After the arbitrary arrest of girls from various neighborhoods in Kabul, I’ve been confined within the four walls of my home. I’m afraid to go outside—afraid of those lying in wait to capture girls. Groups of Taliban men, dressed in white cloaks, roam the streets, markets, and even alleyways, searching for girls to detain. They fear neither God nor the people—people who only watch silently as their daughters and wives are taken away. The cruelty of this group knows no bounds. They do whatever they want without fear of public backlash—from beating people in the streets and markets to arresting girls under the pretext of improper hijab and throwing them into prison.
Today, due to an urgent need, I had no choice but to consider stepping outside. Before doing so, I called my brother, who owns a shop in the market, to ask about the situation in the alley and whether the Taliban’s morality police were around. Ever since news broke about the arrests, my brother has warned me not to leave the house under any circumstances and to call him first if I absolutely must. I picked up the phone and, anxious, dialed his number. I told him I needed to go out and waited for his reaction. As I expected, he snapped:
“Are you out of your mind? You want to go out in this situation?”
I paused, speechless. I didn’t know how to respond. While I was still hesitating, he added, “Do you even know what’s happening here today?”I quickly asked, “What has happened?”
He answered in a serious tone, “Good thing you called. I came back from the city to the shop at ten o’clock. I saw Taliban morality officers sitting in a few shops, staring out at the street. They scrutinized every woman or girl who passed by. Then I noticed them signaling to a few women in black clothing. Those women were standing just outside the shops, ready to block any girls trying to run away.”
A chill ran through me. My legs buckled, and I sank to the floor. I began to imagine what would have happened if I had gone out today and been arrested. The memory of the day I witnessed girls being detained came rushing back—the day Taliban forces violently dragged girls into their vehicles. I saw again the pale faces of women who were too terrified to speak. I imagined being taken, and my mother coming to rescue me—what a disaster that would have unleashed. The whole thought was horrifying.
Just then, my brother’s voice rang through the phone: “Where are you? Don’t tell me you’ve gone out! Don’t you dare step outside that door!” His words jolted me back to reality. I thanked God a thousand times that I hadn’t gone out. I remembered what my friends had said in our WhatsApp group—that their fathers and brothers wouldn’t let them leave the house. They’d say, “We’d rather you stay home than be taken by the Taliban. If they take you, we’d either have to kill ourselves—or kill you.”
Though my father and brother have never said such a thing, I couldn’t help but wonder: if the Taliban did arrest me, how would my brother react—the same brother who warns me daily for my safety? How would my father, who has spent his life protecting his family’s honor, cope? And my mother, who’s lived her entire life under the shadow of obedience and preserving the dignity of her male relatives—how would she handle the news of my arrest?
These thoughts weighed heavily on my chest. I was choked with emotion, but at the same time, relieved that I hadn’t gone out. I removed my black clothes, my chador, and my mask, and stayed home once again. Maybe that’s the only way to stay safe—from a group that has turned our lives into a living nightmare.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
