The Taliban Took Everything – Even My Hope

I used to write about triumph after tragedy—about rising again, even when the fall was hard. Writing gave me purpose. Each word revived my spirit, fuelling my soul with the promise of a better tomorrow. I believed that no matter how deep the fall, I could always climb higher.

But this time, I’ve fallen, and I cannot see a way back up.

Seven years ago, my life felt secure and full of promise. I was in love with Yusuf, a kind and courageous man who became my husband and life partner. We both worked as nurses, dedicating ourselves to healing our fellow Afghans with passion and commitment. Together, we built a home filled with laughter and love. Our two children, Iman and Ayat, brought even more light into our lives.

But that light began to dim when the Taliban’s shadow crept closer. Rumours of advancing fighters turned into confirmed reports: provinces were falling, people were dying, and families were vanishing. Fear took hold of our community as we realised the conflict was inching toward our city.

One morning, Yusuf urged me to stay home from work. He went in my place. As he kissed our children goodbye, tears filled his eyes. That was the last time we saw him.

At first, he answered my calls, assuring me he was safe. Then, one call went unanswered. And another. Panic rose inside me like a tide. Finally, Yusuf’s father received a call from an unknown number. He told me Yusuf was gone—murdered by the Taliban on June 16, 2021.

Grief swallowed me whole. Sleep became a stranger. I replayed our memories endlessly. The love of my life was gone, and I was left alone with two small children and the weight of survival on my shoulders.

I tried to return to my job at the hospital in Mazar-i-Sharif, but someone else had already taken my position. The doors were closed to me, and no one offered help. On top of the emotional torment, I was facing crushing financial hardship. With no support system and constant pressure from family to remarry, I felt suffocated. But Yusuf’s love still burned in my heart, and our children gave me the strength to go on.

Eventually, I found work as a midwife at the Afghanistan Family Guidance Association (AFGA), one of the country’s oldest NGOs. It was 2023, and I was earning a monthly salary of over 9,500 Afghanis—enough to feed my children and support Yusuf’s ageing parents. I was anxious but hopeful.

We helped those most in need—families devastated by floods, droughts, and earthquakes. Our work gave meaning to our pain.

But every day, new restrictions emerged under Taliban rule. Women were being erased—banned from schools, universities, even parks. Whispers turned to screams: girls forced into marriage, women flogged or killed for imagined sins, suicides rising. It felt as if being born female was the gravest crime in Afghanistan.

Still, we believed we were safe in the medical field, serving a critical need. But Taliban enforcers from the Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice monitored us constantly. They forced us to attend religious lectures each week, as if our faith was not enough. They made us wear masks, observe strict hijab, avoid speaking loudly, and never address male companions of our patients.

Despite the growing repression, I kept going. My patients needed me. My children needed me. And my soul needed the dignity of work.

Then, on December 3, 2024, everything changed. I heard the news: medical NGOs were being shut down. That day felt like death. We wept openly in our clinic, uncertain how we would survive. One colleague whispered, “We may be the last generation of Afghan medical workers.”

One month later, on January 3, 2025, at 9:08 AM, a call came from a colleague in Kabul. Mullah Hibatullah Akhundzada, the Taliban’s reclusive and hardline leader, had decreed the closure of all foreign-funded health centres, claiming they were aimed at reducing the Muslim population. The cruelty of such logic stunned us. We hoped it would be reversed.

It wasn’t.

A week later, an email confirmed our worst fears: AFGA was shutting down due to the Taliban’s new restrictions. As I read it, my knees buckled. My thoughts spiralled toward Iman and Ayat. How would I feed them? Where would I go? What future did we have left?

I wasn’t alone. At least 270 Afghan women working across 23 provinces lost their jobs that day. Along with it, we lost our purpose, our dignity—and our last fragile thread of hope.

The author is an Afghanistan-based female journalist, trained with Finnish support before the Taliban takeover. Her identity is withheld for security reasons.