What are the Women rights in in Afghanistan?

What are the Women rights in in Afghanistan

What are the Women rights in in Afghanistan? _ ichhori.com


Nothing is the same in Afghanistan for many women whose lives were turned inside out last summer. Classrooms, jobs, and even the streets themselves, which were once theirs in Kabul and other cities, are no longer in their possession. The Taliban is now in charge.


Women who were previously active in public life have gone into hiding. With the economy in shambles, dreams of owning a business and earning a degree have given way to the daily struggle to survive.


Despite the Taliban's promises to protect women's rights, restrictions pervade nearly every aspect of their lives.


Secondary schools for girls and women remain closed.


Their images are gradually fading from public view. Some did not even wait for Taliban orders before taking action. In August, photos of women on window posters at one Kabul hair salon were blacked out ahead of time to avoid attracting the attention of militants. Women were barred from appearing in television dramas in November.


Taxi drivers were told last month not to accept women who wanted to travel more than 45 miles without a male chaperone. However, in a time of fear and uncertainty, some people have had difficulty walking alone in their neighbourhoods, even for short distances.


Over the course of four months, the Washington Post interviewed four women via weekly phone calls and WhatsApp messages. They exchanged photos and videos of their daily lives, which influenced the illustrations in this storey.


The women are all Shiites, a religious minority long persecuted by the Taliban. As urban, minority women who grew up in the last two decades, they had the most to gain in terms of educational and employment opportunities. They may have the most to lose now that the Taliban has returned.


This story is based on the women's personal accounts, which echo wider reporting on Taliban control since the Taliban's resumption of power. Sajida, K, and Pahlawan live in Kabul, while Aliya, a university lecturer, was in the country's north. Because they feared for their safety, they only spoke on the condition that only an initial, nickname, or first name be used.


1. "I go to university because I don't want these students' rights to be taken away." Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed every day because of my despair and depression." — Aliya, (27)


After the Taliban took power, some women attempted to resist. Aliya, a 27-year-old university lecturer, felt her past life slipping away a week after the northern city of Mazar-e Sharif fell.


"I'm sitting here, staring at the ceiling, waiting for what will be decided for us," she explained.


When she was studying in Iran in 2019, she applied for the US green card lottery. Her emotions were mixed when she won a year later. It brought with it the promise of more freedom, but she felt compelled to teach women in her home country.


That, in and of itself, felt like a form of resistance. "I'm sure I'm here," she said. "I just want to say, 'I'm here, and I'm active.'"


In early September, the university where she worked distributed Ministry of Education rules for returning to classes for the "Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan" — the name used by the Taliban for the country when it was in power, from 1996 to the US-led invasion in 2001.


"All students and staff are required to wear the religious hijab," according to the circular. "The colour should be black."


A long, black abaya, typical o She decided to push the envelope and dress in her usual, religiously conservative, but colourful, style. Administrators, she claimed, sent her home to change.


And, while she returned to the classroom, she claims her students did not. Some had left, while others were too terrified to stay.


"I go to university because I don't want these students' rights to be taken away," Aliya explained. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed every day because of my despair and depression." those worn in the Persian Gulf, was sent alongside, along with a head and face covering, black socks, and gloves.


Aliya objected.


She decided to push the envelope and dress in her usual, religiously conservative, but colourful, style. Administrators, she claimed, sent her home to change.


And, while she returned to the classroom, she claims her students did not. Some had left, while others were too terrified to stay.


"I go to university because I don't want these students' rights to be taken away," Aliya explained. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed every day because of my despair and depression."


2. "I don't have a gun with which to go to war, but I do have my voice." — 20-year-old Pahlawan


Pahlawan and her friends were organising anti-Taliban protests in Kabul. It began with Facebook, Telegram, and WhatsApp.


"I wanted to be a part of a peaceful protest," Pahlawan, a 27-year-old poet and photography student, explained. She didn't tell her parents she was attending the first one. She remembered the Taliban using tear gas, but there were no beatings. Her self-assurance grew.


On September 8, she went again, despite her father's request.


The Taliban used rubber hose to beat back the crowd, she recalled the next day. She claimed that when she dropped her cellphone and bent to pick it up, a Taliban member slapped her across the back.


Her father forbade her from attending any further protests. In any case, they became less frequent.


3. "I'm afraid someone will report me." If the Taliban comes for me, I will have no one to defend or protect me."— 32, K


K had heard that her neighbours had been robbed by armed men. Her aunt spoke of people she knew who were abducted in the dark and never seen again. Her uncle claimed to have seen a severed head in the gutter outside his house. They informed her that they believed the man had worked for the previous government.


"I haven't gone out because I'm afraid," K explained in September, a month after the Taliban took power. She was a younger woman in Kabul with no male family members, and she was afraid that if she went outside alone, she would become an instant target. "If we need groceries, my mother will go out and get them."


K worked as a kindergarten teacher and for the former government's Ministry of Interior Affairs before the Taliban took over. She would attend dinner parties and go to the gym to lift weights. She sat at home, afraid, unable to work, hoping to one day join her brother and his family, who are in the United States on a special immigrant visa.


She claimed to have seen two men being taken from her neighbor's house one day in October. "They weren't even collaborating with the government," she explained. "But they were Hazaras," referring to a Shiite ethnic group.


The women interviewed by The Washington Post all expressed concern about a return to the old days of targeting based on their faith. K, Sajida, and Pahlawan are all members of the Hazara minority, which has long been persecuted by the Taliban, while Aliya is a member of the tiny Sadat minority, which has also faced discrimination.


"I don't think there's a safe place for Shiite people in Afghanistan anymore," K said after a bombing in Kandahar and Kunduz in mid-October killed dozens of worshipers at Shiite mosques. The Islamic State claimed responsibility for the Kunduz attack.


Her father was killed in a terrorist attack in Kabul when she was a child. But she claims she's never felt more threatened or trapped.


"All doors are shut on Afghans," she said.


Pahlawan wrote a poem in the aftermath of the bombing in Kandahar, a city known for its pomegranates, comparing the slain prayergoers to the red fruit:


Today we prayed,

the red pomegranates of Kandahar


They took the pomegranates while the prayer was still going on.


injured and torn


Some people have been crushed.


Kandahar has been painted red.


Aren't these pomegranates a little more red?


These pomegranates have a blemish.


"Shiite" is written on them.

4. "Our freedom has become extremely limited, particularly for working women."— Sajida,  23


On the last day of classes at her university, Aug. 16, students received an email informing them that classes would be cancelled due to Taliban militants entering Kabul.


"I am as concerned about all of you as I am about my own family," one of Sajida's professors wrote to his students in an email that she shared with The Post. "Please look after yourself while we deal with this unexpected change."


Sajida, 23, had anticipated receiving her diploma. She aspired to earn her master's degree in another country and one day become an Afghan business executive.


"My dream in Afghanistan right now is to stay alive," she explained. "My family and my safety are extremely important to me."


Sajida said she spends most of her time at home, preparing dinner while her brothers are at school. She was able to continue working for a nongovernmental organisation that provides education and care to pregnant women.


Sajida took a risk and went into the office in November, desperate for a return to normalcy. It was reassuring to return to her workspace. But not everything had returned to normal. As an escort, her father accompanied her.


"I'm afraid to travel alone," she confessed.


Pahlawan spent her days knitting and laying out tomatoes on the roof to dry.


K began gardening.


The monotony became unbearable for K, who lives at home with her mother.


"I feel trapped," she admitted one October afternoon. "At home, I don't have much to do."


She and her mother listened to the radio and watched television, but their favourite Turkish soap opera was no longer available.


"Previously, music could be heard throughout the city... But there was no music yesterday."— Aliya, (27)

The music that used to fill Afghan cities, blaring from ice cream shops and restaurants, had vanished.


Pahlawan's days used to be jam-packed with teaching illiterate women in the mornings and studying in the afternoons. She also had a job at a radio station. Her independence, however, had been snuffed out.


Her fears were realised when she was out with her mother one day in November. They were not accompanied by a male escort, known as a mahram. She recalled a pickup truck stopping in front of them on the day in tearful voice notes and later phone calls.


"What are you doing here?" the Taliban gunman had asked. Her mother had high blood pressure and needed to walk, she explained.


"What do you do?" another inquired.


She went completely still. She was wearing a mask, but she had spoken on television during the protests.


"You should accompany us."— Pahlawan was informed


“My daughter didn’t do anything.”— Her mother interjected


One of the men was approaching Pahlawan, so her mother raised the bottle of water in her hand to fend him off. But he hit her mother in the face first, causing an instant purple bruise. Her mother pleaded with the men to forgive them, to which the Taliban replied, "This should be the last time you go around without a mahram." "Go get lost."


Pahlawan's father had never been entirely supportive of her life goals. He wanted her to keep her head down and abandon her passions for photography and journalism. They argued some more. Her emails to foreign embassies have resulted in nothing.


Unfortunately," she sobbed into the phone, "I'm not so good." She kept herself busy by trying to raise funds for projects that would benefit the increasingly destitute families in her neighbourhood.


Sajida was experiencing similar feelings of despair.


"I'm at a loss. "I've lost my motivation and energy," she admitted. "Right now, all I can think about is peace and security."


"I finally arrived after a long and painful journey in a place where I had always wished to be."— Aliya (27)


In late September, Aliya received an appointment for an interview at the US Embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan.


She made it across the border, but she reported feeling numb as she did so. She wept for her family and for her country. With a U.S. visa in hand, she boarded a plane to San Francisco to stay with family friends near Sacramento.


"I finally arrived in a place where I always wished to be after a journey full of weariness and pain," she said.


The sadness returns only when she hears the news from home.


As winter approaches, the situation for women in Kabul deteriorates. Food has become more scarce, and heating has become more expensive. Pahlawan stated that her family's savings are depleting. Because bread is so expensive, they have reduced their meal consumption and purchased less bread. K looks out her window and sees people burning plastic and old boots because they don't have any fuel. "People have become ill as a result of it," she explained.


The days ahead appear to be a reminder of lost dreams.




• "My situation is dire. "I'm not sure what I should do right now." Pahlawan
• "We used to have hope for the future, but now it's all disappointment."— Sajida 
• "There is no war in Afghanistan right now, but the tyranny is worse than the war."– K


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