We are approaching August 15, the fifth anniversary of the fall of humanity, dreams, hopes, and plans for the future. Each year, it is a grim date that reopens wounds festering since 2021.
Five years ago, I was a young woman on the threshold of independence. From a poor family, I dreamed of saving my own future and that of my family through hard work and perseverance. I had finished my bachelor’s degree and was hoping to begin a master’s. I had promised my family to put their lives in order, to the best of my ability.
Suddenly, the dark, cursed day that was August 15, 2021 arrived. The day that marked the end of me.
It was 9:30 in the morning. I was at a military training centre when everyone suddenly began whispering. A bell rang, and everyone was summoned to the courtyard of the headquarters. The deputy director, stumbling over his words, his face pale and his throat dry, announced, “The Taliban have entered Kabul. Put your belongings back in their usual places as quickly as possible and go home.”
For a few seconds, my vision went dark. My head spun and the building seemed to whirl around me. I grabbed the hand of the girl beside me. After a few seconds, I caught my breath. I thought someone had made a cruel joke. In my heart, I wished a thousand times that I was asleep and that this was only a nightmare … But no, it was our reality.
The very people whose crimes and brutality we had been reporting only a day earlier were now inside Kabul. I was still in shock when the screams and cries of several female soldiers brought me back to myself.
“For God’s sake, don’t say this,” one girl shouted. “You know we came here from the provinces for training. We have been here for months. Our provinces are in the hands of the Taliban. How are we supposed to go home?”
Another girl, who was from Farah and whose husband had been arrested by the Taliban just days earlier, was screaming, “They won’t let me live.”
Two or three other female soldiers begged the deputy director to let them stay and fight the Taliban. Through her tears, one said, “If I am going to be killed by the Taliban, at least let me fire a few bullets at them while wearing this uniform.” But it seemed there was nothing anyone could do.
All the deputy director said was “Our leaders have reached an understanding. There will be no fighting.”
We were visibly pale as we left the building. One of the guards standing at the exit gate sneered, “Go, go … This is your last day outside. You’ll return to where you belong — home.” Those words hurt more than anything else. He was happy that this day had finally come; the resentment and contempt he held towards women were visible in his eyes.
Six of us squeezed into a single car. The traffic was so heavy that a journey that normally took 30 minutes, this time took 90.
I called my father, but the calls would not go through. I got out at Deh Afghanan. I stood there for a few moments. Since childhood, I had always heard about the Day of Judgment, but that day,I was witnessing the Day of Judgment with my own eyes, while still alive.
Shopkeepers were closing their shops. People were fleeing. Everyone was thinking only of themselves. Some people looked at me in a way that seemed to say, “Your life is over now.”
I walked from Deh Afghanan to the National Archives. There were no cars. I kept walking slowly. Along the way, I found a minibus and got on. Inside, one woman said to another, “All of this is because of you.” That was when I understood that even before the Taliban arrived, their way of thinking and their ideology had already entered Kabul.
I arrived home. We burned the things that had to be burned in a corner of the yard.
For an entire week, I could not swallow anything except water. I stayed awake day and night, following the news. I felt a little encouraged when I saw on Facebook that several women journalists had taken to the streets, or that a girl had ridden a bicycle, and then a group of women had protested outside the Ministry of Women’s Affairs.
Soon, the Taliban began imposing restrictions on women. Schools were closed until further notice; universities and work were suspended. My father and I were the only breadwinners in our family of nine, and now both of us had been forced out of our jobs. The restrictions on women grew every day. They extended to the colour of our clothing, footwear, cosmetics, perfume, and eventually to bans on music, singing, and television.
Quickly, we realized that the Taliban had not only failed to change, but had become even more ignorant and regressive. I saw videos of young women spontaneously joining the protest movement. It was a strange feeling, as though perhaps everything was not yet over.
I joined, too. My first protest was with a group of journalists near Kabul airport. After that, I joined the protests organized by women’s movements. We found one another through WhatsApp groups. At first, we were all together, but later, distinct organizations and movements began to take shape.Groups were working separately but with a common goal.
A group of women founded the Afghanistan Women’s Justice-Seeking Movement, and we continued our protest activities through it. Along the way, some people left, some formed independent movements, some stopped protesting, and others joined different groups. But some of us have remained in this movement for five years and continue to stand our ground.
I protested on the streets of Kabul for six months. But when the Taliban imprisoned the girls on our team and began threatening us as well, I was forced to hide in the homes of friends and relatives. After that, staying in Afghanistan was no longer possible. My family and I left for neighbouring Iran through a smuggling route. With great difficulty, over eight days and nights, we travelled on foot and by vehicle across the grueling route from the deserts of Nimroz through Balochistan in Pakistan and into Balochistan in Iran. Finally, we reached Iran.
I spent three years in Iran, doing hard labour for little pay. Then Iran joined Pakistan in issuing Afghan migrants with deportation orders. Once again, I took the smuggling route through Pakistan and began another migration. To this day, I remain in complete misery.
I hold the terrorist Taliban responsible for all the misery of these five years — all the calamities that befell me, the suffering I endured, the sleepless nights, the stress, the anxiety, the tears, and the fear. Next, I hold the foolish and despicable politicians of the Republic responsible. As long as I live, I will forgive none of them.
Five years is not just a number. It is our lives — lives that can never be returned to us, at any price.
Zarifa Salangi became a women’s rights activist in response to the Taliban takeover, joining the spontaneous women’s movement that emerged in its aftermath.
