Since the Taliban’s return to power in August 2021, Afghan women have faced one of the most relentless crackdowns on civil liberties in modern history. Overnight, the right to education, work, movement, self-expression was stripped away. Ordinary women — teachers, police officers, students, and health workers — emerged in the immediate weeks after the takeover to protest these crushing restrictions, forging a spontaneous movement displaying enormous courage.
One of those women is Zarmina Paryani, a trained midwife whose story reflects both the bravery and the brutality of the resistance. In January 2022, after joining protests demanding basic rights, her home was raided by Taliban forces. This interview tells her story in her own voice.
ZT: Tell us about your childhood. Where were you born, and what kind of family did you grow up in?
Paryani: I was born in Panjshir. I grew up in a religious Muslim family. After the age of five, I began going to the mosque and studying religious lessons. Later, when we moved to Kabul, I attended a religious madrasa alongside regular school. Until I was 13, I regularly went to the madrasa and was deeply committed to my religious studies.
In Pariyan, a remote area of Panjshir, only religious schools were active at the time. We had to attend the only school available to us.
ZT: What was your family’s view on girls’ education?
Paryani: My father derived his views directly from his understanding of Islam. Whatever he said was what had been told to all of us. He believed women’s rights were limited to what Sharia permits. He would say, “You are allowed only what religion allows you.”
In our childhood, women’s rights were defined by what the mullah and the mosque preacher said. My father was one of those men. Everything he expressed reflected what he believed Islam prescribed. At that time, I thought the same way. I read religious books and tried to understand what Sharia allowed me as a woman — what I was permitted to do and what I was not.
ZT: Interpretations of Sharia differ. From your perspective then, what did it say?
Paryani: At that time, the system was structured in a way that we accepted whatever we were told. We were taught that women are “deficient in intellect.” When I heard that, I assumed it must be true. I thought perhaps there really was some flaw in our existence.
Like children raised in suicide-training madrasas, we accepted everything without question. I was 13 when, at a family gathering, I wore a dress that showed a small part of my legs. After returning home, I performed a prayer of repentance. I truly believed I had committed a sin.
ZT: What caused your beliefs and understanding to change?
Paryani: As time passed and I grew older, my mother, who herself had been deprived of schooling, would encourage us to study and make progress. She would say, “Reach a place where your hands are not tied to a man.” I also wanted to be independent, not dependent on my father or a future husband. I wanted to study and be able to work.
Personally, I never saw myself as less than a man. Later, when I began working and worked alongside my father, I realized in practice that women and men are not different in their abilities.
When we moved to Kabul and enrolled in school, until we completed primary education, relatives and people from Pariyan would come to my father and urge him to pull us out of school. They would say it was not appropriate for girls to attend school. At the time, I did not understand what gave them the courage to speak that way. Later, I realized they were drawing their arguments from their understanding of religion and Islam.
It was when I was imprisoned by the Taliban that I fully understood how religion can be used as a tool — how it can be manipulated to suppress people. While I was in prison, my perception of religion changed. My thinking shifted so profoundly that when I was released, I felt I had left those former beliefs behind in that prison.
ZT: When you joined the protests, what was your family’s reaction?
Paryani: We went to the protests secretly. No one at home knew we were demonstrating. Families did not support the protests. They certainly would not have agreed. My sisters and I went without telling my father or our relatives. Not only us — all the protesting women demonstrated in secret and came to the streets without informing their families.
We would say, “We are women. Whatever happens will happen to us.” Our families never came to the streets to support us. That is why we kept it hidden.
ZT: What happened when your family found out?
Paryani: During the protests, we wore sunglasses and masks so we would not be recognized. As more videos of the demonstrations were broadcast on television, some people informed my father that we were among the protesters. He made us swear and repeatedly insisted that we never attend protests again.
He fully realized it when we were arrested. On the first night after our release, when the Taliban handed us over to our family, my father said in front of them, “You were a doctor, why did you go? You should have stayed at the hospital and continued your work. I wish you had not protested. What did you have to do with these matters?”
I said nothing. I went home with him.
ZT: What were you doing before the Taliban returned to power?
Paryani: I was a midwife. I worked at a hospital.
ZT: What were your hopes and plans for the future?
Paryani: I dreamed of security and freedom. I wanted to wear the clothes I liked. I hoped to travel to a distant province with friends, but that was never possible.
The day the Taliban came, I could not believe it. I could not believe we would lose even the small opportunities we had. We had just enough space to work or to have studied and even that was taken from us.
ZT: When you went to protest, what exactly were you seeking?
Paryani: We were standing up for our personal and human rights. We chanted bread, work, and freedom.
As time passed, the Taliban intensified their repression of women. They would not allow women without what they call “Taliban hijab” even to board public minibuses. That compulsory dress code was one of the main reasons I joined the protests at the beginning.
ZT: Knowing how dangerous the Taliban are, what made you protest anyway?
Paryani: On the first day we protested in Shahr-e Naw, when I looked a Taliban fighter in the eye for the first time, I felt as if a wild animal had escaped from a cage and was charging toward us. I had never imagined that one day I would face the Taliban in the street like that.
Even before the collapse, if people said a certain road might be controlled by the Taliban, I would avoid traveling that way so I would not encounter them. But that day, it was us and a group of very aggressive Taliban standing face to face.
When you live in a country where even your ordinary life is taken away from you, you no longer fear anything when demanding your most basic right: the right to live. When you are not allowed to live as a human being, when a group like the Taliban comes and takes everything, I think we had already accepted death when we went there.
ZT: How were the protests organized? Who was with you?
Paryani: We were ordinary women. Friends who had known each other before. For example, five sisters from one household joined together. Some brought their nieces, cousins, sisters-in-law, colleagues, and friends.
We created protest groups on WhatsApp, and they grew larger day by day. Many women joined because they had lost their jobs and were angry. As our group expanded and the protests became larger, we were organizing what would be our final demonstration when the Taliban located our house.
Perhaps someone among us gave them the address. Or maybe a woman who had been arrested before us revealed it.
ZT: Before you were imprisoned, how many times had you protested?
Paryani: For nearly six consecutive months, we joined every protest that was organized. January 16, 2022, was our last and our largest demonstration. On January 19, we were arrested.
Even before that, there had been growing pressure and hostility against us in the media and on social platforms. It was clear they wanted to silence us. During those days, fear surrounded us. At night, we would not turn on even a small light, so no one outside would know we were inside the room.
The night they came to our house, they first knocked softly at the back door. Then they broke the door down and forced their way into the apartment. I was there with three of my sisters. We were alone when they arrested us. Our family had gone elsewhere.
ZT: What were you doing the night before the raid? Did you know an attack was coming?
Paryani: Before taking action, the Taliban would often spread rumors. For example, they circulated a photo of me wearing a chadari on several Taliban-affiliated pages, claiming I had been killed. It was their way of trying to frighten us.
That night, my sister Tamana Paryani was speaking with other women. We were planning to go to the UN office. Hoda Khamosh had called Tamana and said the Taliban had come to our house, but we did not fully understand what was happening. Tamana said, “I wish we weren’t staying here tonight.” Then she added, “They cannot possibly take us by force from inside our own home.”
One of my sisters went to make tea. I had added rose petals to my glass, hoping it would help me sleep. Then we heard a knock at the door. My sister called the building guard, but there was no answer. The knocking grew louder, sounding like fists and kicks against the door. That night, we felt as though they were not attacking the door, but us. Even recalling those details makes me unwell. I have shared them in many interviews, and each time repeating them is a form of torment.
When they entered our bedroom, I was terrified — but not of being killed. I was afraid they would assault my sisters in the middle of the night. I wanted to throw myself from the window. My sisters begged me not to, but I climbed over the balcony and jumped. I landed on a piece of metal on the neighbor’s balcony. A woman from the neighbouring apartment helped me stand, but the Taliban reached me and struck me with the butt of a rifle, asking why I had jumped.
They took all of us to prison. We screamed, cried, and called for help. But people had turned off their lights. They watched in silence. No one came to help. The house was surrounded so completely that no one could reach us. Taliban forces were positioned inside Kardān University nearby, and a tank was stationed at the intersection close to our home.
Tamana had messaged a journalist, who told her to film. As we were filming, they broke down the door. That video saved us. My sister threw her phone down and tried to jump as well, but they shone a laser in her eyes and stopped her.
They filmed us in detention and sent the videos to Taliban chat groups. They claimed we had disrupted their system, that our protests had stopped aid money from coming in, and that we had insulted God. Some of those clerics called for us to be stoned as an example to others.
They recorded videos of our naked bodies, of the beatings, intending to terrify other women and to publish them. But when Tamana’s video spread online and the public learned what had happened, they could no longer kill us or release the videos they had taken.
That video was the reason we walked out of prison alive. It did several things: it exposed the face of the Taliban. In the past, when they killed someone, they themselves would record and publish it to spread fear and prevent resistance. When our video was released, their spokesmen, Suhail Shaheen and Zabihullah Mujahid claimed it was false.
ZT: Tell us about prison.
Paryani: I have spoken a great deal about prison before. Every night I spent there felt like being in a jungle. Each Taliban fighter who entered the room seemed like a wild animal standing before me. I endured traumas that I will never forget — traumas that ensure I will never forget Afghanistan under that terrorist regime.
I was held for 27 days. They released me only after taking a written guarantee. They said that if we protested again, our throats would be cut. After my release, my father would not allow us to speak to anyone for even two minutes. He said he had given his word and that we were not permitted to give interviews.
We were deeply frightened. I believed that even though they had released us, they might kill us in some alleyway. We went into hiding and changed our place of residence. We would not even let my father leave the house wearing his pakol, fearing it might draw attention.
After three months, we obtained passports. The Taliban had previously confiscated ours. When my two sisters and I tried to cross into Pakistan through Torkham, we were arrested again at the border. We were detained for ten days. From the border, I was taken to a local district office, then to Nangarhar intelligence. Later, I was transferred with five men to Directorate 40 in Kabul.
After my release from Directorate 40 prison, I left Afghanistan illegally, wearing a chadari to conceal myself.
ZT: After your imprisonment, the Taliban intensified their crackdown on protesting women.
Paryani: Yes. The Taliban wanted to ensure that no woman would ever return to the streets. Their repression had results. Many women were arrested and imprisoned. Now in Afghanistan, no one can protest openly. If demonstrations take place, they happen indoors, with faces covered.
The situation has reached a point where a girl can be imprisoned simply for wearing a colourful hijab. And those whose arrests are never reported can disappear completely. A girl who goes to prison and is released often finds that even her own family will not accept her anymore.
ZT: When you were imprisoned, what did your relatives and family say?
Paryani: After we were released from prison, my father had an argument with one of our relatives. That person told him, “If you were an honorable man, you would have killed your daughters after they came out of prison.”
ZT: Over the past four years, the Taliban have imposed many anti-women policies. Which of these has affected you the most?
Paryani: The existence of a system that is fundamentally anti-woman is painful enough. During the republic, people had come to accept that every woman and girl had the right to work and to education. Now even families suppress women. Fathers, brothers, and husbands speak in the language of the Taliban. The existence of this so-called Sharia system is the greatest threat against women.
ZT: After leaving Afghanistan, you continue to protest. Do you believe it will have an impact?
Paryani: When I was in Afghanistan, I knew how difficult protesting was. We carried our banners inside black bags. We faced countless dangers. Before each protest, we avoided meeting all together so we would not be arrested at once.
When I came here, I did not forget that reality. The days my sisters and I were imprisoned, my only hope was that someone, somewhere, would raise their voice. And hundreds of thousands of people who did not even know us did exactly that. They spoke out for us.
Now that I am here, raising my voice feels like the smallest thing I can do and I will continue doing even that small thing. Because nothing in Afghanistan has changed. Our protest continues. A regime and crimes like those of the Taliban will never become normal to me. Even if a hundred years pass, I know they are terrorists.
ZT: Are you in contact with women inside Afghanistan? What support can you offer them?
Paryani: Yes, I remain in contact. At the moment, I cannot offer much direct help. But I have been able to coordinate assistance through organizations or individuals who could provide support. For now, what we share is solidarity. We do not have greater power than that.
ZT: How do you see the future of Afghan women?
Paryani: I believe something has changed this time. People have understood that a group like the Taliban does not bring peace. They now see that such groups, whatever ideology they claim, show no mercy to the people. They violate children. They take away bread.
I hope people will no longer give such groups another chance.
ZT: What do you think about the People’s Tribunal in Madrid?
Paryani: That tribunal gave me the opportunity to expose the crimes of a terrorist and extremist group like the Taliban. Speaking there became a record and a document that will remain for the future. One day, if the Taliban claim they committed no crimes, our voices and testimonies will stand as evidence against them, proof that people can confront them with.
ZT: Are you threatened even here?
Paryani: Yes. Even here, there are people who share the Taliban’s ideology. They live in secular countries, but when the subject of a woman arises, they invoke their version of Islam and Sharia. I receive hundreds of messages from Taliban sympathizers, from those who claim to defend Sharia and Islam. Some messages say that killing a woman in Europe is easier than in Afghanistan.
Every day I leave my house, every time I give an interview, my mind and spirit return to that place. I still feel fear. Some people call it trauma. But it is not just trauma, it is my lived reality.
