Afghan journalist’s journey: from disguised boy in Bamiyan to exile and global advocacy
Attending school was not a right, it was an act of bravery. At five years old, I began dressing as a boy, a decision that dramatically altered my life and identity. Every morning, I embarked on a silent, two-hour walk to school accompanied by shadows and fear. As I walked, I whispered my father’s words: “You are strong, Zaki.” A name I carried as a boy.
- 1 month ago
December 9, 2024
Zhara Joya, an Afghan journalist and women’s rights advocate, was forced into exile after the Taliban's return but continues to amplify Afghan women’s voices from London. | Photo courtesy of Zhara Joya 
BAMIYAN, Afghanistan — In the 1990s, when the Taliban first took power in Afghanistan, they crushed dreams like mine, banning girls from school and silencing our voices. My father, a man of steadfast bravery, refused to let their rules define my future. His bold solution: I would disguise myself as a boy to continue my education.
One afternoon, my mother cut my hair and handed me a worn shirt from my brother. As I slipped into the disguise, the reflection in the cracked mirror felt foreign. Yet beneath the unfamiliar image, a spark of freedom ignited—a quiet rebellion against the confines imposed on me.
Zaki’s Secret: Defying Boundaries in Bamiyan
I grew up in Bamiyan, cradled by towering mountains that concealed both beauty and secrets. Each morning, the scent of chai filled our home as sunlight painted the fields. From my window, I watched the women of my village carrying water jugs, their laughter weaving through the dusty roads like music.
Life appeared simple, yet tension lingered beneath the surface. War loomed like a distant shadow, and restrictions on girls pressed against us like unspoken chains. I often wondered why I couldn’t play as freely as the boys or why my mother whispered about dreams she dared not voice too loudly.
Attending school wasn’t a right—it was defiance. At five years old, I began dressing as a boy, a choice that reshaped my identity and future. Each morning, I embarked on a two-hour walk to school, cloaked in shadows and fear. My father’s words echoed in my mind: “You are strong, Zaki.” Zaki—the name I carried as a boy.
I taught myself to walk with steady shoulders and a lowered gaze, mimicking the boys around me. The icy wind sliced through me as I crossed the hills, but I pushed forward, chin high, every step a rebellion. The cold bit my skin, yet it could not touch the fire inside me—the determination to defy the rules that sought to cage me.
With each step, I vowed to protect my secret, knowing the dire consequences if I failed. Fear followed me, but so did resolve. Walking through the school gates, sitting at my desk, I felt the risk was worth it. In those stolen moments of learning, the world expanded beyond the confines the Taliban tried to impose, and for a little while, I felt free.
Pursuing journalism during Taliban rule
I will always remember the day a teacher stared at me strangely. In that moment, I realized she knew my secret. Her gaze made me feel vulnerable and exposed, but she remained silent, understanding the danger I faced.
Every time I returned home, I risked exposure. Menacing figures in dark turbans manned Taliban makeshift checkpoints on every road. Once, one of them scrutinized me too closely. He asked me something, but the pounding of my heart drowned out his voice. “Go easy, boy,” he said, allowing me to pass.
When I reached home, I dropped the turban and looked at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the reflection. The girl I once was had become a ghost. Those years as Zaki challenged me, but they gave me education, hope, and conviction—things the Taliban could not take.
Despite the hardships, I found peaceful moments. Winter snow blanketed the mountains, and stars filled the night sky—too beautiful for a place burdened with such pain. Even in those serene times, I knew my childhood differed from others. Growing up in Afghanistan, I lived in fear but also clung to hope. I discovered that resistance isn’t always loud; sometimes, it means walking miles to learn or dreaming of an impossible future.
During the Taliban’s rule, I did not choose journalism—it chose me, born from the suffocating silence imposed on women in Afghanistan. As I grew, I witnessed oppression not only silencing our voices but burying our stories under its weight. Initially, I pursued law, believing it held the key to justice. Yet, I soon realized that justice could only be achieved if our voices were heard first.
Rukhshana Media stands as a voice for Afghan women against oppression
In those early years of journalism, every article I wrote felt like lighting a spark in the darkness. My words not only captured the horrors of war and violence but also gave voice to the silent resistance of women who, like me, refused to remain invisible. In November 2020, I founded Rukhshana Media to create a safe space where women could share their stories. Naming it after a young Afghan woman stoned to death for daring to love, I vowed not to let our voices be erased.
I vividly recall the first meeting in our small Kabul office. We were a group of determined women, filled with more fear than we cared to admit, yet stronger than anyone could imagine. The rhythmic tapping of computer keys blended with the sounds of the city, and every story we published became an act of defiance. As we documented forced marriages, domestic violence, and the fight for education, the threats became evident. Yet, we accepted the bitter reality of facing danger at any moment.
Soon after, Rukhshana Media transformed from a project into our form of resistance, actively challenging a system that demanded our submission. As the news of missing, imprisoned, or murdered women flooded in, I felt the weight of my duty grow heavier. Every story had to be told—not just for us, but for the world to understand the realities we faced. Though I knew our work put us at risk, I could not stop as if we remained silent, who would speak for us?
In my early years as a journalist, every article felt like igniting a spark in the darkness. My words captured not only the horrors of war and violence but also the quiet defiance of women who, like me, refused to remain invisible. In November 2020, I founded Rukhshana Media to provide a safe space for women to share their stories. Naming it after a young Afghan woman stoned to death for daring to love, I made a vow: our voices would not be erased.
Journalist launches Rukhshana Media to empower women’s voices
I vividly remember the first meeting in our small Kabul office—a gathering of determined women, united by purpose yet carrying unspoken fears. The rhythmic tapping of computer keys mixed with the city’s hum, and each story we published became an act of defiance. We documented forced marriages, domestic violence, and the fight for education, fully aware of the growing threats around us. Danger loomed, but we embraced it as part of our mission.
Soon, Rukhshana Media became more than a platform—it was a movement of resistance against a system that demanded our silence. As reports of missing, imprisoned, or murdered women poured in, the weight of our duty grew heavier. Every story had to be told—not just for us but for the world to see the harsh realities we endured. Though the risks were immense, I couldn’t stop. If we stayed silent, who would speak for us?
At Rukhshana Media, we formed a family despite the pain. Amidst the shadows of an oppressive regime, we created a sanctuary for truth. Every day, I listened to these stories and felt the weight of our words as stones on the road to freedom. As we shared stories, it challenged oppression and offered hope to those who could not raise their voices. I spent nights questioning whether this sacrifice was worth it and whether our voices could break the chains. Today, as I reflect from a distance, I see it was.
Gradually, Rukhshana Media gained momentum, with our stories about Afghan women resisting oppression resonating far beyond the country’s borders. When a British newspaper contacted me to collaborate, I embraced the opportunity with both excitement and a deep sense of responsibility. This was a chance to amplify Afghanistan’s voice on the global stage, but it also heightened the risks for my team and me. Each article carried the potential to expose us to greater danger.
Journalist Reporting on Afghan Women’s Struggles Forced to Flee
Working with The Guardian offered a powerful platform to illuminate stories that had remained in the shadows. I vividly remember the first story we published together: it highlighted the devastating rise in child marriages during the pandemic. The piece focused on a 13-year-old girl sold for a few sheep to save her family from starvation. While the story reached an international audience and brought much-needed awareness, the cost was immense. In Afghanistan, the journalist who reported the case faced death threats and was forced to relocate. Despite the mounting dangers, we persisted, determined to use journalism as an act of resistance.
When the Taliban took Kabul in August 2021, the reality of our situation became even graver. Days later, I received an email from the U.K. embassy with the subject line: “Immediate evacuation.” A British NGO had recommended my case due to my work as a journalist and founder of Rukhshana Media. The instructions were clear: pack essentials and head to the Kabul airport within hours. That night, I helped my sisters gather their belongings, shadows of uncertainty filling the room.
Together, my family decided that fleeing was our only option. My work as a journalist made us targets, and as Hazaras, we were already under constant threat. My father, a former prosecutor, had received direct threats, and my young sisters faced a future without education under Taliban rule. Yet, the evacuation took only my sisters and me, leaving my parents behind in Pakistan. Their daily struggles in a country they didn’t choose weigh heavily on my heart, even as I continue this journey far from home.
Journalist leaves homeland with her sisters amid Kabul’s chaos
Arriving in Kabul felt like stepping into the heart of chaos. Dust swirled through the air, mingling with the noise of engines and the hum of crowded streets. Every corner revealed a different reality: families clutching bundles of belongings, children gripping their parents’ hands, and desperate eyes searching for a sliver of hope. My sisters and I moved through the crowd like shadows, our faces wrapped in scarves to shield us from the dust and the palpable fear surrounding us.
That night, Kabul was consumed by terror. We moved silently toward the airport, weaving through throngs of desperate people. Each step felt like a farewell to our homeland. In the chaos, I felt pieces of myself slipping away, replaced by the certainty that I would continue fighting for those left behind. My mind clung to memories of Bamiyan—the laughter of my sisters, the echo of the mountains, and the simplicity of home—trying to preserve fragments of the life I was about to leave.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the airport lights flickered like a fragile beacon, offering salvation we could not fully comprehend. Even as we pressed forward, I turned toward the distant mountains, etching their silhouette into my memory. Each step pulled me further from the life I had known, the distance growing like a thread stretched to its breaking point.
At the border, time seemed to halt. An endless line of weary faces stretched before us, marked by exhaustion, sunburn, and despair. Dust clung to the air and rose with every movement, enveloping us in a suffocating shroud. Quiet prayers and muffled sobs intertwined with the sharp commands of guards. When the guards demanded our documents, uncertainty weighed heavily on us. Finally, they allowed us through. Relief came, but it was bitter.
Journalist finds refuge in London as parents face struggles in Pakistan
Right before boarding, I faced the most heart-wrenching moment of my life. My mother gripped my hands firmly, her trembling fingers betraying the strength in her voice. “Do what you have to do, daughter,” she said, her eyes memorizing every detail of my face. My father remained silent, staring at the ground, as though refusing to accept the reality unfolding. As the plane ascended, I gazed out the window, watching the dusty roads and familiar landscapes shrink and disappear. In that moment, I understood I was not just leaving my family behind; I was leaving a part of my soul.
During the flight, my younger sisters clung to my hands, their eyes searching mine for answers I did not have. My love for my country remained unshaken, but I knew the life I had known was now suspended, perhaps forever. The NGO overseeing our evacuation promised a safe haven in London, a place where we could rebuild. Yet, as we moved closer to that promise, the weight of what we had sacrificed grew heavier. We were not just refugees; we were now the voices of the women left behind, and I vowed to carry their stories with me.
In Pakistan, my parents faced unrelenting challenges. Forced to renew their visas every six, enduring the hostility of a government intent on deporting Afghan refugees. Once the pillars of strength in my life, they now depended on us for the basics—a safe place to live and the hope of peace.
Rukhshana Media transforms Afghan women’s pain into global advocacy
Their resilience resonated in every conversation, even as their silent pain surfaced in unguarded moments. “We are fine,” they assured me, but the strain in their voices told a different story. Each night, I thought of them, burdened by the knowledge that they deserved sanctuary, not exile—a sacrifice they made for us.
From a small apartment, I began rebuilding Rukhshana Media. The heartbreaking stories of Afghan women reached me like scattered fragments: mothers walking miles for water, girls robbed of their futures, and voices silenced by oppressive decrees. One story, of a woman in prison brutally assaulted by her captors, reminded me why I write—why I must continue. In their stories, I found our fractured humanity and a purpose to carry on.
In London, I gave voice to our collective grief. At the editorial desk of Rukhshana Media, my team and I worked to transform sorrow into resilience. Recognition came in unexpected ways—our articles traveled further than I ever imagined, amplifying the voices of Afghan women. Yet, every small triumph was overshadowed by the unrelenting pain of new stories that reached us daily.
From afar, Rukhshana Media became a beacon for those silenced by the Taliban. One colleague reported on a 14-year-old girl forced to marry a man three times her age. Writing her story felt like tracing a nightmare: her muffled screams, her mother’s silence, her father’s helplessness—echoes of countless women bound by the same chains.
Another story came from Bamiyan, my homeland. A mother and activist was imprisoned after leading a protest against the educational ban on girls. In prison, she endured unspeakable abuse, yet her spirit endured. Through her relatives’ tears, my colleague captured her courage. Each sentence was a bridge to her, a reminder that she was not alone.
Taliban threat: “We know where your relatives are. Stop writing.”
Rukhshana Media is a testament to resistance. We tell stories of women teaching in secret, girls memorizing books they may lose, and men risking their lives to protect them. Each article is an act of defiance and a promise to those left behind. Their stories fuel my resolve, and even from afar, I carry their voices with me in every word I write.
The first direct threat from Afghanistan froze me for a moment. One afternoon, while reviewing notes, a message appeared on my phone: “We know where your relatives are. Stop writing.” My heart raced, but icy anger overtook fear. I immediately called my mother in Pakistan to ensure their safety. “Don’t worry about us,” she said calmly, a composure that broke me. The danger was familiar, but it deepened my fear for them.
The threats continued, delivered through messaging platforms by Taliban affiliates. They accused me of spreading propaganda, their warnings relentless. While the danger weighed heavily, it fueled my determination. As I witnessed journalists in Afghanistan being silenced—imprisoned, tortured, murdered—each case made my mission more urgent.
A recent voicemail from Kabul brought devastating news: a colleague covering a protest had vanished. The world’s indifference stung as Afghan voices disappeared one by one. Yet I kept going, documenting human rights violations and amplifying the voices of women who could no longer speak for themselves.
From my desk in London, I often stare at the map of Afghanistan on my wall—a beacon of my fight. Writing from afar sometimes feels like an undeserved privilege, but I wield it as a weapon. Fear lingers, but so does my unyielding need to tell the truth. One day, I will return to my homeland, carrying with me the voices of resilient women who never gave up.
