What price did we pay for simply being alive in this land? We sacrificed joy, peace, education, the right to work, our dreams, and ultimately, ourselves. As a child, I didn’t grasp the extreme fanaticism surrounding me. The Taliban had burned our village’s school. Boys went to the mosque to learn about religion, while girls like me were denied even the chance to read the Quran. When I was eight, my father faced tremendous challenges in convincing his family to let him leave the village without opposition, securing their blessings. This is how we ended up in Kandahar, where we encountered a whole new way of life.
My brother and I started attending school, but our relatives denounced us as infidels and cut all ties. We never went back to the village. As we grew up, the fear that they might prevent us from returning if we ever visited added to our anxieties. So, neither of us ever expressed a desire to go back to our birthplace.
From my teenage years, I had a deep love for music and dreamed of playing the guitar. I would pretend that a broom was a guitar, strumming it while cleaning the house. Even as a student, I told my mother I wanted to join a music class, but she firmly said “no.” The reason was clearly concern about what others would say.
But I didn’t give up. I kept asking my mother, but the answer was always the same. Eventually, I turned to my father. Thankfully, my brother fully supported me and helped persuade our father. After much insistence, my father agreed, going against my mother’s wishes. The next day, my brother enrolled me in a music class and used his savings to buy me a guitar.
It felt as though I was flying, no longer grounded. I was living my dreams. At first, the sounds I produced annoyed my entire family. But I was lost in a different world, imagining myself as the greatest guitarist ever.
My mother was constantly upset with the time I spent on the guitar instead of studying. Although I wasn’t a weak or lazy student, I could never match up with my brother. She compared me to him and tried to motivate me with her motherly advice to focus more on my studies.
In the 11th grade, at my brother’s request, I joined a prep course for the university entrance exam. My goal had always been clear—I wanted to study music.
Occasionally, my parents worried that our relatives might discover my activities, but I didn’t understand why. Later, I learned that my cousins in the village were Taliban leaders who viewed people like me as targets. If I said I wasn’t scared, I’d be lying. Fear and hatred grew in my heart, and I prayed for their downfall. Yet, it seemed like before my prayers could be answered, they would come for me.
In my final year of school, while we eagerly awaited graduation, rumors of war and falling provinces grew more frequent and unsettling. It felt as though everyone had retreated into their homes, waiting for the end. The Republic fell, and suddenly, we were thrown back years. For three months after the Taliban took control, I didn’t step outside. The fear they instilled in me still lingers.
One rainy autumn day, my uncle called my father and, to our shock, told him they had moved to Kandahar. People who had cut ties with us years ago were now coming to stay in our home, and we had to welcome them. My father, thrilled, rushed to greet them, sending my brother to buy supplies. I was happy to see my father smile but had no desire to meet his family. Before they arrived, my mother asked me to hide my guitar and not mention it. I locked it away in my wardrobe.
A few days later, after my uncle’s family had settled, they went house-hunting with local guides. All the men, including my father and brother, left, and my mother went shopping with the women. I stayed behind, claiming I needed to prepare food. Seizing the chance, I took out my guitar. Those days were incredibly tough for me, and I was so absorbed in playing that I didn’t notice when my father and the others came back.
My brother rushed into my room, grabbed the guitar, and tried to hide it. But before he could reach the wardrobe, my cousin, a Taliban fighter, barged in without asking. He glared at me and then at the guitar. Without a word, he seized the guitar, smashed it against the wall, and shattered it with a few more blows. He threw the broken pieces around my room before storming out.
As he left, he hurled insults, calling my family and me infidels. He raged about how associating with me would lead his children astray and make them forget morality. That day, after spewing his hatred, he and his family left our house to stay with another relative. Their departure or presence didn’t matter to me, but their actions left me with many questions. By what right does a man enter a girl’s room uninvited? By what right does he destroy her belongings? Even if those items are against Islamic rules, he still has no such right. Who gave him the authority to declare me an infidel?
They left, and I sat among the shattered pieces of my guitar, feeling as if my soul had been broken. I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the pieces, and to this day, I still keep a piece with me. The incident has haunted my nights, and my fear and hatred for that group have only grown stronger.
I never wished for a guitar again. My hands lost their desire to play, and I didn’t want to bring more shame to my family. I didn’t want a few ignorant people to label them as godless and infidels. This land is a killer—of dreams, of women’s aspirations, of knowledge, of souls, and peace. I hope one day I can escape this prison and truly experience life.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
دشمنی با هنر؛ «جنگجوی طالب مقابل چشمانم گیتارم را شکست» | روزنامه ۸صبح
