‘Every time a door closes for us, we look for another’

A year ago, I saw a picture from Afghanistan in De Groene Amsterdammer magazine, accompanied by a long article about an Afghan man's journey from the Netherlands to Kabul and Herat. His look and story were pleasant and entertaining, as if life went on normally there. That same day, I sent a message to a friend in Bamyan province, Afghanistan: “Hello, have a nice day!” She replied briefly, “Hello, but fine days don't exist here.”

Since that news, I hardly dare talk to friends and acquaintances living in Afghanistan. Yet every day, a question arises more strongly: how do women in Afghanistan endure? Amid so many restrictions and suffering, how do girls give meaning to their existence in such a dark world? Women in Afghanistan face severe restrictions on education and employment, and many girls are denied access to school. Professional opportunities for women are severely limited and their access to public and social services is hampered by many obstacles. Discriminatory laws and traditions, along with security threats, make women's daily lives complex and dangerous.

Locked up

To understand this better, and to know what a day in the life of an Afghan woman looks like, I speak to Arya Balhki. I came across her on social media, where she sometimes shared her stories. Arya is 24 and lives in northern Afghanistan. She writes short stories and was a final-year student at the Faculty of Law and Political Science when the Afghan government was overthrown by the Taliban in August 2021. She says: “When the north fell, we fled towards Kabul, but even before we arrived, we heard that Kabul had also fallen.” As her group of friends and family disintegrated and fled, she became increasingly lonely. What she finds most difficult is that she could not complete her studies. Fifteen years of hard work at school and university had suddenly been for nothing.

Arya explains that after universities closed to women after 15 August 2021, she went to a beauty salon to learn the hairdressing trade and keep herself busy. But after a year, that too was banned. Again, she was trapped between four walls. After a while, she started searching for online universities and literary and cultural societies. She continued with online classes and wrote about creative literature.

Needle instead of pen

She says: “Instead of mulling over our future with my girlfriends, we decided to get moving, and act. Every time one door closed, we looked for another. When the beauty salons closed, we started sewing. It is quite uncomfortable to suddenly hold a needle in your hand instead of a pen. But to survive, and to give life even a glimmer of meaning, that one dot can be hopeful - even if it's as small as the eye of a needle.”

Arya shares that one day they went to the bank to collect the wages of her sister, a teacher; she had not been paid for six months. The Taliban soldiers drove the women out of the hall of the building. When they protested, they were beaten with rifle butts and whips. One soldier proudly said, “In six months, the world will recognise us and we will level you with the ground.” Since then, her heart trembles every time recognition of the Taliban comes up in the news.

Sometimes Arya gets desperate. “We never know what awaits us tomorrow. Sometimes I work in the studio for a while, get irritable and wait for someone to say something so I can argue and express my accumulated grief...” When she wants to share her agitation and sadness with her mother, she replies indifferently, ‘What do you want, girl? You eat free bread and are safe at home - what are you complaining about? Arya then merely nods and says, ’Nothing.‘

Turning yourself into taliban

She goes to sleep without thinking about tomorrow, knowing that things will be no different then than today. She worries a lot. “What if we get used to the situation, if we slowly turn into Taliban ourselves?” she says. That thought scares her. Arya tells of young girls committing suicide. About a 16-year-old girl in their neighbourhood who tried it twice, and about their neighbour girl who took her own life. “When the girls feel too lonely and useless, and the fear and insecurity become too great, they either choose suicide or marriage,” she says.

Thus, she saw many marriages pass by. Girls who, out of boredom, loneliness and hopelessness, marry and become mothers even at a young age; it is all they can do. Yet, Arya says, there are also small moments of joy. For instance, she is part of a group of young writers who secretly meet once or twice a month. In it, they talk about creative writing processes, discuss each other's stories and do writing exercises to improve their skills. Even to their families, they lie about what they actually do. She says they share their worries, read poems and tell stories.

These meetings, marked by fear and secrecy, are the moments of happiness that propel and protect them. Between their silent, wistful smiles, life, joy and hope remain palpably present. So that not all meaning in their lives is lost.