It was around 2 p.m. on Friday when I learned about the Taliban’s notice making their hijab rules mandatory and warning of the arrest of women who don’t dress accordingly. That same afternoon, my family insisted that I go to the market to buy a chadar namaz. But what would happen to me if I went out without a chadar to buy a chadar? Only God knew. My hands and legs trembled with fear.
I went with my mother to one of Herat’s markets that is usually crowded with women and girls. On Fridays, women came there to stroll, eat street food, take their children to the amusement park, and shop for women’s clothing. But this time the market was empty of women and young girls.
Instead, I felt the eyes of men following me as though I was a criminal entering the market. Perhaps my ears were mistaken, but I thought I heard one man say, “The shameless ones belong in prison. Just wait until they take them away.”
I found myself shrinking behind my mother like a child. In that state, my mother and I kept looking in all directions, searching the shops one by one for one selling chadars.
Suddenly, my eyes fell on a cart carrying hundreds of chadars for sale. My mother and I hurried toward it. Many men and women were buying from it when, suddenly a vehicle belonging to the Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice stopped nearby. My mother, who was wearing a chadar, hid me under a cart selling women’s jewellery, saying, “Bend down. Quickly!”
I hid behind the colourful curtains that moved with every gust of wind. Only one thought circled in my mind: they had come to arrest all the women and girls — especially those who did not have a chadar namaz.
In my heart, I kept praying. Finally, I heard my mother’s voice. From among the carts, she was softly calling for me. I quickly pulled aside the curtain of the cart and lifted my head out. I had not yet found her when a black chadar, patterned with small and large flowers, was thrown over my head.
It was as though an angel had come down from the sky and placed a chadar over me. I was relieved — not because I was now wearing the compulsory hijab, but because I had been saved from the prison. I stood up. I saw my mother gasping for breath, saying over and over, “Wear it properly. Move. Let’s go.” I asked, “Where did the Taliban go?”
She said, “Move. They went into the restaurant and are taking away the girls not wearing chadar. I ran quickly to a vendor selling chadar and bought one for you.”
We were leaving the market in haste when suddenly a voice called out, “Stop.” My mother turned to me and said, “A Talib is coming.” No matter how much I insisted that we run, she said, “Wait. If we run, they may shoot.”
The Talib reached us. He asked, “Where are you going? Who is this girl to you?” My mother said, “She is my daughter. We are going home.”
He asked, “Why are you in such a hurry? Where is your house?” My mother gave the wrong address and said we were rushing because we needed to do a lot of house chores .
When I reached home, we stood at the window, still too afraid even inside the house to take the chadar namaz off our heads. We looked into the alley, terrified that they might have followed us, that they might come to our home and take me away with them.
Since the Taliban returned to power, I have worked as a freelance reporter to help support myself and my family financially. The next morning, I told my mother that I had to leave the house again. I had to see what was happening, and what was being done to the women and girls of my land.
Wearing full hijab, I left the house. First, I went to the market in the 64-Metre area of Herat. There was not a single woman in the market.
Shared taxis, where women usually sat and discussed the events of the day, were passing by. Suddenly, I raised my hand and got into one. All the women were wearing chadar namaz and masks. They were all cursing the Taliban, and some even said, “We have been buried alive.”
As we travelled to my destination of Lilami Road, the women spoke of conditions that had made life unbearable for them. I tried to take a video of the market empty of women but the heavy presence of the morality police forced me to hide my phone and leave the market. On every corner, people were talking about the arrests of women.
I got into a three-wheeler and was heading home when the morality police stopped the vehicle at an intersection. One of them opened the door of the three-wheeler directly and said, “Where are you going?”
I gave him my home address. Then he said, “Get out.”
I asked, “Why? I am wearing hijab.”
He said: “You infidels, whores, and immoral women think you will be reformed by wearing a chadar? Where is your mahram? You are sitting inside a three-wheeler with this young man. Satan will tempt you. Don’t you have a husband? Don’t you have a father? Don’t you have a brother? Bring a child with you when you go out, or bring another woman with you.”
I had endured so many difficult days to have any control over myself. I got out and said loudly, “Satan is better than you. You have made people hate religion. They will put me in one grave, and they will put you in another. I swear to God, if anyone comes toward me, I will hurt myself.”
Everyone was looking at me, while the Taliban kept warning bystanders not to film. One of the Taliban said, “Move. We are taking you to the directorate.”
I said, “I will walk home. No one has the right to arrest me when I have committed no crime.”
After saying this, I started walking. It was as though the eyes and anger of the people had proven my innocence to the Taliban, and that Talib calmed down. Under the burning sun, I walked through several streets. Once far enough away, I took another three-wheeler to my home.
This time, I entered the house without tears stuck in my throat, but my body had no strength left because of the heat, hunger, fear, and worry. I kept getting weaker until noon the next day, when I had no strength left in my body. My mother and brother took me to the nearest clinic. The doctors said my condition was caused by distress and heatstroke. Because my blood pressure was extremely low, they asked me to stay in the hospital for a few hours.
My brother sent my mother home and stayed by my side. It was midnight when the strong smell of medicine in the hospital became unbearable, and I insisted that he take me home. We were riding home on his motorcycle when the Taliban stopped my brother and searched him. They asked for the motorcycle’s documents, then took him aside and questioned him about my identity and his relation to me. Then they came to me and said, “Who is he to you?”
I said, “He is my brother.”
After asking several more questions about my father’s and grandfathers’ names, they allowed us to go. We finally reached home.
Ava Neekyar is the pseudonym of a journalist who lives in Afghanistan.
