August 15 is a date both old and painfully alive in the collective memory of the people of Afghanistan. For me, it is not merely a political date, but a deep wound in a heart that had beaten for Afghanistan for years. I am a woman from a generation that grew up in the shadow of war, yet pursued education with hope, built, struggled, and in the end, witnessed collapse. I had spent a decade and a half of my life in Afghanistan’s diplomatic service. With every signature, every report, every official meeting, it felt as if I were smiling at the girl who once wept outside the closed doors of her school; a girl who, in exile, chased knowledge with empty hands and a heart full of dreams, only in the hope that one day she could have a share in rebuilding her homeland. And I, that same girl, eventually wore the garb of diplomacy—not for prestige, but for a mission rooted deep in my heart.
But on the day of the fall, everything was swept away. I was on a mission in a distant country when I heard the president had fled. The image of the Taliban inside the Arg Palace pierced my heart like a dagger. For forty-eight hours, I could not sleep. My tears would not stop, and my mind could not rest. It was as if all those years I had fought, stood firm, and endured hardship had suddenly gone up in smoke.
I knew the Taliban well—not from the media, but from my real life. I was a child among the victims of their first period of rule. The sound of explosions, the fear of stepping outside, and dreams shattered by my mother’s screams were part of my childhood memories. When I entered the workforce as a woman, every day, every step, every piece of clothing I wore, every word I spoke, was a form of resistance. I was always ready for the possibility that I might not return home. I would tidy my house each morning, knowing there might not be another chance. I survived multiple explosions, yet my soul always returned more wounded.
For me and the people of Afghanistan, the Taliban are not a political group. The Taliban are the killers of our dreams; the destroyers of our values, our culture, our faith, and our families. In my family’s story, the Taliban left children orphaned, mothers bereaved of their sons, fathers grieving, and women silent and stripped of their smiles. They did not even spare our geography, from burning vineyards in the north to committing war crimes and enforcing gender apartheid. For us, the Taliban are not a bitter memory; it is an open wound that bleeds every day.
My struggle was never mine alone. Our fight rose from the heart of the Hindu Kush mountains and the streets of Kabul, where the proud children of this land stepped forward with the same pain, the same anger, and the same hope. I fought from the trenches of diplomacy; they fought in the mountains and alleys. We were the narrators of a shared pain. We fought side by side—not for politics, but to save a future being plundered.
With the Taliban’s return, it was not just a political system that fell, but the dream of an entire nation was stolen. Women disappeared again—from workplaces, from classrooms, from the political stage. And I, a woman who had fought for years to have her voice heard, saw everything fall silent in the blink of an eye. My family remained in Kabul. We belonged to a community that had paid a heavy price for years, which made my worry for them even greater. The sound of my family’s late-night voice messages would take my breath away—filled with fear, helplessness, and uncertainty.
But on that third night, I made my decision. I would not surrender. Even if I had nothing left to fight with, my voice, my pen, and my memories were still alive. I traveled, I wrote, I spoke. In every gathering, every meeting, every media outlet that welcomed me, I spoke of Afghanistan—of girls barred from schools, of women erased, of people trapped between two darknesses.
The diplomatic service was no longer the organized structure it once was. The ambassadors of the Republic were scattered—some bowed to the Taliban, some remained adrift without clear direction or support. But wherever we stood, in the name of the Republic and the memory of those days, we built a trench. Some broke, some grew weary, yet a faint light of hope remains. There are still fighters who will not allow the flame of our narrative to be extinguished.
Sometimes I think, if the day of the fall had never come, perhaps I would still be lost in official meetings, still offering cautious smiles from behind the walls of diplomacy. But today, I am freer—not from the chains of pain, but from the fear of silence.
August 15 is, for me, a day of mourning—a day when thousands of mothers, fathers, children, and women buried their dreams. Yet this day also holds the seeds of hope. If we are still alive, still writing, still speaking, it means the Taliban have not been defeated, but they have not won either. My voice, the voice of the women of Afghanistan, is still being heard. And as long as there is one woman alive in Afghanistan who writes, freedom still breathes.
I will continue on this path—with tears, with memories, with pain, but above all, with faith. I am still that girl who once cried behind the closed doors of her school, and one day became a diplomat. Today, in exile, I am still that girl—only with a sharper pen and a louder voice. Afghanistan is still alive, though wounded.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghanistan woman’s story here:
