Building a business as a woman: how do the Taliban treat women in government offices?
My workshop was inside a house in a village located just a few kilometres from the city of Faizabad. In September 2023, I decided to move the workshop’s branch into the city. But this required permission from the Department for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. One day, a friend and I went to their office. When we reached the address, we were not allowed to enter.
That department is built on hatred and exclusion of women. That day, even the gate guard didn’t look at us or speak to us directly. When I tried to talk to him, he walked away without answering and brought another man. That man, too, spoke to us with disdain and reluctance.
Because of my gender, they treated me with disdain. They were ashamed of my presence in public and beside them. As I began to explain the reason for my visit, he cut me off and said, “Our boss will not see you. Go home and do housework. What does a woman have to do with business? Business is for men.” His words felt like bullets to the heart — cruel and dehumanizing. I firmly responded, “I have a license from the Taliban government — why shouldn’t I be allowed?” Without saying a word or allowing me to finish, he turned away and disappeared into his office.
As a result, I was not able to open the city branch of my workshop in Faizabad.
My name is Khatereh, and I’m 28 years old. Before the Taliban, when I was studying economics at Badakhshan University, I also ran a small business alongside my education. At that time, a friend and I would buy inexpensive fabric, have it sewn by a tailor, and sell the finished clothes online, earning a small income.
After graduation, I moved to Kabul and got a job in a government office. Like thousands of other girls, I had many dreams — to build a future, advance my career, and grow my business.
But in the summer of 2021, when the Taliban entered the city, it felt as though all doors of hope had been slammed shut. Terror swept through Badakhshan. People panicked, desperately trying to flee the country — the airport was so crowded, there was barely room to stand. In Faizabad, nights echoed with the celebratory gunfire and rocket blasts of the Taliban, marking their victory. For someone like me — who, just days before, had been chasing her dreams — life under Taliban rule quickly became unbearable.
As time passed, more and more restrictions were imposed on women. Women lost the right to study, work, or walk alone in public. To save myself from depression, I decided to resume my past work, with some adjustments.
A few months after the Taliban came to power — in late 2021 — I launched a workshop with one trainer and eight students. Starting the workshop was not easy; I faced many challenges along the way.
The Taliban had nearly doubled the licensing fees. The NGO license fee was raised from 30,000 afghani [USD 420] afghani to 50,000 [USD 700], and the business license fee from 10,000 [USD 140] to 18,000 afghani [USD 252]. I couldn’t afford the NGO license, so I registered under a business license instead. But with a business license, I can’t apply for projects or access development or assistance programs from international organizations that support women.
When I went to the tax office to pay the license fee, there was no guard at the gate. I nervously knocked and slowly entered. The director — a man with long hair, a long beard, and eyes lined with kohl — shouted at his guards the moment he saw me: “Why did you let this woman come in?” The guards dragged me out of his office and sent me to another section.
Shaken and frightened, I entered the next department, where I was treated like a alien. It was clear they were deeply uncomfortable with a woman’s presence in their office. Without speaking a word to me, they processed my license fee and rushed me out.
This kind of treatment wasn’t limited to government offices. Even when I went to buy materials for the workshop, drivers and shopkeepers would refuse to help me simply because I didn’t have a mahram. They were afraid of the Taliban. The Taliban had ordered that no driver was allowed to give a ride to a woman without a male escort. When I needed to go into the city to buy supplies, I often had to wait a long time by the roadside, until a kind-hearted driver would finally feel pity for me and take me into town.
Before the Taliban came to power, I had started my business with just 2,500 afghani [USD 35]. After their return, I restarted my work with 25,000 afghani [USD 350]. I began again with one trainer and eight tailoring students. After some time, I also launched an engraving section alongside the tailoring.
The engravers carve decorative designs on precious stones. Since the mining and market for gemstones in Badakhshan are thriving, I have been able to employ many women and girls. Today, more than 100 women and girls work in my workshop, each earning a monthly wage ranging from at least 1,000 afghani to as much as 15,000 afghani [USD 209].
Unfortunately, life for women keeps becoming more constrained. Under the Taliban’s rule, we women are oppressed under various pretexts. We are not allowed to travel or move around without a male escort. And recently, these restrictions have reached the point where even women’s voices are banned.
Yet, despite the hardships and the many challenges I’ve faced — being rejected from offices because of my gender, being silenced and dismissed — I have not lost my sense of womanhood or my resolve. On the contrary, I feel that every new pressure only strengthens me.
What began as a small workshop with one trainer and eight students has now become a workplace for one hundred women. Alongside the workshop, I am also in contact with a group of entrepreneurial young women, and we work together and support one another.
Atia FarAzar is the pen name of a Zan Times journalist.
