Words Versus Whips and Rifles — Our Peaceful Protest in the Face of Taliban Brutality

Monday morning, October 3, 2022, Mazar-i-Sharif looked like a city under martial law. It felt as if a coup had taken place. The Taliban had stationed military vehicles on every street and their fighters were visible everywhere. In reality, there was neither a coup nor a terrorist attack. We were holding a protest after the deadly suicide bombing at the Kaj education center in Kabul, which killed 55 students and wounded about 70 others.

A group of women and I had circulated notices about the protest online several days in advance. Our demonstration was against the widespread violation of women’s rights, the targeted killings of the Hazara community, the denial of girls’ education and the exclusion of women from public life in Afghanistan. The militarized appearance of the city revealed how fearful the Taliban are of women.

We had planned to begin the protest at Balkh University, but the Taliban had learned of our plans and surrounded the campus, confining female students to the dormitories. We chose another location for the gathering. The women tucked their protest slogans into their sleeves and passed through Taliban checkpoints. At about 9 a.m. we began. There were roughly fifty of us — mostly young women and girls. Six young men, students from Balkh University, joined us; in a year of Taliban rule, it was the first time we heard a man’s voice alongside female protesters.

We chanted in and around the city, calling to stop the genocide of the Hazaras. The streets were full of men, many of whom taunted and insulted us as we marched. The Taliban were visibly flustered, reacting as if we had attacked them with guns and artillery — while we carried nothing but sheets of paper with our slogans.

Dozens of armed Taliban surrounded us in the city center. At first they tried to arrest the young men, but they managed to escape. One Taliban fighter approached and asked angrily why we were shouting in the street. He told us that, as women, we should be at home — what were we doing in the street? I, as the protest’s representative, asked for a moment to read our resolution and told him that if they claim to govern, they are obliged to listen to our voice. The fighter pointed his weapon at me; I began to read the resolution denouncing the deprivation of women’s and girls’ rights to education and work and condemning the Hazara massacres.

I had read roughly halfway when he became enraged and threatened to shoot if I continued. I said a few more words, and then the Taliban commander struck me on the head with the butt of his rifle. Begging my colleagues, I stopped reading. I told the girls we should all return home. The commander ordered us to stay put. I suspected we would not be released without torture or trial. A bitter fear rose in my throat.

I asked the commander what crime we had committed to be detained there. Our protest had been peaceful and over; we should be allowed to go home. One Taliban told me, “You still don’t know us — anyone who acts against us or tries to defame us, we will cut off his head.” He ordered us to wait by the roadside. After a few moments, the Badri unit — a Taliban special unit that includes suicide attackers — arrived.

I stood in front of them and said: “Did we confront you with guns and artillery so that your existing forces were insufficient and you had to call in the Badri unit? We only have sheets of paper with slogans.” Another Taliban shouted: “We are enemies of filthy women like you; you must be killed because all corruption stems from you and you organized these protests.”

The Taliban commander ordered us to enter a building that served as their command post on the other side of the road. The girls refused, saying they would go home. The Badri fighters approached and drove us into the compound, beating and striking us with whips and rifle butts. Once inside, I lost hope. I remembered that last year Fawzan Safi and dozens of other protesting girls had been brought to this place; some were killed by the Taliban and others remain missing.

At first, several Taliban soldiers collected our mobile phones. Then they wrote our names, home addresses and other details on paper. They repeatedly told us we were prostitutes and that our men were dishonorable for allowing us to live. I was still dizzy and in pain from the blow to my head when I begged to be released — I could not stand. One fighter sneered angrily: “Don’t speak, whore — we have an account to settle with you.” After about three hours of psychological torture, interrogation and phone searches, they released us. During the detention all photos and videos of the protest were forcefully deleted from the girls’ phones. They copied all contact lists from the phones. I had deleted sensitive contacts and cleared parts of my phone before going to the protest; still, they found and saved many of our addresses and further details through the material they seized.

When I finally reached home, my mother was frantic: my phone had been off for roughly three hours. After calming her with a few minutes of conversation, I went online; messenger and WhatsApp were full of threatening messages. The Taliban had saved all our locations from the phones and found further information about us.

That night my brothers returned home one by one. When they saw me, they asked why I had joined the protest. One of them said he had heard I had been detained by the Taliban. I told him yes — we had been detained for about three hours. Instead of hugging me or comforting me, he said harshly, “If I were a Taliban, I would have shot each of you protesting women several times so you wouldn’t dare do this again.” Hearing that, I began to cry silently. I could no longer sit; fear of the Taliban in the city I could flee from, but where could I hide from the Taliban in my brother’s mind?

I returned to my bedroom and again opened social media. One girl in our WhatsApp group wrote that Murtaza Karimi was missing. Murtaza, a journalism student and one of the protesters, is still missing. Hussein Karimi, Murtaza’s uncle, who went to the Taliban to demand Murtaza’s release, was brutally killed. Since the day after the protest, the Taliban have been seeking the organizers. Using the data from our phones, they acquired more information.

Now some of my companions and I are fugitives and wanted. Our crime was simply peacefully demanding the most basic human rights.