I’m twenty-six years old and I live under Taliban rule. That sentence still feels strange to write, because not that long ago, I thought my future might look very different. I’ve lived through the republic, watched it collapse, and then woke up one morning to the “Islamic Emirate” back in control. I’ve seen two versions of my country—one flawed and corrupt, but breathing a little easier—and the other suffocating, stripped of color, and ruled by fear.
Since the takeover, everything has changed. Healthcare is worse, food prices are up, and people talk constantly about leaving. The sadness is everywhere—like a heavy, invisible fog. But women… women have been hit hardest. They can’t work in most jobs, they can’t go to school past sixth grade, they can’t travel without a male guardian. On TV, female presenters wear masks to hide their faces. The absurdity of that hits you only when you actually see it—a woman delivering the news with her voice but no visible expression.
Control is absolute and getting tighter every year. There are spies everywhere. You don’t criticize the Taliban in public, online, or even in a careless conversation. Do that, and you’ll vanish. And because criticism of them is framed as criticism of Islam, the punishment is even worse—death. There’s a “moral police” force that answers to no one but the Amir, free to interfere in any part of daily life. They dictate how we dress, how we speak, even the length of our beards. If you’re a young man with two friends in a car, you’ll be stopped at every checkpoint, searched, and questioned.
I’m a medical student in my internship year, but medicine here doesn’t pay the bills. I work remotely for a U.S. agency to survive. My mother was a teacher—English for 12th-grade girls—until the ban on girls’ education took her job away. I also have an eight-year-old sister in second grade, and I don’t know what will happen to her after sixth grade. The thought keeps me up at night.
When the Americans were here, life was different. Not perfect—corruption was rampant—but there was space to breathe, to hope. I’m grateful for those twenty years. The U.S. brought funds, infrastructure, and a sense of freedom. The tragedy is that so much money was stolen. I saw hospitals built for a fraction of their budget, the rest pocketed by officials. Everyone knew the government would fall once the U.S. left, but the speed shocked even the British, who had predicted it would take over a year. Instead, provinces fell in days, and our president fled with millions of dollars.
The younger generation here is different from our parents. We’re less religious, more connected to the outside world through the internet. We know what life could be because we see it online. But that knowledge comes with a price—depression is everywhere. Suicide rates among young girls are rising. Many are hooked on painkillers like Tramadol and pregabalin, just to numb themselves.
Could I leave? I want to, desperately. But our passport is nearly useless. There are no embassies here anymore—you have to go to Iran or Pakistan just to apply. You might wait two years for an appointment, need twelve thousand euros in the bank, pass a language test, and somehow convince them you’ll return to a place no one wants to come back to. Every step is designed to make you give up.
Some foreigners still come here. The Taliban treat them politely—part of their campaign for recognition—but I can’t understand why someone would trade Switzerland for Herat. I joke about fitting into their suitcase, but I mean it more than I admit.
When I walk through my city now, I sometimes pass public executions. The first time, there were three bodies on the ground, another hanging from a rope, “thief” written on their chests. It’s a sight that stays with you, whether you want it to or not.
Most Afghans don’t support the Taliban, but we stay quiet because we want to stay alive. Change would take hundreds of thousands of sacrifices, and for now, most of us have decided that a miserable life is better than no life at all. I don’t know if that’s courage or cowardice—maybe it’s just survival.
And that’s what life is here now. Survival.