For Afghanistan鈥檚 new enemies of the state, a life in hiding
| Kabul, Afghanistan
His anonymity protected only by a surgical facemask 鈥� and fogged car windows on a frozen winter day 鈥� the young Afghan man was suddenly within arm鈥檚 reach of the gun-toting jihadists whose presence on the streets has trapped him behind closed doors for months.
It was the former bodyguard鈥檚 first extensive drive in Kabul since he went into hiding in August, after the Taliban toppled the American-backed government he used to serve.
Amid Kabul鈥檚 heavy traffic, clusters of bearded Taliban fighters wave the car through, unaware that its passenger is a wanted man.
Why We Wrote This
How do the Taliban鈥檚 foes still trapped in Afghanistan survive? Our reporter spoke to Afghans living in sheltered anonymity, protecting their physical selves, and the people they once were.
Rows of white Taliban flags, and concrete blast walls newly painted with slogans that boast of the Islamist victory over the United States, signify at every turn control by the new regime.
They remind Mr. A 鈥� who asked that his name not be used, for his own security 鈥� why he remains in hiding, with no end in sight.
Friends in his former security services unit, which protected senior government officials, have been captured by the Taliban, he says, accused of being members of the rival Islamic State, and executed.
鈥淚t is very difficult. Every few minutes we think about what is going on, about what our future will be,鈥� says Mr. A. 鈥淚f I don鈥檛 leave Afghanistan, I am sure my final destination is death. They will kill me.鈥�
Culture of hiding
Mr. A is just one among legions of Afghans who have been forced by the lightning Taliban victory into an underground existence.
Overnight in August, anyone connected to the former government 鈥� or who engaged in civil society by advocating for women鈥檚 rights, rule of law, or even girls' education 鈥� became a de facto enemy of the state and a target of the Taliban hunt for what it called 鈥渋nfidels.鈥�
The former bodyguard, a rights activist, and a former reporter for Zan (or 鈥淲omen鈥檚鈥�) TV, told the Monitor in Kabul about their experience coping with and surviving Afghanistan鈥檚 new culture of hiding.
It鈥檚 a culture in which people are living their entire personal and social lives in a state of sheltered anonymity, protecting not only their physical selves, but their deeply held beliefs and the people they once were.
In granular detail, they spoke about their upturned lives, and how the fear, uncertainty, and crushed dreams 鈥� all ballooning into their mental space, while they pursue ways to start new lives elsewhere 鈥� have been magnified by feeling trapped.
Often, they say, they don鈥檛 know what they are waiting for, or even how long they can sustain their seclusion.
The fact that Mr. A鈥檚 unit alone numbered 2,000 鈥� with only the 鈥渢op people鈥� finding a way out during the chaotic American airlift last August, he says 鈥� and the variety of potential Taliban targets across Afghan society, indicates that tens of thousands of Afghans may now be in hiding, if not more.
Distrust of Taliban
The Taliban declared a general amnesty in August, but that vow appears to be respected more in the breach, amid reports of frequent killings and disappearances. According to Reuters, the that since Aug. 15, scores of former Afghan government officials, security force members, and people who worked with the international military contingent have been killed by the Taliban and their allies, despite the amnesty. "Human rights defenders and media workers continue to come under attack, intimidation, harassment, arbitrary arrest, ill treatment, and killings," Reuters quoted the U.N. report as saying.
鈥淭hose of us who are hiding can鈥檛 trust the promises of the Taliban,鈥� says Mr. A.
One result is that Mr. A agreed to be interviewed only in the relative obscurity of a constantly moving car. Three of Kabul鈥檚 districts were off limits, due to a higher chance of his being recognized by the Taliban there.
Any visit by a foreigner 鈥� to look through his apartment鈥檚 one-way mirrored-glass windows onto the scene that fills Mr. A鈥檚 field of vision every day 鈥� could have jeopardized his family鈥檚 safety.
He laughs when asked how he whiles away the time. He sleeps all day, worries all night, plays games and cards, and says he can鈥檛 鈥渕entally refresh,鈥� despite television and internet.
Risky as the drive was through Kabul, he relished the change to his monotonous routine. A recent failed bid by a friend to apply for a passport for him 鈥� with the Taliban official insisting, 鈥渂ring this person to us,鈥� and keeping his original documents 鈥� made escape abroad even less likely.
鈥淭here is nothing making me happy,鈥� says Mr. A, who then jokes: 鈥淚 believe one day you will not recognize me, because I will be a silly boy, just sitting under a tree, laughing.鈥�
A past life of purpose
Also grappling with the consequences of her previous life is Ms. Z, a recent college graduate who actively worked on issues of gender-based violence, youth empowerment, and peacemaking in a society riven by 40 years of war.
She has a new, ideologically neutral job, and tries not to change her wardrobe too much from what she wore before 鈥� despite new Taliban rules that demand conservative dress.
Ms. Z only leaves her home to work; her 鈥渉iding鈥� has taken a different form, she says, to mask once 鈥渄reaming of having a good life.鈥�
鈥淚 am completely hiding my past,鈥� says Ms. Z, who spoke by phone to avoid visiting a foreigner in public. She has deleted her social media accounts, as well as online references to her previous activism.
鈥淢ost of these things are very strictly against the views of these [Taliban] people,鈥� says Ms. Z. But she no longer raises her voice against the injustices she sees every day 鈥� a fact that causes deep frustration.
Recently, for example, she was accosted by a Taliban fighter at a checkpoint, who said her clothes meant she was 鈥渘ot allowed鈥� to sit in the front seat of the van, where she had positioned herself to enjoy the falling snow on the way home from work.
鈥淭hat night, I didn鈥檛 sleep, because this is a very crazy thing. I can鈥檛 describe, I can鈥檛 express how I was feeling that night 鈥� humiliated,鈥� she says.
鈥淚f I were alone, I would have done many things, because I have studied and want to work in my society. But now, it鈥檚 not only me,鈥� says Ms. Z, who gave up a chance to leave Afghanistan, so she could stay with her family.
鈥淚t鈥檚 very disappointing to want something, and to be able to do something, and physically and mentally have the education, but still you won鈥檛 be able to do [it], because a few people resist that,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 very painful. And those things are your life鈥檚 values.鈥�
Of Ms. Z鈥檚 friendship group of 13, only two young women remain in the country.
鈥淎fghanistan is set back 20 years,鈥� she says. 鈥淧eople who studied 鈥� most of them are out of the country. If they are not, still they are hiding.鈥�
Applying for a passport
Among them is Ms. A, a former reporter for Zan TV in Kabul, who 鈥撀燽efore the Taliban鈥檚 return to power 鈥� produced hard-hitting news reports about Afghan government corruption.
鈥淢y mental health is getting worse and worse,鈥� says Ms. A. 鈥淭he first month after the Taliban arrived, every day I cried.鈥� Dreams of getting a master鈥檚 degree are gone, along with other ambitions for the future 鈥撀爑nless she can leave.
Her fears are enhanced because several women鈥檚 rights activists have disappeared. She blocks unknown callers immediately, aware from her investigative reporting training that phones can be hacked and traced.
鈥淣ow our bodies are alive, but mentally we are dying,鈥� says Ms. A, who spoke by phone to avoid raising Taliban suspicions.
She has been out of the house just once since the Taliban takeover, she says, to apply for a passport two months ago. She had to borrow a long dress from neighbors for the journey 鈥撀爊one of her own clothes are Taliban-suitable.
But she was shocked by the guards, who she says cursed as they threw her documents onto the rain-soaked ground.
鈥淭he Taliban were very bad people; they beat women and called them all infidels,鈥� recalls Ms. A, of the passport office. 鈥淭hey said, 鈥榃e should beat you. We should shoot you,鈥欌�� for wanting to leave Afghanistan.
鈥淚t was very difficult for me, because I am a journalist and do not stand for that,鈥� says Ms. A. 鈥淏ut I did not say anything.鈥�
She tried to apply for scholarships in Uzbekistan, and Germany, but both required a passport number. The 140-member group of female journalists on WhatsApp 鈥渁re just like me; we are getting bored, we are getting depressed,鈥� says Ms. A. The five colleagues she knows best in the group 鈥渘ever go out.鈥�
Meanwhile, she shares her house with six other family members, and is 鈥渁lways in my room.鈥�
鈥淚f the situation continues even one or two more years, there will be no more youth in Afghanistan,鈥� says Ms. A, whose patience may run out before then. When winter eases, she expects to travel illegally to Iran, without a passport.
Even the end of fighting in Afghanistan, she says, has not curtailed the desire to flee the Taliban: 鈥淧eople are now afraid of their ideas, not war.鈥�
