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Monday, July 27
Global Free Speech

Afghan women and children at a medical seminar in Ghazni province in 2013, getting advice on hygiene products and women’s health. Such a scene would be nearly impossible under the Taliban. Photo: PJF Military Collecton/Alamy Farah, 25, based in Parwan province, supported her family as a civil servant and for UN agencies before the Taliban took over. Then, like so many other women, she lost her job. She did not take that sitting down and instead became involved in a centre to directly help women. But it was soon shut. Today she has no job and an increasingly unwell mother. She writes poignantly here about her life and how she continues to foster hope for herself, her family and all Afghan women despite the many challenges. I am an Afghan woman, born in the spring of 2000 into a family where education was not merely a choice – it was the cornerstone of life itself. In our home, books were sacred, and the pen symbolised a future brighter than circumstance. My father was a doctor, a man who believed profoundly that knowledge could reshape not only an individual’s life but the destiny of an entire nation. My mother, patient, resilient, and steadfast, was a homemaker whose serene presence masked a boundless inner strength. We were eleven children, a large family with even larger dreams. My childhood was still imbued with innocence and play when tragedy struck. I lost my father to a heart attack. The warmth and security of our home evaporated overnight. The man who had been our protector, guide, and provider was suddenly gone. From that moment, my mother assumed every role – mother, father, guardian, and pillar of strength. She began sewing clothes by hand late into the night under dim light, her hands moving tirelessly so that we could study by day. Poverty never deterred her. She would say, “Your true wealth is your knowledge. No one can ever take that from you.” In the spring of 2019, a life-changing opportunity emerged. Dunya University, one of the most reputable institutions in central Afghanistan, announced 600 full scholarships. Its curriculum was entirely in English and aligned with international academic standards. Professors from its main branch in Switzerland taught both online and in person. For a girl from a large, resource-constrained family like mine, this was more than a chance – it was a beacon of hope. My mother saw the announcement on television. Despite financial hardships, she borrowed money from my aunt to cover the registration fee and brought me to the entrance exam the very next day. Candidates from all 34 provinces of Afghanistan competed. When I received the call informing me that I had been accepted into the Faculty of Economics, it was as if a light had pierced through years of uncertainty. For the first time, I saw pride and relief illuminate my mother’s eyes. University life was far from easy. In the first two years, I neither owned a smartphone nor had stable internet access. There were times when I walked long distances merely to find a spot with brief connectivity to submit my assignments. Simultaneously, I worked six hours a day at a private school as an administrative assistant. The salary was modest, yet it contributed to our household needs. Exhausted yet determined, I would return home each night to continue studying, convinced that education was the only path to secure both my future and my family’s well-being. In late December 2020, I took the competitive examination for a governmental post at the National Statistics and Information Authority (NSIA) and was appointed to the civil service position responsible for ID distribution. My proficiency in computer skills and English enabled me to receive promotions relatively quickly. The salary I earned provided me with my first true taste of financial independence, and I remember handing the first paycheck to my mother with tears of joy in my eyes. It was a moment of triumph—proof that perseverance and education could transform one’s life. Yet, following the political upheaval in Afghanistan, everything changed. Work conditions, regulations, and security were drastically altered. My office was relocated to the remote district of Estalf, two hours away from the city centre. New restrictions on women travelling without a male guardian rendered commuting nearly impossible. Hours were spent waiting for transportation that often refused to carry unaccompanied women. Many times, I walked long distances to reach my workplace. My feet would ache, yet the deepest pain was in my heart – knowing that I was penalised merely for being a woman. For two months, I persisted despite immense pressure. One day, when my mother was ill, I had to traverse the two-hour journey alone on foot. Upon reaching the office, I received a message requesting that I nominate a male family member to assume my responsibilities. At that moment, my identity, competence, and hard work were dismissed. My father had passed years ago, and my brothers were still children. Reluctantly, I had to relinquish my post. Refusing to succumb to despair, I dedicated myself to humanitarian projects. I became a community outreach officer in Parwan province, volunteering in remote villages where women had never had access to education. I encountered girls who had been forced into child marriages as early as thirteen or fourteen, and many had no basic knowledge of menstrual hygiene. I distributed sanitary pads to adolescent girls and women, often explaining proper usage, as some had never seen such resources. Witnessing their lack of awareness and vulnerability was profoundly heart-wrenching. These were lives that should have been nurtured with opportunities, not constrained by societal neglect. During a visit to the village of Ustama, women looked at us in disbelief. They confessed that they had long been told that women should not speak, should not study, and should remain silent. Seeing us, providing education and guidance, was nearly incomprehensible for them. That moment underscored the reality that deprivation in Afghanistan is not solely economic; it is the denial of knowledge, awareness, and self-agency – a far more insidious form of oppression. Later, I joined a project under UN Women as a Safe Space Officer. The centre became a sanctuary for women and girls. Hundreds attended daily, participating in digital literacy classes, life skills training, sewing, embroidery, painting, and small business workshops. We provided the necessary materials to enable participants to create products and link them to markets, thereby earning their own income. Witnessing the first earnings of these women – their proud smiles and newfound confidence – was profoundly inspiring. I documented their successes, recording the moments of triumph with my camera. Every snapshot was a testament to resilience and hope. The centre was not just a place of learning; it was a beacon of empowerment. However, in late August 2024, the centre was abruptly closed by government authorities. We were expelled under accusations of teaching a “foreign language” and allegedly encouraging women to oppose the government. The office was sealed and locked. Once again, I found myself unemployed, silenced, and stripped of the opportunity to teach. Days later, a young participant called me, eager to know when classes would resume. I had to convey the bitter truth: the programme had been terminated. I could hear her sobs through the phone. A few days later, her mother informed me that the girl had taken her own life. The news shattered me. I wrestled with guilt and depression for months, haunted by nightmares of those I could not protect. Although I understood that systemic oppression, not personal failure, was the cause, the grief was almost unbearable. Today, my mother lives with chronic heart disease and diabetes, with three stents in her heart. At times, being unable to procure her essential medication brings me to the brink of despair. Yet, despite all hardships, my hope persists. I share this story not to elicit pity, but because the voices of Afghan women deserve to be heard. My goal is to reclaim the right to education, to work with dignity, and to empower other women to realize their potential. Wherever I am, I strive to contribute to a future in which no girl must bury her dreams because opportunities were denied to her. Though doors may be closed today, hope remains alive. As long as hope endures, the struggle for dignity, justice, and equality will persist. Farah          READ MORE

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Afghan women and children at a medical seminar in Ghazni province in 2013, getting advice on hygiene products and women’s health. Such a scene would be nearly impossible under the Taliban. Photo: PJF Military Collecton/Alamy Farah, 25, based in Parwan province, supported her family as a civil servant and for UN agencies before the Taliban took over. Then, like so many other women, she lost her job. She did not take that sitting down and instead became involved in a centre to directly help women. But it was soon shut. Today she has no job and an increasingly unwell mother. She writes poignantly here about her life and how she continues to foster hope for herself, her family and all Afghan women despite the many challenges. I am an Afghan woman, born in the spring of 2000 into a family where education was not merely a choice – it was the cornerstone of life itself. In our home, books were sacred, and the pen symbolised a future brighter than circumstance. My father was a doctor, a man who believed profoundly that knowledge could reshape not only an individual’s life but the destiny of an entire nation. My mother, patient, resilient, and steadfast, was a homemaker whose serene presence masked a boundless inner strength. We were eleven children, a large family with even larger dreams. My childhood was still imbued with innocence and play when tragedy struck. I lost my father to a heart attack. The warmth and security of our home evaporated overnight. The man who had been our protector, guide, and provider was suddenly gone. From that moment, my mother assumed every role – mother, father, guardian, and pillar of strength. She began sewing clothes by hand late into the night under dim light, her hands moving tirelessly so that we could study by day. Poverty never deterred her. She would say, “Your true wealth is your knowledge. No one can ever take that from you.” In the spring of 2019, a life-changing opportunity emerged. Dunya University, one of the most reputable institutions in central Afghanistan, announced 600 full scholarships. Its curriculum was entirely in English and aligned with international academic standards. Professors from its main branch in Switzerland taught both online and in person. For a girl from a large, resource-constrained family like mine, this was more than a chance – it was a beacon of hope. My mother saw the announcement on television. Despite financial hardships, she borrowed money from my aunt to cover the registration fee and brought me to the entrance exam the very next day. Candidates from all 34 provinces of Afghanistan competed. When I received the call informing me that I had been accepted into the Faculty of Economics, it was as if a light had pierced through years of uncertainty. For the first time, I saw pride and relief illuminate my mother’s eyes. University life was far from easy. In the first two years, I neither owned a smartphone nor had stable internet access. There were times when I walked long distances merely to find a spot with brief connectivity to submit my assignments. Simultaneously, I worked six hours a day at a private school as an administrative assistant. The salary was modest, yet it contributed to our household needs. Exhausted yet determined, I would return home each night to continue studying, convinced that education was the only path to secure both my future and my family’s well-being. In late December 2020, I took the competitive examination for a governmental post at the National Statistics and Information Authority (NSIA) and was appointed to the civil service position responsible for ID distribution. My proficiency in computer skills and English enabled me to receive promotions relatively quickly. The salary I earned provided me with my first true taste of financial independence, and I remember handing the first paycheck to my mother with tears of joy in my eyes. It was a moment of triumph—proof that perseverance and education could transform one’s life. Yet, following the political upheaval in Afghanistan, everything changed. Work conditions, regulations, and security were drastically altered. My office was relocated to the remote district of Estalf, two hours away from the city centre. New restrictions on women travelling without a male guardian rendered commuting nearly impossible. Hours were spent waiting for transportation that often refused to carry unaccompanied women. Many times, I walked long distances to reach my workplace. My feet would ache, yet the deepest pain was in my heart – knowing that I was penalised merely for being a woman. For two months, I persisted despite immense pressure. One day, when my mother was ill, I had to traverse the two-hour journey alone on foot. Upon reaching the office, I received a message requesting that I nominate a male family member to assume my responsibilities. At that moment, my identity, competence, and hard work were dismissed. My father had passed years ago, and my brothers were still children. Reluctantly, I had to relinquish my post. Refusing to succumb to despair, I dedicated myself to humanitarian projects. I became a community outreach officer in Parwan province, volunteering in remote villages where women had never had access to education. I encountered girls who had been forced into child marriages as early as thirteen or fourteen, and many had no basic knowledge of menstrual hygiene. I distributed sanitary pads to adolescent girls and women, often explaining proper usage, as some had never seen such resources. Witnessing their lack of awareness and vulnerability was profoundly heart-wrenching. These were lives that should have been nurtured with opportunities, not constrained by societal neglect. During a visit to the village of Ustama, women looked at us in disbelief. They confessed that they had long been told that women should not speak, should not study, and should remain silent. Seeing us, providing education and guidance, was nearly incomprehensible for them. That moment underscored the reality that deprivation in Afghanistan is not solely economic; it is the denial of knowledge, awareness, and self-agency – a far more insidious form of oppression. Later, I joined a project under UN Women as a Safe Space Officer. The centre became a sanctuary for women and girls. Hundreds attended daily, participating in digital literacy classes, life skills training, sewing, embroidery, painting, and small business workshops. We provided the necessary materials to enable participants to create products and link them to markets, thereby earning their own income. Witnessing the first earnings of these women – their proud smiles and newfound confidence – was profoundly inspiring. I documented their successes, recording the moments of triumph with my camera. Every snapshot was a testament to resilience and hope. The centre was not just a place of learning; it was a beacon of empowerment. However, in late August 2024, the centre was abruptly closed by government authorities. We were expelled under accusations of teaching a “foreign language” and allegedly encouraging women to oppose the government. The office was sealed and locked. Once again, I found myself unemployed, silenced, and stripped of the opportunity to teach. Days later, a young participant called me, eager to know when classes would resume. I had to convey the bitter truth: the programme had been terminated. I could hear her sobs through the phone. A few days later, her mother informed me that the girl had taken her own life. The news shattered me. I wrestled with guilt and depression for months, haunted by nightmares of those I could not protect. Although I understood that systemic oppression, not personal failure, was the cause, the grief was almost unbearable. Today, my mother lives with chronic heart disease and diabetes, with three stents in her heart. At times, being unable to procure her essential medication brings me to the brink of despair. Yet, despite all hardships, my hope persists. I share this story not to elicit pity, but because the voices of Afghan women deserve to be heard. My goal is to reclaim the right to education, to work with dignity, and to empower other women to realize their potential. Wherever I am, I strive to contribute to a future in which no girl must bury her dreams because opportunities were denied to her. Though doors may be closed today, hope remains alive. As long as hope endures, the struggle for dignity, justice, and equality will persist. Farah          READ MORE

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Farah, 25, based in Parwan province, supported her family as a civil servant and for UN agencies before the Taliban took over. Then, like so many other women, she lost her job. She did not take that sitting down and instead became involved in a centre to directly help women. But it was soon shut. Today she has no job and an increasingly unwell mother. She writes poignantly here about her life and how she continues to foster hope for herself, her family and all Afghan women despite the many challenges.

I am an Afghan woman, born in the spring of 2000 into a family where education was not merely a choice – it was the cornerstone of life itself. In our home, books were sacred, and the pen symbolised a future brighter than circumstance. My father was a doctor, a man who believed profoundly that knowledge could reshape not only an individual’s life but the destiny of an entire nation. My mother, patient, resilient, and steadfast, was a homemaker whose serene presence masked a boundless inner strength. We were eleven children, a large family with even larger dreams.

My childhood was still imbued with innocence and play when tragedy struck. I lost my father to a heart attack. The warmth and security of our home evaporated overnight. The man who had been our protector, guide, and provider was suddenly gone. From that moment, my mother assumed every role – mother, father, guardian, and pillar of strength. She began sewing clothes by hand late into the night under dim light, her hands moving tirelessly so that we could study by day. Poverty never deterred her. She would say, “Your true wealth is your knowledge. No one can ever take that from you.”

In the spring of 2019, a life-changing opportunity emerged. Dunya University, one of the most reputable institutions in central Afghanistan, announced 600 full scholarships. Its curriculum was entirely in English and aligned with international academic standards. Professors from its main branch in Switzerland taught both online and in person. For a girl from a large, resource-constrained family like mine, this was more than a chance – it was a beacon of hope.

My mother saw the announcement on television. Despite financial hardships, she borrowed money from my aunt to cover the registration fee and brought me to the entrance exam the very next day. Candidates from all 34 provinces of Afghanistan competed. When I received the call informing me that I had been accepted into the Faculty of Economics, it was as if a light had pierced through years of uncertainty. For the first time, I saw pride and relief illuminate my mother’s eyes.

University life was far from easy. In the first two years, I neither owned a smartphone nor had stable internet access. There were times when I walked long distances merely to find a spot with brief connectivity to submit my assignments. Simultaneously, I worked six hours a day at a private school as an administrative assistant. The salary was modest, yet it contributed to our household needs. Exhausted yet determined, I would return home each night to continue studying, convinced that education was the only path to secure both my future and my family’s well-being.

In late December 2020, I took the competitive examination for a governmental post at the National Statistics and Information Authority (NSIA) and was appointed to the civil service position responsible for ID distribution. My proficiency in computer skills and English enabled me to receive promotions relatively quickly. The salary I earned provided me with my first true taste of financial independence, and I remember handing the first paycheck to my mother with tears of joy in my eyes. It was a moment of triumph—proof that perseverance and education could transform one’s life.

Yet, following the political upheaval in Afghanistan, everything changed. Work conditions, regulations, and security were drastically altered. My office was relocated to the remote district of Estalf, two hours away from the city centre. New restrictions on women travelling without a male guardian rendered commuting nearly impossible. Hours were spent waiting for transportation that often refused to carry unaccompanied women. Many times, I walked long distances to reach my workplace. My feet would ache, yet the deepest pain was in my heart – knowing that I was penalised merely for being a woman.

For two months, I persisted despite immense pressure. One day, when my mother was ill, I had to traverse the two-hour journey alone on foot. Upon reaching the office, I received a message requesting that I nominate a male family member to assume my responsibilities. At that moment, my identity, competence, and hard work were dismissed. My father had passed years ago, and my brothers were still children. Reluctantly, I had to relinquish my post.

Refusing to succumb to despair, I dedicated myself to humanitarian projects. I became a community outreach officer in Parwan province, volunteering in remote villages where women had never had access to education. I encountered girls who had been forced into child marriages as early as thirteen or fourteen, and many had no basic knowledge of menstrual hygiene. I distributed sanitary pads to adolescent girls and women, often explaining proper usage, as some had never seen such resources. Witnessing their lack of awareness and vulnerability was profoundly heart-wrenching. These were lives that should have been nurtured with opportunities, not constrained by societal neglect.

During a visit to the village of Ustama, women looked at us in disbelief. They confessed that they had long been told that women should not speak, should not study, and should remain silent. Seeing us, providing education and guidance, was nearly incomprehensible for them. That moment underscored the reality that deprivation in Afghanistan is not solely economic; it is the denial of knowledge, awareness, and self-agency – a far more insidious form of oppression.

Later, I joined a project under UN Women as a Safe Space Officer. The centre became a sanctuary for women and girls. Hundreds attended daily, participating in digital literacy classes, life skills training, sewing, embroidery, painting, and small business workshops. We provided the necessary materials to enable participants to create products and link them to markets, thereby earning their own income. Witnessing the first earnings of these women – their proud smiles and newfound confidence – was profoundly inspiring. I documented their successes, recording the moments of triumph with my camera. Every snapshot was a testament to resilience and hope. The centre was not just a place of learning; it was a beacon of empowerment.

However, in late August 2024, the centre was abruptly closed by government authorities. We were expelled under accusations of teaching a “foreign language” and allegedly encouraging women to oppose the government. The office was sealed and locked. Once again, I found myself unemployed, silenced, and stripped of the opportunity to teach.

Days later, a young participant called me, eager to know when classes would resume. I had to convey the bitter truth: the programme had been terminated. I could hear her sobs through the phone. A few days later, her mother informed me that the girl had taken her own life. The news shattered me. I wrestled with guilt and depression for months, haunted by nightmares of those I could not protect.

Although I understood that systemic oppression, not personal failure, was the cause, the grief was almost unbearable.

Today, my mother lives with chronic heart disease and diabetes, with three stents in her heart. At times, being unable to procure her essential medication brings me to the brink of despair. Yet, despite all hardships, my hope persists.

I share this story not to elicit pity, but because the voices of Afghan women deserve to be heard. My goal is to reclaim the right to education, to work with dignity, and to empower other women to realize their potential. Wherever I am, I strive to contribute to a future in which no girl must bury her dreams because opportunities were denied to her.

Though doors may be closed today, hope remains alive. As long as hope endures, the struggle for dignity, justice, and equality will persist.

Farah         

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