She was killed after midnight, in one of the apartment buildings in the city centre of Maima. Her cries for help pierced the stillness of the night — cries the walls heard, but no one answered, though it is an area with heavy foot traffic and security cameras.
By the time her family arrived, the alley was filled with security forces but the killer had escaped. Her mother had to endure seeing the lifeless body of her child in the very place that was supposed to be the safest, her home.
Bano had been in the 10th grade when the Taliban returned to power. Though she was not allowed to continue her formal education,she refused to give up. She started working as a journalist for local media.
Those close to her say her husband repeatedly pressured her to give up her work, telling her, “I am completely illiterate, and you are educated and working.” Her mother, Khadija, says these differences became a source of constant tension in the household as Bano’s modest salary was keeping the family afloat.
On 13 July 2025, Bano was killed by her husband at 12:32 a.m.. Her mother says the case for justice for her daughter has led nowhere. “My child’s blood was left on the ground,” Khadija, 56, tells Zan Times.
Khadija explains that Bano was a quiet, gentle child who was married off at the age of 13. That decision was rooted in poverty and the family’s lack of options, she says. “No one in the house was able to work. I couldn’t support my children on my own. I had no choice but to marry off my daughter while she was still a child. My other children were small, and there was no one to provide for us.”
Bano was engaged for three years before the marriage was formalized. Marriage did not bring safety, but rather pressure, humiliation, and violence. Her husband disapproved of her media work, constantly harassed his wife, and demanded money from her.
The state of the apartment after Bano’s murder suggests a serious confrontation had taken place between Bano and her husband, her mother says. When she arrived at the scene of her daughter’s death, she found the room in disarray, belongings packed, and Bano’s hijab was torn. Khadija believes Bano had resisted her husband, and perhaps was leaving him, or defending herself. That resistance ultimately led to her killing.
Tears stream down Khadija’s face as she wipes her eyes with the corner of her scarf while remembering the hardest moment of her life: “It was past midnight when one of Bano’s friends pounded on the door. My heart sank. They said Bano was sick and we needed to come immediately. On the way, my whole body was trembling. I am a mother; I knew something terrible was coming.”
Nothing prepared Khadija for the shock of that moment: “I held my child’s lifeless body in my arms. I was screaming, but she had no voice left to answer me.” She adds that Bano’s hands had been bound together. “Seeing that scene was terrifying — and unforgettable.”
She accompanied her daughter’s body as it was taken to the ambulance, saying she held onto hope of a miracle the entire way. “I kept telling myself that maybe she would hear my voice … maybe she would call me ‘Mother’ one more time.”
Bano lived on the third floor of an apartment building in central Maimana. According to one of the residents, a commotion began around midnight with the sound of a woman screaming and pleading “Help, help!”
A woman who lived next door to Bano says she clearly heard the pounding of feet against the wall and the bed. She recalls that the neighbours, fearing for their own safety, would not approach the scene as the cries for help grew weaker and weaker. Holding her child in her arms, she finally headed toward Bano’s home. Just a few steps from its entrance, she saw Bano’s husband rushing out of the apartment.
“He had blood on his hands,” the neighbour says, “and he threatened me not to come any closer.”
According to the neighbours, Bano’s husband was “a man burdened with debt, constantly tense, and incapable of managing his life.” He was someone with a history of imprisonment, smuggling trips, drug use, and violent behaviour. Above all, they say, he could not tolerate his wife’s independence or her work.
Khadija, Bano’s mother, recounts that her son-in-law had once spent 40 nights in a border region between Turkmenistan and Afghanistan known as Jownd. She believes that “he had joined ISIS” during that time. She adds that his motive for joining the group was likely to get a monthly income.
Despite the fact that Bano was killed in the centre of the city, no one has been arrested for her murder. Her mother says, “I went to the police headquarters many times, from one district office to another. No lead was ever found.” Even with security cameras and security forces present in the area, the killer escaped with ease.
Khadija continued to seek justice for her daughter. She went to the court to demand accountability, but the judge told her, “If you hear anything about the killer, let us know.” This response effectively placed the burden of pursuing the case on a grieving mother already struggling with profound loss and poverty. It’s beyond her ability as she cleans homes and washes clothes to support her five other children.
“What’s worse is that my daughter’s blood was left on the ground. No one came to help me. Even the security post near our home didn’t come to offer condolences,” says Khadija. She says she provided the authorities with a photo of Bano’s husband and his identification documents, yet no serious steps have been taken to find the man. This case stands as a stark example of the Taliban’s failed judicial and security apparatus, which has abandoned victims and their families.
With no modern or transparent legal system under the Taliban, the murders of women often go unpunished. They have no clear laws to define crimes or outline judicial procedures. In addition, women are effectively excluded from the justice process. They cannot file complaints freely nor access an independent lawyer. Judges, too, lack real independence; their decisions often follow political or tribal directives rather than impartial justice. This combination means that acts of violence and murder against women rarely reach the courts, leaving perpetrators able to walk away from their crimes.
It is no wonder that domestic violence in Afghanistan has surged since the return of the Taliban. In the past year alone, dozens of cases of women’s murders and suicides have been reported in the media.
“After Bano’s murder, none of us felt safe anymore,” says one of Bano’s close friends and colleagues. She explains that fear took over not only their workplace but their personal lives as well. “After what happened to Bano, one of our colleagues, who was engaged, said she was terrified of living in the same apartment block as her fiancé. She kept thinking she might end up like Bano, that her husband could kill her.”
Gradually, this fear paralyzed the professional work of most women journalists living in Maimana. According to Bano’s colleague, none of the women dared stay alone in the studio. “If work ran late, we would call two others to wait with us, or we would just leave everything unfinished and go home.” She says the psychological pressure became so severe that she was forced to resign. “Even the sound of the office cleaner sweeping frightened me; I would think someone had come after me.”
Bano’s mother knows there is little hope that her daughter’s killer will be prosecuted. “How can a woman track down a killer? How can she get justice for her daughter?” she asks. “They told me: if you hear anything, report it. You are the ones responsible for security — if you couldn’t find him, how can I?”
Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Leda Barez is the pseudonym of a journalist in Afghanistan.
