Since the Taliban returned to power in August 2021, Afghan women have been pushed out of schools, workplaces, and public life with a speed that shocked the world. In a matter of days, freedoms that had taken years to build disappeared. Yet in those early weeks, before fear could fully take hold, some women stepped outside and raised their voices.
Rahil Talash was one of them.
Her story, however, did not begin in the streets. It began much earlier—inside a home where she first learned what it meant to be treated differently.
“I remember noticing it as a child,” she says. “The boys around me had more freedom. They could study, go out, and live their lives. For girls, everything was limited.”
At first, she didn’t question it. Like many young girls, she accepted what she was told. But the feeling that something was unfair never left her. It stayed quietly in the background of her life, growing stronger with time.
At sixteen, that feeling turned into something much heavier. Rahil was forced into a child marriage.
It was not her choice—she was a victim of forced marriage. What she lived through did not disappear; it stayed with her, shaping the way she understands injustice today.
“It changed me,” she says simply. “After that, I became very sensitive to injustice. Anything that hurt a woman became unacceptable to me.” “It changed me,” she says simply. “After that, I became very sensitive to injustice. Anything that hurt a woman became unacceptable to me.”
That moment, painful as it was, became a turning point. It did not silence her—it shaped her.
By 2016, Rahil had begun to speak out more openly. Step by step, she built a life for herself. She found work at Afghanistan’s Ministry of Communications and became the main provider for her family. It was not easy, but it gave her a sense of independence and purpose.
For a while, it felt like things were moving forward.
Then came August 2021.
The day after the Taliban took control, Rahil got ready for work as usual. There was no clear instruction, no official announcement that women should stay home. So she went, like she always had.
But when she arrived, everything had changed.
“They didn’t let us enter,” she says.
It was a quiet moment, but it carried a heavy meaning. In a single day, her job, her routine, and her sense of stability were taken away.
For many, that would have been the end of the story. For Rahil, it was the beginning of something else.
Instead of stepping back, she joined other women in the streets. They protested peacefully, asking for something simple: the right to exist in public life.
“We knew it was dangerous,” she says. “But staying silent felt worse.”
At first, the protests were small. Groups of women gathering, holding signs, raising their voices.But it didn’t take long for the risks to grow.
The threats began.
“Our homes were searched,” she says. “They were looking for us.”
Rahil started moving from one place to another, trying to stay safe. Each time she thought she had found a secure place, her location was discovered again.
“It felt like there was no way to escape,” she says.
The pressure kept building until one truth became impossible to ignore: she could no longer stay in Afghanistan.
Leaving was not a choice she wanted to make. It was the only way to survive.
Pakistan was supposed to be a place of safety. Instead, it became another chapter of uncertainty.
For four years, Rahil lived there without legal protection. Every day carried a new fear—fear of being stopped, questioned, or deported back to the danger she had escaped.
“I never felt safe,” she says. “Even outside Afghanistan, the fear followed me.”
Twice, she was arrested by Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence. She was accused of being a foreign agent because of her activism. During one of those arrests, she was interrogated for nearly a full day.
“They asked many questions,” she recalls. “They took my passport. I didn’t know what would happen next.”
But even in that moment, she did not deny who she was or what she stood for.
“I told them everything I do is for Afghan women and girls.”
It was not a strategy. It was simply the truth.
Today, Rahil lives in France. For the first time in years, she speaks about something she had almost forgotten—peace of mind.
“There is mental safety here,” she says. “You can live without constant fear.”
She notices the difference in small things: women walking freely, speaking openly, and being respected for who they are. These everyday freedoms, once ordinary, now feel significant.
Still, starting over in a new country is not easy. She faces language barriers, cultural differences, and the slow process of building a new life from nothing.
“It takes time,” she says. “But it is possible.”
Despite these challenges, Rahil remains active. She attends events, joins discussions, and uses every chance she gets to talk about Afghan women. Being far from home has not weakened her voice—it has made her more determined to use it.
“I feel responsible,” she says.
From the outside, the situation in Afghanistan is often reduced to headlines. But Rahil believes those headlines do not capture the full reality.
“Much of what is shown is not the whole truth,” she says. “There are many things people don’t see.”
She stays in contact with women still living there, and what she hears is difficult to ignore.
Even something as simple as leaving the house has become complicated.
“A woman has to think about everything—how she looks, how she dresses—just to avoid being stopped,” she explains. “It is not a normal life.”
Rahil was one of the women who stood in the streets when doing so meant risking everything. She knows what that decision cost her—her home, her stability, her sense of belonging.
But she has no regrets.
“If I go back,” she says, “and even one woman is still facing injustice, I will still fight.”
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