Maryam (pseudonym)
The nightmare returned — the same nightmare that turns a city into a trap and every breath into something bitter. Once again, Kabul feels like a place where even existing as a woman comes at a cost too heavy to bear.
It was late afternoon when I decided to go to the market with my mother. The sun had lost some of its sharpness, but the air was still heavy. I wrapped my black chador tighter around my face, wearing dark clothes like I was going to a funeral — and maybe, in a way, I was.
As we walked through the streets of Qala-e-Fathullah, something felt wrong. The alleys were strangely quiet, people were tense, and phones kept ringing in panic. I could hear them saying: “Keep your daughter inside. Don’t let her go out.” But we kept walking.
When we turned into one of the main streets, everything became clear. A crowd had gathered. Blacked-out SUVs stood in the middle of the road. Taliban’s morality police were dragging young women out of the crowd — shoving them into the cars with no hesitation, no questions.
Some of these girls were fully covered, wearing masks, dressed in all black — yet they were still being taken. Watching them cry, resist, and get thrown into the vehicles made my body go cold. My mother gripped my arm and whispered: “Don’t look. Let’s go home.” But my feet wouldn’t move.
One woman passed by me, her voice low and urgent: “Run home, girl. It doesn’t matter how you’re dressed — they take everyone.”
I froze, watching the chaos around me — women sobbing, unsure where to go because the Taliban had blocked the streets; men frantically calling their families to check if their daughters were safe.
I grabbed my mother’s hand and finally turned back. We ducked into the narrow alleys, trying to disappear. But even there, with every sound of an engine, every yell from behind us, I felt like they were coming for me too.
On the way home, I couldn’t stop thinking: Is this what life is now? Just running and hiding? Always afraid?
When we finally reached home, I broke down. It felt like the only place left where I could breathe — but even these walls can’t erase what I saw.
The image of those crying girls being shoved into black vehicles will never leave me.
Qala-e-Fathullah is no longer just a neighborhood to me.
It’s a reminder that here, being a woman is a crime — and nowhere is safe anymore.
