Everything was cold and buried under snow when I set out on my journey to leave Afghanistan. I reached Herat after dark. With a suitcase in my hand, I joined three young men who had come on the same bus; they seemed safe.
I spent three nights in Herat at acquaintances’ homes. I wanted to reach Pakistan as quickly as possible. No one knew about my trip back to Afghanistan except my friend Zahra and a few others. For security reasons, I had not told my family. Travelling from Herat to Kandahar was difficult as women are not allowed to travel without a mahram. Finally, I attached myself to a family and reached Kandahar, where I spent two days in a hotel. Everything frightened me, even the sound of footsteps.
My name is Zarifa Salangi. I was born in Kabul. I graduated from Panjsad-Family School. My Kankor result was not good enough to get into university, so I studied journalism for two years at an institute. After graduating, I began as an intern at Banoo TV. At the same time, I searched for a university to continue my education. After many difficulties, I enrolled in economics at Pishgam University.
After two years at Banoo TV, I joined another organization and worked there for a year and a half and was promoted as I worked with such enthusiasm. Alongside my formal job, I was active in cultural and civic works. I attended many short courses, took part in conferences through Banoo TV, and was active on social media. Through these activities, my circle of relationships expanded. Little by little, I was emerging from the shy, introverted girl I had been. Then the Taliban returned to power.
With the fall of Kabul, my dreams were completely shattered. I was unemployed, hopeless, and depressed. When I heard about small protests — each involving only a few people — I joined them. We organized through a WhatsApp group; none of us knew one another. After two protests, we founded the Women for Justice Movement. (Of that original group, only four or five of us remain as we enter the fifth year of the movement’s activity. The rest either formed separate groups or withdrew from taking part in protests altogether.)
For six months, we protested on the streets of Kabul. We organized graffiti actions and held press briefings. That was when the threats began. Strange voice messages and threatening texts escalated to house searches. Our last gathering was at Tamana Paryani’s home. That same night, Tamana was supposed to host a virtual meeting, and the next day some of us were meant to go to the UN office. Before the meeting even began, a video of Tamana crying and screaming for help flooded Facebook.
We immediately removed her from our WhatsApp groups, and created a new group. Around that time, our group was cut off several times. Our situation deteriorated daily. People were arrested one after another. Some were taken to safe houses, only to be arrested from there.
I cried day and night, overwhelmed by fear and confusion. I moved houses repeatedly, shifting back and forth between Karte Naw and Badam Bagh. My father was dismissed from his job. Within six months, we had sold everything in our home. With no money or belongings, we mortgaged the house. With that money, my family and I set out on the smuggling route to Iran. After eight days and nights travelling through Nimroz and Pakistan, we reached Iranian soil.
In Iran,\ I did not turn away from the situation of women in Afghanistan, despite my exhausting work. In every way possible, I pushed my voice outward by organizing protest actions, recording videos for the media, writing texts, and collaborating with Nai News’ newsroom and YouTube channel.
I continued to work and organize in Iran until this spring, when a call came from the kefalat office where our information had previously been registered. There, they took the family’s census papers from my father and handed him an exit notice. In the autumn, my family returned to Afghanistan. I stayed behind until my time ran out. After the Iran–Israel war, restrictions tightened further on Afghans living in Iran. I lost my job and could not find another. I was hungry until the landlord returned half of our deposit and told me to leave.
For a few days, I stayed with my aunt, my sister, and friends. But it was no longer possible to survive like that. I applied for a Pakistani student visa; it was rejected. Then I obtained a medical visa, but the land border closed after clashes between the Taliban and Pakistan.
On the third day, I was waiting at a hotel in Kandahar when the smuggler coordinated our departure. We were separated into three groups: me on my own; two women, including one who was six months pregnant; and a family of four made up of two women and two children. One woman sat with the children in the front while the rest of us were in the back. We left at six in the evening and reached Lashkar Gah at nine. We waited briefly in a remote neighbourhood, then transferred to another vehicle. From there on, checkpoints were constant. At each one, the driver held papers and said, “I have permission, boss.”
We reached the desolate plains of Helmand, composed of sand, stone, and nothing else. The car struggled to move forward. In some stretches, there was nothing alive but thorns and a few camels. We drove for nearly eight hours. This route had no walking segment, so we had to pay the smuggler double. At two in the morning, the car stopped at a house. We were told to go inside. Another driver would come at eight.
No one came. After nine, someone knocked and said the driver had been arrested. We were completely cut off as there was no Internet. An hour later, the Taliban arrived. They moved us to an ordinary-looking house, filled with armed men.
We were taken into a cold room to wait for interrogation. I destroyed my Iranian exit paper and every document I had, soaking some in juice, crushing others, and chewing the paper itself. I deleted Telegram, Gmail, YouTube and everything else on my phone.
We were interrogated one by one. Only one interrogator spoke Persian. They asked my name, my father’s name, province, district, nationality, why I was travelling, why I was single at the age of 29. “Are you Muslim? The men in your family have no honour,” one said.
Near sunset, we were transferred to Lashkar Gah. The driver was handed over to the men’s criminal division; we were taken to the women’s. Our phones were confiscated. We were locked in a filthy room, away from other detainees. Two women were already there, one of whom seemed more like an informant than a prisoner. Using a phone one of us had kept, we secretly sent brief messages to our families.
After three nights, our statements were taken. The questions were absurd: “How do we know who you’re working with? The Resistance Front? ISIS? Are you going to strip your head bare? You have a husband — let him feed you. What more do you want?”
They sat on chairs. We sat on the floor. When I answered in Pashto, they seemed pleased. At two in the afternoon, our male guardians arrived and signed guarantees, and we were released, likely because of Taliban cooperation with smugglers.
I said goodbye to my guardian and told him that me returning to Kabul would put them at risk. I did not want to endanger my family. I rejoined the women’s group and contacted the smuggler again. That evening, we left Helmand by a harsher route.
We walked for hours through the night. Twice we rode in Toyota vehicles covered with tarpaulin; when the wind lifted it, we shook with cold. On one stretch, I collapsed. Our guide rode ahead on a motorcycle while we ran after him. At one point, I could not go on. “I’m sick—I can’t walk anymore,” I said. I rode part of the way on the motorcycle. By morning, we reached the paved road. From there, we traveled by smaller cars to Quetta.
Two nights later, I arrived in Islamabad and went to my friend Zahra’s home. She welcomed me with kindness and warmth. I now have a Pakistani medical visa. It has one week left on it and no entry stamp. Police have come to the door several times. They looked at my visa and said nothing.
I endured all of this so my voice would not be silenced. I do not know what hardships still lie ahead.
Zarifa Salangi became a women’s rights activist in response to the Taliban takeover, joining the spontaneous women’s movement that emerged in its aftermath.
