Another unwritten rule seems to be taking hold: the quiet prohibition of women’s presence in nature. Perhaps it has long existed, and we, in trying to normalize our circumstances, failed to see it clearly. In Faizabad, a picturesque city so often celebrated on social media, the landscape now belongs to men. Women are not allowed to set foot in public recreational spaces, especially those tied to nature.
While Taliban restrictions have confined women to their homes across Afghanistan, the suffocation feels sharper in places like Badakhshan and in smaller cities such as Faizabad and Taloqan. In some ways, the rules here are even more severe than in Kabul, as if Faizabad is being shaped into an idealized city imagined by Deobandi clerics.
The city feels hollowed out. There are no educational centres for girls and no opportunities for women to work and support their families. Beneath the city’s quiet surface lies a constant, unspoken fear of being taken to the Taliban office. Walk too long in the streets, and you risk being taken there. Stay out past five, and you risk being taken there. Go somewhere alone, and you risk being taken there. Then your father or brother is summoned, and you return home burdened with humiliation.
The young women of Faizabad speak of a life lived under suffocation:
“The enforcers of ‘vice and virtue’ operate here with even greater freedom. I encountered them before Ramadan. As soon as they saw me, they said, ‘A mask is not a hijab — you must wear a burqa or chadari.’ It is as if their eyes are fitted with special lenses, able to detect even a strand of hair or the faintest glimpse of a woman’s face. I do not know where they derive the authority to scrutinize women so closely, but it seems to be part of their duty. They never stop to ask how violating their gaze is — how it resembles the same predatory stare they claim to guard against.”
With the arrival of spring, human nature longs for renewal. The scent of fresh grass and blossoms, the sound of birds, the sight of rain, clouds, and a clear blue sky — these are not luxuries, but instincts. In a place like Badakhshan, rich with natural beauty, the heart resists confinement. Yet even this most basic human impulse must be suppressed. To seek nature is to risk punishment.
Public places that once offered refuge for women to ease sorrow or escape exhaustion, such as the Agricultural Garden or the banks of the Kokcha River, are now closed to them. Women are confined indoors, cut off from the very environment that sustains life.
One friend, returning to the city after years away, shared her experience:
“One day, with a group of women from my family, we decided to ease the burdens of life and visit a natural landscape revived by spring. We left home wearing full Islamic coverings and a sincere intention to enjoy what God has permitted. But just as we crossed the bridge toward the Agricultural Garden, a vehicle carrying enforcers approached us.
“One of them stepped out. I did not think we had any reason to be afraid. I looked at him directly, trying to understand what he would say. But he spoke with authority, as though a woman belonged only at home. ‘Aren’t you ashamed?’ he said.
“‘Ashamed of what?’ I asked.
“‘This place is not for women. Women are not allowed here. Don’t you think about how many men have seen you from the bridge to this point?’
“For me, being seen in public, properly dressed, had never been an issue. But his words dragged me into a world of decayed thinking. Before I could respond, he ordered us to leave immediately or be taken to the office. After a few more insults, we left, without a word, from what now felt like a ‘male territory.’”
When absolute control takes hold, even the certainty of being right begins to erode. Religious reasoning, moral arguments, and appeals to justice all begin to feel futile. A strange, feverish shame settles in the body. Whether willing or not, society begins to accept this order as inevitable. You no longer expect men to speak in your defence — some agree, some are afraid, while others remain silent because it benefits them.
What deepens the pain is that women who have lost their jobs and girls barred from education already carry the weight of frustration and despair. Now, with no access to nature, there is no refuge left for them.
Meanwhile, men move freely. They gather by the Kokcha River, take photographs, wander through gardens, and fill their lungs with Faizabad’s fragrant air. Women remain confined to their homes.
When a woman does walk confidently through the city, she becomes an object of curiosity. Eyes follow her. Whispers rise: Who is she? She must be new. Perhaps because it seems unimaginable that a woman would still dare to claim space in public. Many have learned to surrender their rights to avoid humiliation and protect their families from disgrace.
After four years away, I see how so much attention has been directed toward controlling women, rather than building a functioning city.
Even in a small city, plastic waste piles up in plain sight. The “male-owned” natural areas are being destroyed as ruthlessly as women’s rights. The same men who fixate on women’s clothing seem to have little concern for the environment that belongs to them. Nature is scarred by excavation, littered with plastic and food waste. To those in power, Badakhshan’s land is valued only for its gold. People arrive from across the country, dig where they please, extract what they can, and leave behind a landscape in ruin. No authority intervenes.
In truth, I find the state of Badakhshan’s nature even more distressing than the condition of its women. Nature suffers in silence while women find ways to voice their suffocation.
I write in the hope that one day, when I step again into these landscapes, no official or enforcer will question my right to breathe. Of all dignities afforded to every human, this is the one that will be recognized and respected.
Jarira Shekohmand is the pen name of a woman journalist in Afghanistan
