive disease of muscular dystrophy. My life has been filled with challenges and difficult moments, but I have always strived to overcome obstacles. I continued to work for years. I had an unsuccessful marriage and am the sole guardian of my only child, a 13-year-old daughter.
My condition led to a disability, yet I undertook many responsibilities. I served as the president of the Women with Disabilities Association, led the Advocacy Network for Persons with Disabilities, and was a special education teacher for the Swedish Committee. These roles were a great honour for me as they allowed me to raise the voices of Afghan women with disabilities.
Everything changed after the Taliban took control of Afghanistan. A few months after replacing the Ministry of Women’s Affairs with their Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, the Taliban attacked the Women with Disabilities Association, seizing all our assets and equipment. As the association’s president, I was accused of encouraging women to separate from their husbands and of receiving funds from foreign entities. I was forced into house arrest.
On August 31, 2022, the Taliban held a court session regarding their charges against me. However, I was not in court. Instead, my family hid me. My 70-year-old mother and 75-year-old father, a retired employee of the Ministry of Agriculture, bravely told the Taliban that I had already left the country. As a result, the Taliban imprisoned them until September 14 in an effort to extract information about my whereabouts. Meanwhile, I had relocated to my sister’s house in Takhar province.
I couldn’t stay at my sister’s home for long — being away from medical care worsened my condition, and my presence also posed a threat to her family. I reached out to my colleagues at the Swedish Committee, who rushed to help me.
A woman named Anouk, who had collaborated with me in the past and who worked with a UN office, assisted me in applying for asylum in Belgium. To complete the process, I needed to travel to another country. Six months later, my daughter and I legally obtained visas and entered Pakistan. There, we joined my sister’s family and waited another four months for our Belgian visas.
Finally, a friend purchased two airline tickets for me and my daughter and booked a hotel in Brussels. However, when we arrived at the airport in Pakistan, we were denied permission to board the flight. The airline official told me that, because I was disabled and traveling with a child, I needed a physically-able adult companion. Though I insisted that I could manage the journey on my own, the demand proved insurmountable and we could not fly that day.
I refused to give up. I sought advice from my friends, one of whom had a solution based on their own similar experience: I could bypass the restriction for the payment of $600. A month later, we returned to the airport, and this time we were allowed to board the plane, without an adult companion.
In July 2023, we finally arrived in Brussels. We spent a night at a hotel, where I requested and received help from the staff, including transferring me from bed to wheelchair. The next day, I took a taxi to the UN office in Brussels. My application was accepted, and I was transferred to a refugee camp.
I spent several nights there until the camp officials realized that my stay posed logistical challenges for both them and me. I was relocated to another camp designated for the elderly, however it was also unsuitable.
I struggled with communication, as I didn’t speak the local languages. The only person who spoke Farsi was an Afghan who had immigrated years earlier and worked at the camp. With that help, I was able to contact camp officials and stay informed about decisions regarding my situation.
After some time, I was transferred to a house. It wasn’t suitable for my accessibility needs. In the end, I had to move four times before finally settling into an appropriate residence. In my new home, the nurses mentioned that my wheelchair was too small and that they were considering getting me a more comfortable one. The next day, they brought me a new, more comfortable wheelchair, which felt like a car seat.
Now, I have two full-time nurses and two workers who clean my house and visit me twice a week. For now, the UN covers the costs of my caregivers, rent, and other expenses. Once I legally obtain Belgian citizenship, the Belgian government will take over these payments.
I always imagined growing old in my own country, witnessing the progress of the younger generation. But this heartfelt dream of mine was shattered, and I was forced to leave my homeland. I’m haunted with the guilt of knowing that my journey meant leaving my elderly parents behind and putting them at risk. I feel torn: sometimes, I believe in my mission to advocate for women with disabilities, while other times, I blame myself for endangering my family. At the same time, I was relieved for my daughter, knowing that she no longer had to fear for her disabled mother’s safety.
I often wished I could take a step on my own during the many times I had to move to avoid persecution. Each time, it was my brother or nephew who had to carry me from one place to another, protecting my fragile body from danger. Their kindness and loyalty deeply moved me — I was proud of them, and they were my greatest source of strength.
Leaving behind the country where I had worked tirelessly despite my disability, where I had been able to help my fellow Afghans, felt like a defeat. I had to start life over again, from scratch. But before I could do anything, I first had to survive.
I know that people without disabilities experience hardship in migration, but for someone with a disability, every struggle is twice as hard. I wish I did not have this restrictive disease. I long to move on my own, without being a burden on others.
The memories of my country continue to give me strength, and my goal of serving Afghan women remains my life’s purpose.
I have decided to document all my experiences to show the world what it means to be a disabled woman in Afghanistan and the path she is forced to take.
Maryam Mahjuba is the pen name of a freelance journalist in Afghanistan.
