By Sofia
I am a 26-year-old journalism graduate from Herat University. I finished my degree one year before the Taliban returned to power. After graduation, I started working at a radio station and later moved into television. I went to the radio office every day, hosting between one and one-and-a-half hours of programming daily. Things were going well.
Everything fell apart when the Taliban took over. Many journalists, including some of my colleagues, left the country. I kept working for the next year and two months.
I was on air, reading a poem by Mawlana Jalaluddin Balkhi and introducing his work when four Taliban members entered our office. It was three in the afternoon, and I was the only woman in the office. I had a bad feeling, thinking they might have come because of me. They kicked the studio door open, pulled me out, and told me women’s work in radio was forbidden. That day, with a broken heart, I went home. I never returned.
My monthly salary had been 5,000 afghani, but the station still owed me three months’ wages. When I asked for my pay, they said times had changed, their finances were gone, and they couldn’t pay me. I never filed a complaint, knowing that women’s work and grievances meant nothing to this regime.
At home, I tried to find another way to earn a living. I dreamed of starting a YouTube channel, but I didn’t have the right phone or camera. I borrowed 28,500 afghani from a friend to buy a camera, a microphone, and a tripod so I could work independently.
One morning at 9 a.m., soon after buying the camera, I went to a historic site to take photos. Suddenly, two men appeared behind me. “Don’t you know this place belongs to men, and women aren’t allowed to enter?” they asked. I told them I was only there to take a few pictures. They accused me of spying for the opposition media. I showed my press card, but they refused to accept it. They demanded my phone, which I unlocked, showing them all my files — they even searched my private photo gallery. Then they asked for my camera. I pleaded, “I’ll give it to you, but please return it. I just bought it with borrowed money.”
“Don’t talk so much,” one of them said. After inspecting it, they remarked on my clothing: “What kind of style is this? We are Muslims.” I replied, “We are all Muslims. There’s nothing wrong with my outfit — I’m wearing a long dress, and even a mask.” They accused me of talking back. Then, one of them raised my camera and smashed it to the ground. I wanted to scream and cry, but I knew it would only make things worse. They insulted me in both Pashto and Dari.
When I asked for the broken pieces, one of them wrapped the parts in a handkerchief and took them away. I followed them for a long distance, but they got into a taxi and left. I shouted after them that I would complain to the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. They replied, “Go ahead. You’re free to go wherever you want.”
And so began weeks of repeatedly going to that ministry. On the first day, they asked why I was there and insisted I must wear a chador. I wrote my complaint, but the guard dismissed it: “This paper is useless.” At the executive office, an officer asked, “Where is your mahram? Why are you here alone?” I said I had come to follow up on my camera. He promised they would investigate. Each time I returned, they falsely claimed that they were working on it.
One day, an officer told me they didn’t know who was responsible: “They all wear white clothes and turbans and say they’re from our ministry — how can we find them?” Another time, he asked if I was engaged. My friends had warned me about such questions, so I said yes, my fiancé was in Iran. He replied, “It’s a pity you’re engaged — otherwise, I’d marry you myself.” I told him, “I didn’t come here for this. My camera was broken, and I want my rights.” He asked for my phone number “in case they found the people,” but soon began messaging me every night, saying, “I love you.”
Every day I counted, hoping for justice. Yet many of my visits ended in tears. By the 28th day, they finally told me, “Girl, go live your life and pretend you never had a camera.”
Sofia is the pseudonym of a journalist in Afghanistan
