I live in exile and am horrified by the Taliban's efforts to eradicate women.

The demand of covers and the prohibition of women and girls praying or speaking out loud in public are more than just violations of their rights. Its goal is to destroy a social order in which women look up to and support one another.

The time was 6:30 a.m. The beautiful sky was shrouded by heavy, dark clouds, and all I could see as I looked for the early birds were shadows. In the tiny lanes of Malviya Nagar in New Delhi, I was standing in front of a well-known juice bar. Normally, it was crowded with autorickshaws, but today it was eerily silent.

A youngster, maybe 14 or 15, was waiting for her school bus with her mother across the alley. As I observed her, my thoughts strayed to a society where females of her age are hushed, invisible, and denied the opportunity to receive an education. Even their voices are now prohibited from speaking to one another.

I thought back to my own early years in Kabul, when I was five years old and itching to attend school. Every morning, my two-year-old male cousin would show me his school bag, and I was baffled as to why I was left behind. Children in Kabul usually begin school at age six, so when my mother argued that I was too young, I sobbed and demanded to know why he was allowed to go while I was not.

My mother eventually took my hand and escorted me to Zarghona High School, one of Kabul's biggest and oldest girls' institutions, on a snowy day. When we got there, the security told us that the school was closed, which devastated us. Despite my mother's assurances, we never returned the following day. "The Taliban have shut the school's doors for girls," she said in response to my question about why.

I didn't understand that sentence. Why was I not permitted to attend school although my male cousins were? In my own life, I felt like a prisoner. My best friend, who was also denied education, and I were taught by an older male cousin. He wrote on our drive with a lump of coal because we didn't have any chalk, and he used a wooden gate as a makeshift chalkboard.

I recall a girl who was in her second year of medical school and lived in our neighborhood. She was unwilling to face the outside world and retreated into a dark room after the Taliban gained power in 1996. I recall that her relatives took her to mosques or shrines for therapy since they all thought she was possessed by a spirit. Nobody realized that she wasn't possessed or impacted by any spirits; instead, she had just given up on her long-cherished goal of becoming a doctor.

At the time, my aunt was in the eighth grade. She used to play with me, but she started to be afraid to leave the house after the government had women wear chadaris, or veils. She was once mocked at by some males after falling on the street. She has remained at home ever since.
My mother, who was formerly self-sufficient and a teacher, was now dependent on my father's earnings. She miscarried that year as a result of severe melancholy. Although she had always been quiet and kind, she was often ranting about little matters during those years.

Another aunt who was made to wear a chadari suffered from migraines and had terrible headaches every time she wore it. I could continue talking about these recollections and the numerous instances of women in my family who had their aspirations dashed by repressive forces.

Now that I'm living in exile and have seen the Taliban retake my country, I watch in horror as they work to eradicate women from society and isolate them from one another as well as from the outside world.

The Taliban's prohibition on women and girls praying or speaking out loud in public, together with the need for headscarves, is more than just a violation of human rights. Its goal is to destroy a social order in which women look up to and support one another. when women are exploited and alienated, and it is impossible for them to simply discuss problems, goals, or tactics with one another. It is more difficult to fight injustice as a group when women do not have these relationships. It is the goal of the repressive powers.

I grew up in Kabul, surrounded by my mother, my aunts, and other women whose lives had been upended by the Taliban's control in the 1990s. Their hopes were crushed, they were silenced, and the idea of sisterhood itself was weakened. The connections between these women were severed. They lost the ability to help one another and lend each other their strong shoulders. They lost the basic bond that gave some of them a sense of visibility, comfort, and power. This is also what the current ban aims to do with Afghanistan's current female generation.

However, this prohibition allows men to perceive women in their households as unimportant or inferior. In addition to being "viewed" as empty cocoon-like bodies, women's capacity to actively engage with their surroundings is also reduced. Because of this detachment, persecution appears so real—like an unbreakable grip. But once it is repaired, this very gap also serves as the most powerful incentive to pursue justice.

Many people are afraid of the importance of women's voices because they have a deep-rooted understanding that when women speak up, they are speaking for communities, causes, justice, and equality, not just for themselves. Many repressive regimes, like the Taliban, are unnerved by the potential for women's voices to upend the status quo and change the current power balances.

The bold demonstrations in the streets of Kabul, spearheaded by courageous activists, and the numerous Afghan women who have taken to the streets elsewhere in the world have been among the most impressive examples of resistance. Despite being oppressed, these women have battled for their rights and paid the price. Many men decide to remain passive as they march to the front lines with confidence. These women are the ones who have not given up and are fighting the war with a commendable zeal.