Former female judge in Afghanistan still in hiding over two years later: “Our family lives deteriorate with each day that passes”
To the decision makers, I say, “I do not need your sympathy. I need your action. Please, help us now!” I fear that by the time help arrives, it could be too late. I speak now because I want to live; I need justice – the same justice I stood for as a female judge in Afghanistan.
- 6 months ago
November 12, 2023
Taliban fighters in a captured Humvee after the Fall of Kabul in August 2021 | Photo courtesy of Voice of America News on Wikimedia
KABUL, Afghanistan ꟷ On August 15, 2021, the Taliban overthrew Kabul and turned my life into chaos. I worked hard for years to become a female judge in Afghanistan and on the day the Taliban took over, it marked the end of my life as I knew it. At that time, about 270 Afghani women served as judges in the courts. Now, only 49 of us remain in our homeland. The rest have been resettled in other countries, and 21 await news of relocation in Pakistan.
Today, I feel like a bird in a cage. I have nothing left. My savings is gone, and my mental health has fallen apart. When I eat, I cry. When I go to bed at night, I cry. Once a successful professional woman who felt respected by her family and society, today I take medication just get a few hours of sleep each night. I feel like a mad woman, desperate for help.
Read more stories about people affected by the Taliban at Orato World Media.
Two years and three months ago, I said goodbye to my life as a judge
As a woman who once lived free, the unbearable pressure of being trapped in my home in Kabul weighs heavily upon me. Our small house brims with people including my husband, his second wife, her five children, and her mother. He tries to support us financially, but we all pay the price for my former work as a female judge – work that made us a target.
When I was a judge, my husband respected me. I added income to the house and held an esteemed position in society. The reverence he once felt has since vanished and this prison of a home leaves me listless, sensitive, and angry.
When I look out of the window into the streets of Kabul now, my memories of the Taliban takeover remain fresh in my mind. The day before they arrived, I climbed into a taxi and went to work as usual, but things seemed off. News had reached us about the progress of the Taliban’s campaign and an invasion of the city felt imminent. I went to work anyway.
The quiet and empty streets whispered what was to come. The only people I saw carried a heavy burden of stress on their shoulders and darkness loomed over Kabul. As I walked into the office, the absence of people and activity felt stark. The two cleaners were the only ones there and even they looked terrified. The gravity of the situation struck me, and I began to wonder, “Will the Taliban capture me here? Will this be my end?”
Afraid and on the run in Kabul
Despite my fear, I needed to say goodbye; that office represented my entire life’s work. As I looked around, I gathered myself, realizing I mustn’t stay long. Gazing down at the table, I saw my prized lawbook. I picked it up in my hands as tears began to stream down my cheeks. A well of hopelessness opened inside of me and I left. That was 27 months ago.
When the Taliban swept into Kabul, their rapid occupation felt decisive. The very next day, they removed all the female judges of Afghanistan from their seats. Clearly, we were a priority. In a matter of seconds, I lost my livelihood and my freedom. I tried to stay in my home, but when the Taliban released many of the prisoners we put away, the threat on our lives doubled. It felt as if a dangerous alarm was blaring in my mind, and I needed to run.
Swiftly, the Taliban began searching the houses of the female judges. Two days after the takeover, I packed some clothes, slid into a burka, and escaped to a friend’s house. The previous government, before the Taliban took over, had given the judges guns to protect themselves and I held onto mine. Then, one day, my phone rang. The voice of a Taliban terrorist identified me and demanded I bring the gun back. By then, they had accessed the central database with our names and information.
He asked if I was a judge and called me by name. “No, I am not her,” I answered fearfully. After three such calls, I got rid of the phone and went into hiding. The 49 of us left behind have moved around Kabul and the small villages outside of the city. We are never safe.
A secret group on WhatsApp is our only remaining comfort
For over two years now, I watched as many of the 270 female judges made it out of Afghanistan with the help of NGOs and foreign governments. The 49 of us who remain plead for help constantly. We apply for asylum in Canada, Germany, Australia, England, and the United States. For me personally, I applied online to Canada but got no acknowledgement back from the government.
My brother lives in Australia and sponsored me. I had four interviews with the solicitor, but the complicated process leaves me waiting. In January 2021, the Taliban shot two of my colleagues dead in the street and I fear the same fate. Depression settles over me like a heavy blanket.
When I lost my freedom, it felt like I went blind. I have no access to information anymore. When the 49 of us do hear back on our applications to move to other countries, there is often no way for us to respond. They do not give us the option to write emails back or return phone calls. The only vestige of peace we have is our connection to one another.
The judges have a WhatsApp group where we can talk and share information. Marzia Babakarkhail, the judge who fled to the United Kingdom and obtained citizenship after the last Taliban takeover, acts like a mentor to us. She understands our plight. Marzia is like a mother, a sister, and a friend.
I do not need your sympathy; I need your action
Staying connected to Marzia and the judges is my only life now. I sacrifice buying food so I can keep my mobile phone active. I check my messages and emails day and night. Marzia tells our stories to the world, but we need the governments to hear our voices.
To the decision makers, I say, “I do not need your sympathy. I need your action. Please, help us now!” I fear that by the time help arrives, it could be too late. I speak now because I want to live; I need justice – the same justice I stood for as a female judge in Afghanistan.
If I could leave Afghanistan today and take my family with me, I could finally live again. Every minute of every day of my life now is filled with nothing. My family sacrificed everything because of my work. My husband is jobless, and the children cannot go to school or get an education.
Some of the women judges have been divorced by their husbands or face increased domestic violence. Being trapped here has consequences beyond the Taliban rule. Our family lives deteriorate with each day that passes without solutions. We need to breathe; we need a life outside of these walls. I beg the NGOs and the foreign governments to remember us and to help us resettle. Each day pushes me further down this dark hole of depression and I feel it is swallowing me.
