This narrative has been published in partnership with the Guardian.
Every day, I wake up to the silence of dawn. I feel as though I am still holding my weapon, but this silence is the only sound that yet knows nothing of war, fear, and the chaos of the day—and it fuels my hope. Even so, I lie on my spread-out bedding for a few moments, taking deep breaths, trying to push away the exhaustion of the past. With every awakening, I make a promise to myself: if my husband manages to return home safely under the current circumstances, I will thank God even more.
My name is Parasto (a pseudonym). I am originally from Ghor province, but I live in Herat. For about six years during the Republic era, I served this homeland as a soldier.
Every morning, my life begins with chores. I wake up to the sound of the Mullah’s call to prayer. Before the other family members wake up, I get out of bed, perform ablutions, and light the fire. The first thing I do is prepare tea for the family. I wait for the water to boil to brew the tea; usually, the tea must steep for at least one to two hours to get a good color. By six o’clock, I set the breakfast tablecloth, the family members wake up, and the tea is fully brewed. Everything must be orderly, because my husband has to go out for daily work and my children need to get to school. When my husband and children are ready to leave, I tidy their clothes and check my children’s books to ensure they haven’t forgotten anything. I stand by the house gate until they leave. After the gate closes, the house sinks back into silence—a silence that has felt heavier since the arrival of the Taliban than ever before.
After they leave, I start the housework: sweeping, washing dishes, dusting the furniture, and shaking out the curtains. But then, I pull the curtains closed again so no one knows who lives in this house. This house is not just a living space for me; it is a sanctuary where I try to remain unseen. I spend the days alone under the heat of this house. Sometimes, to keep my mind off the past, I sit behind the sewing machine or do Khamak-dozi (traditional Afghan embroidery). I thread the needle, stitch the fabric slowly, and try to keep myself busy for a few hours. In reality, the daily sewing I do is very limited because I don’t have any specific customers here; only neighbors occasionally bring me clothes.
If I have customers, I sew at least four to five sets of clothes a week, earning at least one thousand [Afghanis]. But sometimes, I have no customers at all during the week. My embroidery is good too; for instance, if I finish an embroidered collar within two months, I can earn at least three thousand from it, but this is not permanent either.
From 9:00 AM to 11:00 AM, I try to focus more on sewing. My slender fingers have been hurt by the needle and stitching on fabrics; sometimes the needle pierces my finger, leaving a small wound. Yet, the pain of these wounds is nothing compared to the pain of losing the job and career I truly loved.
This work might seem simple, but for me, it is a way to pass the long hours of loneliness. The weather is also getting hotter every day, as if fire is raining from the sky. But what choice do I have? I have nowhere else to go. After the Taliban arrived, the first thing they took from me was my uniform. When they took that uniform, I felt as though I had lost something grand that belonged to me; it was a profound pain.
I have lived in Herat for years and loved serving these people, but having my uniform taken away was a deeply difficult matter and a total disrespect to the identity of Afghan women.
After that, I go back to the kitchen. I prepare lunch, clean the vegetables, put the pot on the fire, and wait for my children and husband to return. My greatest anxiety is always whether there will be something for me to cook when my children return from school so that their stomachs are full, rather than our constant daily worry of whether we will have something to eat today or not.
Within a few days of taking the city, the first thing the Taliban did to me and my female colleagues was holding a secret meeting at the Directorate of Information and Culture in Herat. They demanded that we hand over our uniforms. There were many of us, so they held the meetings separately. Although I did not want to do this, life post-Taliban has exhausted me and driven me into financial depression.
The house we live in is about 12 kilometers away from the city, because the further we are from the city, the more hidden we remain from the Taliban’s sight.
If my husband finds work during the day, he usually comes home late; but if he finds no work, he returns earlier. Around 12:00 PM, when a knock comes at the gate, first my husband arrives, and when the second knock comes, I know it is my children. I open the door immediately so they do not fall ill from the extreme heat.
When lunch is ready, I spread the cloth. I serve food for my children and husband first, and I sit beside them last of all. For me, these simple moments, despite all our hardships, are still precious—the fact that we gather around the same tablecloth again. During the meal, my children tell stories from school, about their lessons, their friends, and what they saw outside. Although my children study at a very basic school, I try with all my hope for their future to raise them as educated individuals for society. While listening to their words, I try to hide my anxieties so they do not feel the weight of our life.
Despite the terrible situation we are currently in, the Taliban have summoned my husband several times to question him about how many Taliban he killed in the previous government, or how many I killed. In the early days, many of my colleagues fled; some went to Iran, and others who held higher ranks escaped to American and European countries. We were left behind with the agony that we must endure with the Taliban for the rest of our lives.
Despite suffering immensely and being threatened with death multiple times by the Taliban in various ways—through phone calls and messages passed by acquaintances and relatives—I have still not been able to leave the country. My husband worked in a high-ranking position, but we were left behind in Afghanistan with all these problems, and no one evacuated us during the evacuation process, even though we, the policewomen, paid the highest price. In the early days, the Taliban arrested two of the women whose names I do not wish to mention, and nothing is known of their fate to this day. Where are they? Are they alive or not?
For the sake of our children, my husband and I pledged allegiance to the Taliban in those first days and asked for amnesty, but despite that, the Taliban have issued warnings to us several times. We still live a highly secretive life.
After the meal, I get busy clearing the cloth again. I wash the dishes; even though parts of my hands are wounded by the needle and sting during dishwashing, I still try to keep my house and kitchen clean. I set aside whatever food is left for the night and arrange my kitchen china so everything is neatly organized. Sometimes I stand there for a few minutes and think of the past—of the days when I would return home after duty, and my exhaustion came from outdoor work, not from fear and anxiety.
Life has become truly terrifying, and my husband and I have vowed to finish all our chores and be ready to flee at any moment. Because at any moment, the Taliban might come after us and arrest us. We had packed our bags to leave Afghanistan in the early days of the Taliban rule. We wanted to smuggle ourselves into Iran, but we couldn’t cross the border; the Iranian border police arrested us and deported us back. Even so, these bags have remained packed, so that if anything happens, we are ready to go.
I had so many dreams of serving this country more, but the times did not allow me to work further and serve society and women. Almost every night, I still dream that I am wearing my military uniform and going to duty. When I wake up, it takes a few moments to realize that none of it exists anymore.
Some days after lunch, my husband goes out again to find work. If he finds a job, he earns a daily wage of 350 Afghanis, and this amount covers at least one day’s expenses for us. With great effort, we first secure the house rent, which is 3,500 Afghanis, and then we set aside money for household expenses. In the afternoon, if there are fewer house chores, I sit by the sewing machine again or repair some clothes, sometimes sewing something for my children, and sometimes embroidering. The sound of the sewing machine brings me peace; perhaps because it is the only sound in these quiet days that makes me feel occupied.
Truthfully, the soldiering profession was not only a matter of pride for me; it was a beacon of hope and a path that made me financially independent, allowing me to be a helping hand for my family, with whom we shared the best life. Some days I don’t even have the money to prepare lunch or dinner. When my children come home hungry from school, it is deeply painful for me that there is nothing in the house to give them to eat.
I spend my days dwelling on the past and its worries, dedicating most of my time to sewing and embroidery. When the sun begins to set, I go back to the kitchen to prepare something for the night. If there is food in the house, I cook a simple meal; if not, plain bread, and sometimes just bread and tea, makes up our dinner table. Meanwhile, I look at the house gate several times—a habit that has stuck with me since the first days of the Taliban’s arrival. Still, with every sound of a car or every knock on the door, my heart sinks.
At night, after dinner, I get my children ready for bed. I spread out their bedding. If the weather is cold, I give them both a blanket; if it is hot, I pull back the curtains and open the windows because at night, when it is pitch black, nothing can be seen, and night is the only time we can enjoy the outside atmosphere and its air. I also lay their clothes beside their beds, stroke their hair, and wait for them to fall asleep. When everyone is asleep, I look around the house once more, lock the door, and then sit down on my spot, exhausted.
Because of the bitter experiences I’ve had, I have truly developed psychological issues, but there is no one to ask about our condition. There is no organization to care about the grief of women who live in total suffering inside Afghanistan. My mental state is so poor that I sometimes suffer from forgetfulness. Most times, when I worry intensely, my head goes into shock from thinking too much. I never have enough money to see a doctor. I only went once; the prescription they gave me cost around 1,500 Afghanis, so I could only buy half of it and never visited a doctor again.
Before my eyes close, I involuntarily think of the days when I would prepare myself for tomorrow’s shift at night while wearing my police uniform. Today, there is no sign of that uniform, but the fear, the waiting, and its memories go to sleep with me every single night.
Following the arrival of the Taliban, I lost not only my job and social status, but a part of our identity, dreams, and future was also stripped away from us. We are women who are still breathing, but for years we have been living in the shadow of fear, silence, and anticipation—an anticipation of which we do not know whether the end is freedom or another exile.
*Goharshad is the pen name of Zantimes’s journalist who is based in Afghanistan.
