05/14/2025
Some of you know that I recently returned to Afghanistan. My goal was to see firsthand what life is like for women and girls under the new Taliban regime. I was nervous going in—unsure if I might be arrested, questioned, or worse. The trip was emotional, beautiful, fun, and heartbreaking all at once—a complicated experience that left me with so much to process.
I’m out now, safe and sound.
From the moment I arrived, everything felt different—and yet the same.
I want to be clear: this is the perspective of a foreign woman visiting Afghanistan. I can’t speak for Afghan women or girls. I can only share what I saw, what I experienced, and how it compared to the Afghanistan I knew years ago.
The hijab and abaya were no longer a choice—they were mandatory. In the past, I dressed modestly in long tunics and loose pants, which was always considered respectful. But this time, full coverage was required. Managing layers of robes and scarves while eating, walking, or using a squatting toilet (don’t even get me started!) became part of daily life. The heat was suffocating, and I kept tripping over fabric or feeling physically restricted.
But I want to be honest about this part: while it was uncomfortable for me, it was also temporary. I knew I could take those layers off when I left. Afghan women cannot. For them, this enforced dress code is just the first layer in a much deeper, more permanent loss of freedom. I share this not to complain, but to acknowledge that even small changes like this reflect something far more painful—something I will never fully experience or understand.
Beyond the clothing, what struck me most was the loss of autonomy. I had to register with the Taliban in Kabul and get permission to travel. Each time I entered a new city, I had to report to local authorities. My paperwork was checked constantly—at checkpoints, in roundabouts, sometimes in the middle of the street. At one point, Taliban traffic police shouted “foreigner, foreigner,” and pulled us over. They asked for my passport, my travel papers, my name—and even my father’s name. While no one was overtly threatening, I deeply missed the freedom of roaming Afghanistan on my own terms. This time, I needed permission and a guide to do nearly anything. I felt contained.
That said, the streets were more orderly and calm than I expected. I’d heard others say security had improved, but I couldn’t picture it under Taliban rule—until I saw it for myself.
But “secure” is not the same as “free.” And that distinction haunted me. Women are no longer allowed to live fully. While I did see some working and shopping in markets, dining with family, or even what looked like girls’ nights out in the family sections of restaurants, it’s impossible not to be confronted by how much has been taken from them. Their rights have been stripped away. It reminded me of what I used to call Afghanistan years ago: Manistan. And in many heartbreaking ways, it still is.
And yet, Afghan women remain incredibly resilient. I heard about quiet, underground networks helping them continue on—getting their hair done, going to school, meeting with friends, sharing support however they can.
Ironically, many of the Taliban members I met told me the same thing: “Please tell the world that Afghanistan is safe and beautiful.” And they’re not wrong about the beauty. The land is breathtaking. The hospitality, as always, is extraordinary. Even the Taliban offered us tea—though these days, the real drink of choice seems to be energy drinks.
The country feels occupied by two forces now: the Taliban and energy drinks.
But how do we talk about safety without acknowledging what’s been lost? How can a country be called safe when half its population has been erased from public life?
I don’t have the answers. What I do have is a heart full of sorrow—for what Afghan women are enduring—and a deep love for a country I first fell for 23 years ago. A place I never thought I’d return to.
Because no matter what’s changed, one thing hasn’t: the Afghan people. Their warmth, generosity, and strength remain unmatched. That’s what stays with you. That’s what keeps calling me back.
My work in Afghanistan isn’t over. If anything, it feels more urgent than ever. The women and girls of this country need us—not just to help, but to see them. To hear them. To remember them.
I’ll be sharing some photos and reflections from my trip soon.
