A Woman’s Story from Panjshir, Passing Through Taliban Checkpoints
Panjshir, July 30, 2025
Narrated by: A Girl from the Dara
It was morning. The sun hadn’t fully touched the walls of our home when I wrapped my chador around me and stepped outside. I could hear the sound of my footsteps on the damp dirt road. I looked up at the sky — it was calm. The mountain stood firm, as always. But inside me, a storm raged.
I was going out to get bread and medicine. It wasn’t far, but I had to pass through the Deh-Bala checkpoint — the same place where, just three days ago, the Taliban had grabbed a girl’s arm and told her:
“This is no place for women.”
I only wanted to go and come back. That was all.
But when I got there, I felt their eyes — heavy, sharper than any blade. One of them stepped forward and pointed at me:
“Where are you going? Who are you with? Why is your coat so short? Tighten your scarf!”
My lips went dry. I only managed to say, “I’m going to get medicine.”
He laughed — a mocking, hollow laugh.
“Medicine? For what? Women should stay home. Medicine? Or do you want freedom?”
I wanted to respond, but no words came. I just walked on.
My heart was pounding — not from fear of the Taliban, but from humiliation, from this feeling that I was a walking crime.
On the way back, I saw a girl sitting against a wall. Her scarf pulled tightly to her forehead. Her eyes full of tears. Her mother stood nearby, gently calling: “Rokhsar-jan, let’s go.”
But the girl wouldn’t move. She was frozen.
I overheard that the Taliban had stopped her in the bazaar earlier that morning. Now she was in shock.
Back home, I removed my chador and saw that the corner had been torn. I don’t know when — maybe when my hands were trembling. Maybe the moment I heard one of them mutter, “Women have no honor.”
Panjshir has always been my shelter. The mountains, the valley, the rivers…
But now, even the mountains feel ashamed to see me.
I don’t want to be the daughter of these mountains and stay silent.
In these past months, the Taliban haven’t only been chasing hijab.
They want to bury our voices.
They want to blind our eyes, silence our tongues, paralyze our steps.
But we are still here.
We are women who pass through checkpoints, who get bruised, but do not stay silent.
We are women who know — one day, this fear will end.
And until that day comes, we write. We tell our stories. We scream.
This is my story.
The story of a girl from Panjshir.
I am no hero, no symbol of resistance… I’m just alive. And for now, that is enough.
