My friend and I reminisce about the old days, about simple pleasures that brought us great joy, perhaps like going to the Baagh-e Balla or Baagh-e Babur, celebrating Nowruz or Eid, sitting by and absorbing the wisdom and tales of our elders, or watching a television program, or any pastime that brought us happiness in this city. My friend says that when we were young, we used to watch a TV show called “What Lies Beneath the Skin of the City?” and found it interesting, a wholesome and educational pastime for us. But today, the whole city seems to be like that program to me. Today, in Kabul, people endure suffering and agony, and what lies beneath the surface of this ancient city, what goes on, only God and those who struggle with that pain and hardship know. No one else knows. Lost in thought, it’s as if she’s gone into the past and immersed herself in watching it unfold.
Her words intrigue me, and I want her to snap out of her thoughts. What’s happened that her gaze wanders off in the middle of every sentence? I say, “Back then when we were little, we didn’t know!” But now I think we understand what lies hidden in a single sentence. They say experience is the “mother of knowledge.” She nods and says, “Yes, yes, ever since the Taliban came to Afghanistan, whispers among people always mention a girl gone missing! They say the Taliban abducted such a girl, or they detained some women! Where are all these women and girls who disappear? Is anyone looking for them?” I say I don’t think so. Then she continues, recounting horrifying truths for me.
She says, “We have a neighbor, both she and her husband are doctors. One day when we went to see her, she looked pale, distressed, spoke little, lost in thought amidst her words, until we asked her what had put her in such a state. Distress! We joked and said, ‘You have a doctor husband, and you’re not even sick. Maybe he won’t let you get sick.’ But she remained silent and despondent.”
After much insistence, she finally began to explain the reason for her condition. Tales that made one shudder to hear. Listening to her stories, the same sense of dread that had gripped the doctor, my mother, and my little sister took hold, and we were shocked by the fear, terror, and brutality of the Taliban, who speak of religion and religiousness. To this day, whenever I find myself alone for a moment or hear talk of girls disappearing, these thoughts don’t leave me.
I ask, “What did the doctor say?”
Lost in a gaze of uncertainty, she says, “She said that one day her husband came home from the hospital late and was distressed, repeating words I had rarely heard from him before. I asked what happened. Why are you upset? Has there been a problem at the hospital or has someone said something? He didn’t answer. Every moment, I wondered what could have happened. That night, he talked a little and slept a bit earlier than usual. The next morning, as we had breakfast, our doorbell rang. My son came and said, ‘Dad, the Taliban are asking for you.’ My husband got up and went to the door. Moments later, several Taliban militants entered the house, and a Ranger with armed men stood outside the gate.”
After much discussion, he said, “Get up, they say we must go see a patient.”
I felt scared and trembled, wondering where they were taking us. I said, “They must be taking the patient to a hospital. Why have they come to us? Surely there are few doctors in the city, but how do they know I’m a doctor and where our house is?”
Could there be another reason behind this? My husband calmly said, “No, calm down, there’s no other reason, don’t worry, I’m with you.” Hearing his words brought me some relative calm. We left the house with great concern and got into the military vehicle [Ranger]. As we got into the vehicle, someone in Pashto said, “Cover their eyes!” My husband is Tajik, and I’m from a Pashtun family in Kandahar, so I knew they were from Kandahar. I spoke in Pashto, “Why are you blindfolding us? Aren’t we going to see your patient?” He looked at me but didn’t respond.
With our eyes closed, we were taken along an unfamiliar path, fraught with a thousand anxieties. We went through narrow alleys for almost 18 minutes, meaning it wasn’t a direct route. Perhaps we were being taken somewhere near us, but to make it untraceable, they were winding through alley after alley in the vehicle. Then we entered a house, and a Taliban member wanted to grab my shoulder to get out of the car. My husband firmly said, “Don’t touch her!”
I had no idea exactly where this place was, what we were doing there, where the patient was, and what all these militants with different faces were doing here.
We were guided to an underground place. When the door opened, I was horrified. What I saw was unbelievable, and I threw myself into my husband’s arms. Almost 28 young women were being held in an underground cell.
In a corner, a woman lay stretched out, a serum was connected to her hand, breathing heavily. At that moment, I realized the tragedy of being a woman in this country and understood why we had been brought here.
One of the Taliban militants told one of their female militants, who I think was their accomplice, said, “Examine them all, determine who is pregnant, who is not, and what problems they have. Attend to all of them!” I was terrified, and fear had seized me completely. I said, “How can I examine all of them with just one instrument?” He said, “Don’t worry, we have a well-equipped room upstairs.” We went upstairs to find a fully equipped room with all the advanced medical facilities resembling a gynecological and obstetric examination room. It was like a pre-planned game, but who had played with our destinies and lives? Who had cast such a dark shadow over our future?
We understood what was going on. This place wasn’t just a site for Taliban soldiers’ lust or suppressing their desires. It was more about fabricating childbearing, perhaps for their vile purposes in the future. I had no choice but to assist. With composure, I asked whom am I supposed to examine.
A man named “Qari Qais,” who introduced himself from Maidan Wardak province and considered these women as the Mujahideen’s lawful wives, ordered me to attend to all their issues and not to remind anyone of what I saw here, not even my family members; otherwise, they would kill my husband. With the fear I had and the hell I saw my peers enduring, I accepted everything and saw no other solution. I convinced myself that I had to fulfill my duty as a doctor.
I asked my husband, who was beside me, to leave the room, and I asked the Taliban to leave so I could be alone. The Taliban refused. I also objected to examining with them present and said I wasn’t accustomed to it. I insisted on being alone with the patient so I could better diagnose her pain. If you are here, I cannot do it.
My husband stood up, and the Taliban followed suit. But from their terrifying looks, I understood they remained behind the door, watching closely.
They called two of the women, and after a few minutes, two women with lifeless bodies came. At first, I didn’t see the one woman, who moved freely and was their companion. I didn’t see her and guessed she was outside. Then I told these women to bring one of them who was ill, and the others should assist me as they needed examination. They agreed. The women, using pseudonyms such as Behishta and Hawa…, showed up. One of these ladies was from Ghazni, the Hazara people, and the other was originally from Kabul, a Qizilbash, or perhaps Tajik. They came in without a word or movement and left after the examination. Behishta, whose real name is something else, told me there were several women here. She said, “Initially, there were six of us brought here, but later, more were added to our number. Some were taken away and never returned.”
What I heard was difficult to believe, and I couldn’t fathom such cruelty happening in this city in this day and age. Curiously, I asked, “Aren’t you the lawful wives of the Mujahideen? That’s what they say!”
She laughed and said, “If we were their lawful wives, why wouldn’t they take us to official hospitals? We are the wives of all Mujahideen, and her eyes filled with tears.”
I asked, “What do you mean?”
She didn’t say anything, and from her silence, I understood everything was coercion. I asked her to send others quickly.
They came in turn, each with a story to tell, each with pain. One was from Jalalabad; her father had been a judge in the previous government, and the Taliban, due to his perceived unfair judgment, had abducted his daughter by force because the old man was too old and had no sons for the Taliban to either kill out of revenge or imprison. Instead, they sought vengeance for the innocent, pure-hearted daughter. She was still twenty-five years old, and the signs of torture were evident in her body. Her left wrist was burned, but it wasn’t clear if it was from a cigarette or some other hot object used during torture. Her wrists seemed tightly bound, bruised from either physical torture or violation. When I asked for the examination and put my sphygmomanometer on her chest, I saw the burns from cigarettes and the marks of torture on her body.
I didn’t ask anything! Because I couldn’t bear to hear their answers.
Then someone who seemed to be in charge called out, bring on Delaram. They were all brought in for examination, and I spent nearly five hours examining them.
Grief, sorrow, and unspeakable violations had encompassed their entire lives. Some of them preferred death over this existence and refused examination or medication, seeing no way to end their lives or their pain.
One of the girls, who introduced herself as from central Kabul, pleaded, “Doctor, please, give me a lethal dose, I will make my death halal on you. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
I said, “Endure, and I didn’t know what else to say.”
She cried almost loudly, saying she hadn’t done anything wrong. Her father was torn to pieces in a suicide attack near the German embassy years ago. She had no brothers, only younger sisters, and a frail mother. Without any explanation, they took her from the road one day and brought her here. It’s been two months since she’s been here, no news from her mother, feeling suffocated, hating herself, being a woman, and her own body.
I asked, “Have they religiously married you?”
She replied, “Religiously married? I neither saw a mullah nor a marriage ceremony. On one evening they brought me here, alone in a room. I searched every corner for a knife or any means to end my life because I knew what calamity awaited me, but I found nothing. No matter how much I pleaded and begged God, there was no one to hear me. The room was in the basement, the only way out was the door of the room, which was also locked from the outside. I was alone in the room for hours until a Taliban militant came, and I pleaded with a trembling voice that I had done nothing wrong, neither was I with the Republic nor with the Emirate, I was just a helpless human who only wanted to live. But my words fell on deaf ears.
I was taken to the upper floor, there was a room in the first there, with a washroom and a bath. I, who had been captive for hours, felt unwell from the start they took me out from the street, and washed my hands and face, hoping they might release me. I lived between hope and despair. After several hours, a militant with long hair entered the room and asked me some questions, but none of them were related to me.
Then he left and a few minutes later returned with juice and cake. He offered it to me to eat. I didn’t know if I was hungry or not, my heart wasn’t in it, but out of fear, I accepted, though I didn’t eat.
One victim recounted: The person who welcomed you at the gate is named Faizullah. He’s the same person I met on the first day. He spoke to me about jihad, the benefits of hadiths, and whatever was beneficial to them. He even discussed the concepts of temporary marriage (Nikah mut’ah) and jihad al-nikah. I pleaded I begged, saying my mother was waiting for me, let me go, I’m nothing but an ordinary citizen, but it had no effect. He offered to release me if I agreed to be intimate with him. He emphasized that, currently, there are only a few others besides me. I refused and started crying and pleading, but it had no effect. Finally, he told me that if I didn’t accept his offer, worse things might happen to me.
On the first day, Faizullah sexually assaulted me. On that same day, several other Taliban militants came and assaulted too. I’ve been here for more than two months now. So far, over a hundred Taliban militants have sexually assaulted me and other women and girls. Most of them are Arabs, Pakistanis, and Chechens. There was a time when they talked about Afghan honor, dignity, and modesty, but today they disgrace their honor and dignity in front of foreigners and trample them underfoot.
