When the Taliban replaced the Ministry of Women’s Affairs in Afghanistan with the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, the suppression of women extended to the very roads they tread. Adorned in white attire, the agents of this group meticulously observe and judge the attire and behavior of women. Every aspect is scrutinized—the clothing they wear, the tone of their voices, interactions with men, the way they carry themselves, even the vehicles they use—all under the watchful eye of these agents. This surveillance isn’t merely passive; a cruel dance of violence, humiliation, and insults accompanies it. At times, the brutality of these moral police officers transcends mere words, manifesting in torture and the imprisonment of women. The roads, once a symbol of freedom, have become a stage for the darkest acts of oppression against Afghan women.
The torment inflicted on women extends beyond their attire and behavior; the Taliban’s Moral Police has erected inspection checkpoints on the streets, examining vehicles and forbidding women from occupying front seats. Personal vehicles are halted, and intrusive questions are fired about the relationship between the woman and the driver. Drivers are forbidden from having a woman ride alone without an Arabic veil. Any deviation from these dictates results in punishment for both the female passenger and the driver. The Taliban’s Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice casts a watchful eye over the daily lives of citizens, placing women, in particular, under its scrutinizing gaze.
Shakila (pseudonym) is one of the female journalists under the rule of the Taliban, working for one of the media outlets controlled by them. While a significant number of female journalists have lost their jobs following political changes, she is among the few who, despite the strict and uncompromising laws of the Taliban, continue to work. She has repeatedly experienced the bitter ordeal of harassment and persecution by the Moral Police of the Taliban during her commute from home to the office and in the course of her work.
Shakila describes her memories of these disastrous days: “One day, I was heading from home to my office. On the way, the Moral Police of the group had blocked the road, inspecting the attire of women pedestrians on the streets. As I approached, they halted me. Even before they opened their mouths to speak, I was terrified by their stern appearance, violent demeanor, and their brutal behavior toward other pedestrians. They scanned me from head to toe with disdainful eyes. I was dressed in a black outfit, with loose-fitting black pants reaching below the knee. Then, in a loud and harsh tone, one of them said to me, ‘Why aren’t you wearing a hijab? We won’t allow you to pass.’ At first, I was puzzled by their words. I thought to myself, ‘I am wearing clothes. My entire body is covered. My outfit is not tight enough to reveal the details of my body. So, how can they say I don’t have a hijab?’ Then I realized that by the hijab, they meant the Arab-style veil. I wanted to say something and convince them that my clothing was not in contradiction with Islam. I wanted to tell them that they needed to change their mindset and the attitudes of men in society to eradicate corruption, but I remained silent. What could I say to an ignorant group practicing their hatred towards the opposite gender under the guise of religion? That moment, when the Moral Police of the Taliban were insulting me with their vulgar words, and the onlookers stood by, witnessing my humiliation, was one of the most shameful moments I have ever experienced. I returned home, wore the attire they insisted on, and headed back to my office, but I arrived very late. I was marked absent. That day, I was so furious that for a moment, I decided to quit my job and never leave my house again.”
While Shakila had not forgotten the bad memories of that day, a few months later, she once again experienced a similar incident. Describing her second encounter, she says, “One day, returning home from my office, I was clad in the Taliban-friendly outfit, or the black Arab-style hijab, with a black chador. I thought that with this attire, the Moral Police of the Taliban would no longer bother me. Drivers didn’t take female passengers. According to them, female passengers were rare, and they didn’t want to wait all day for passengers. Of course, the scarcity of female passengers stems from the consequences of restricting women from education, and employment and confining them to their homes. The driver suggested that, like other female passengers, I should sit in the rear compartment of the passenger car, and men could sit comfortably in the front on soft and convenient seats. However, my pride didn’t allow me to accept being treated like an object, packed into the rear compartment of the passenger car. I paid the fare for two people and sat in the front seat beside the driver. We had reached the Kota Sangi area when suddenly the sound of something repeatedly hitting the car’s window echoed. The driver stopped to see who was striking his vehicle in this manner. As soon as he stopped the car, the white-attire Moral Police of the Taliban appeared in front of the passenger car. They stared at me with disdainful eyes, as if harboring years of animosity. With a loud and harsh voice, one of them said, ‘Put on your chador. You’re sitting in the front seat with this appearance?!’ I quickly raised my hand to my head, fearing that my chador might have fallen off without my notice. However, when I touched my head with my hand, I realized that my chador hadn’t fallen off; it had just slid slightly back, revealing a few strands of my hair. He raised his voice again, claiming that this chador was thin, instructing me to throw it away. At first, I was terrified, but then my fear turned into resentment. Even though I had a chador, they accused me falsely. They called a perfectly fine chador thin, finding an excuse to harass me. They couldn’t tolerate seeing a woman sitting in the front seat of the passenger car. They derived pleasure from humiliating and tormenting us. At that moment, my blood was boiling, and I wanted to say something, to stand against the injustice. To demand accountability for the oppression they inflicted on all Afghan women, and for the rights they took away from us. However, I remembered that girl whom the Taliban had publicly lashed for her attire. Or that girl from our neighborhood whom the Taliban forces put in a Ranger and took her to their base because of her hijab. After a few weeks of imprisonment and torture, they released her. Although these incidents contradicted my desires, they silenced me. But I believe that one day our country will be free, and we will be liberated from the oppression of this ignorant group. All Afghan women will reclaim their natural and Islamic rights, including education and employment.”