Once a lifeline for women and families, the Afghanistan Family Guidance Association (AFGA)—one of the country’s oldest NGOs—has been forced to shut down its centers nationwide under Taliban orders. Credit: Learning Together.
By External Source
KABUL, May 8 2025 – Rukhsar (pseudonym), 27, is a widow and sole breadwinner for a family of five. She recounts her life story under Taliban rule, a reality faced by thousands of women in Afghanistan.
Every time I picked up a pen, I would write about turning failure into success, rising up after falling, and the highs that follow life’s lows. Each time I wrote, my mood, soul, and mind came alive, fueled by the words of my achievements.
With every victory achieved and each milestone reached, I redoubled my efforts. Like a mountaineer dreaming of reaching the summit, my hope of realizing my dreams grew with each passing day.
But this time, my dreams have crumbled, and I am left defeated.
I, too, once had a stable life, but the winds of fate blew it apart. Shattering my dreams.
Exactly seven years ago, I began a relationship with a kind and brave person, Yusuf, who was my source of security while I in turn took care of patients in a hospital. As nurses, our days were spent caring for the people of our country. We dedicated ourselves to our sacred duty with passion and enthusiasm.
It felt like being a woman in itself was a crime in Afghanistan. We could not study or go to the parks. Women were flogged on the mere of suspicion sleeping with anyone other than their husbands. Young girls were forced into marriage and women committed suicide. We are probably the most oppressed people in the history of Afghanistan
In the midst of life’s joys, Yusuf and I were blessed with two children, Iman and Ayat. They made our life shine brighter.
However, just when everything appeared to flourish, we began to hear rumblings in the distance. The Taliban had begun a fight to take back Afghanistan. We heard about districts falling in neighboring provinces such as Balkh, and the deaths, and disappearances of our loved ones.
As the days passed by, the intensity of the war between the government and Taliban fighters increased. We were all in a state of panic, fearing that we could become victims of the conflict. The war was getting closer to the city with each passing moment.
One day Yusuf urged me not to go to work. He went instead. He kissed our children goodbye, tears in his eyes. Thas was the last time we saw him alive.
After he left, I kept calling him at short intervals to ask if everything was fine with him, and each time he called back without delay. However, my call to him in the afternoon went unanswered; neither did he return the call. That triggered off restlessness in my mind. It soon took hold of me entirely and was no longer controllable.
At the peak of my desperation, and exhaustion, Yusuf’s father told me he had received a call from an unfamiliar number. Yusuf was no longer with us, he announced. He was brutally killed by a tyrannical, ruthless, bloodthirsty, and oppressive group.
The date is forever edged in my memory. It was June 16, 2021.
The grief of losing Yusuf brought sleepless nights, memories that haunted me every moment, and a deep loneliness that nothing could fill. I was entrapped in emotional and mental struggles from which I could not escape.
Days and months went by, and problems kept piling up one after the other with no respite. There was no psychological support, I was caught midst of increasing financial struggles, and I constantly worried about how to provide for our children, which were now entirely under my care. I had to find a way out.
I returned to my former work place at the hospital in Mazar-i-Sharif, but someone new took up my place. I returned home empty-handed. All around me was despair and fear.
All the while, I was under increasing pressure from my family to consider a second marriage. No one could really understand the pain I was enduring. My husband Yusuf was gone but his love was still alive. It was the only thing besides the children, which gave me hope. I started looking for work and eventually got one as a midwife at Afghanistan Family Guidance Association (AFGA), one of the oldest NGOs in Afghanistan.
It was in 2023. I had an eight-hour job and was now earning monthly salary of over 9,500 Afghanis, which enabled me to support my children and financially support my late husband’s parents as well. I was excited and nervous about the new phase in my life.
We provided services to the most vulnerable clients who were suffering from impact of earthquakes, floods, and drought.
Nevertheless, every day I heard news about how the Taliban regime was planning to shut down various organizations that support women and families, as well as banning women from schools and universities. At my workplace, we could foresee that thousands of families would soon be left without help.
A flood of bad news kept inundating us each day about measures that adversely affected women’s situation. It felt like being a woman in itself was a crime in Afghanistan. We could not study or go to the parks. Women were flogged on the mere of suspicion sleeping with anyone other than their husbands. Young girls were forced into marriage and women committed suicide. We are probably the most oppressed people in the history of Afghanistan.
However, my colleagues and I took comfort in the fact, that since we were working in the medical field as essential members of society, we assumed we were indispensable.
We still maintained high hopes that our work in the medical field would continue, even though officials from the brutal and oppressive unit, the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice, continuously monitored us. For one hour every Thursday, these officers would give us religious lessons as if we were not Muslim.
We were working mainly with women patients, yet we were made to cover our faces with masks and to maintain our hijabs. We were prohibited from speaking loudly, and from engaging in any conversation with the male companions of the patients. The restrictions kept increasing, but I had to stay strong for my family.
Despite all the bullying and oppression, we continued to work because serving our patients brought us peace of mind, not to mention the deep satisfaction and relief of being able to provide financial support to our families.
On the morning of December 3, 2024, I heard the news about the closure of medical institutions. It was incredibly painful, like a dagger thrust into my heart. I spent the entire day in tears and sorrow. In the small shelter where I worked, we were all crushed by grief.
That day passed by and we did not know how we had managed to get through it. We concluded to each other at the end of the day that, “We might be the last generation of medical professionals.”
On January 3rd, at 9:08 AM, I received a call from a colleague at the Kabul central office. She informed me that Mullah Hibatullah Akhundzada, the misogynist Taliban leader, had issued a decree to close down healthcentres funded by foreign donors. They were, according to him, aimed at curtailing the increase of the Muslim population.
My blood ran cold. My colleagues and I nevertheless entertained the hope that the decree would be reversed. It did not happen.
Just a week later, we were notified by email that AFGA had to close due to Taliban’s new restrictions.
At that moment, as I read the email, it felt like the ground had been cut from under my feet. My mind became consumed by thoughts of Ayat and Iman, wondering what to do next and which door to knock on.
I was not alone. Similar thoughts must have been coursing through the minds of 270 Afghan women working in 23 provinces. I also lost every shred of hope for the future. I had no idea what I could do next.
Excerpt:
The author is an Afghanistan-based female journalist, trained with Finnish support before the Taliban take-over. Her identity is withheld for security reasons