On my final day of school, all the hard work I had put in over the years felt encapsulated in a single piece of paper. Graduating alongside my classmates, we celebrated with our certificates, each of us poised to embark on different paths. While some of my friends aspired to pursue careers in medicine, civil engineering, or economics, my dream was to fly—specifically, to become a pilot.
Our preparations for the Kankor, the university entrance examination, were intense, but then the unexpected happened. The COVID-19 pandemic struck Afghanistan, leading to widespread quarantines and a postponement of our exams.
Eventually, I was accepted into university. On my first day, I felt a surge of joy and told myself, “Shabnam, your efforts have finally paid off.” I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
I dedicated myself to my studies and, by the end of my first year, I had achieved the top rank among 120 students representing all 34 provinces of Afghanistan. My father beamed with pride, while my mother cautioned me, saying, “My daughter, don’t be overly happy; someone might cast an evil eye on your joy.” I wish I had heeded her warning.
My mother often recounted stories of the Taliban and emphasized how education opportunities had been lost during their previous rule. Then, in my second year, the Taliban regained control over Afghanistan, abruptly shutting the doors of our university and taking away our access to education. In that moment, I wished they had taken our lives instead.
We returned home, burdened by despair. I told my mother, “You were right. I regret my happiness.” Little did I know that greater challenges awaited us.
The Taliban decreed that no girl over the age of 15 could remain unmarried, forcing many girls into engagements. They arranged for me to marry a man who was uneducated and unable to read or write. I found myself in tears day and night.
I expressed to my mother that it would have been better for me to be buried alive. The family of my fiancé insisted on taking me to their home, and if I resisted, my father would face repercussions from the Taliban.
One day, my husband suggested, “If education means so much to you, we should get passports and go to Iran. I will work while you study.”
After obtaining the passports, my husband asked me to walk to the visa office. I decided to take a chance and travelled alone, believing it was a short journey and that no one could accompany me.
At the Taliban checkpoint, I was questioned, “Where is your mahram?” I explained that my husband was at work, but they took me into custody.
When my husband arrived, he was interrogated about my solo trip. Upon learning we intended to go to Iran for educational purposes, they retorted, “Death to education. Who has permitted women to study?”
They insulted me and told my husband that he was unfortunate for marrying me and had now brought misfortune upon himself.
During my imprisonment, I found myself among 84 women confined in ten small, windowless rooms surrounding a courtyard. Despite the cramped conditions, several women shared a room with only two beds, while most slept on the floor. The bathroom was in a dreadful state, and those who could afford medication used it to sleep, leading some to addiction.
I inquired about using a phone and was directed to a room where I contacted my husband. He shared the distressing news that he had been thrown out of their home. “My brothers have disowned me, and now I am homeless. But I will never abandon you, even if the world turns against us,” he assured me.
After hanging up, the guard informed me that I had to pay for the phone call, leaving me in shock.
The other women explained that without money, using the phone was impossible. The Taliban exploited their power, imprisoning individuals for monetary gain.
They separated people from their families and jobs, unjustly detaining the innocent. Each woman, including myself, had been imprisoned without valid reasons. I met a young girl who was incarcerated because her father had assaulted her.
We were all classified as “bad women,” our lives shattered. Some had no families to return to after their release. For those whose families rejected them, the desperation often led to suicide. Others resorted to marrying older men for shelter, while some turned to illicit means of survival, such as drug dealing or prostitution.
During my time in prison, two women took their lives by hanging themselves after others had fallen asleep. I also knew of a girl who stepped in front of a car, unable to cope with the homelessness she faced after release.
My husband’s brothers branded me a bad woman, and they refused to communicate with him except to mock him. He bore the weight of their disdain. After three months, I was finally released from prison. My husband had struggled to find a place to stay, and although it was costly, I was pregnant.
Once our child was born, we faced eviction from our landlord. When my son was merely two months old, we moved into a dilapidated house near my parents’ home, infested with insects. We had no alternative, as housing costs in the city were beyond our means.
Every day, I fretted about our future. I told my husband that I would also contribute and find work.
Inspired by an online cooking channel, I taught myself how to make sweets, starting with affordable ingredients. As I honed my skills, I began selling my treats to local shops. However, I lacked the funds necessary to sustain this venture.
Some international organizations offer support to women striving for financial independence, but the Taliban established a chamber of commerce that monetizes this aid. If I had 2,000 afghani, they would provide me with a loan for baking supplies. However, I was required to repay that amount each month, which I simply couldn’t afford.
For now, my aspiration to open a coffee shop and sell my sweets remains unfulfilled, but I hold on to the hope that one day I will realize that dream.
