In 2024, for 6 months, Kiana and Mélissa travelled to seven provinces in Afghanistan to investigate the conditions imposed on women and girls by the Taliban, which, according to Amnesty International’s research, could constitute a possible crime against humanity of gender-based persecution. They met with more than 100 women and girls, barred from going to school, forced to stay at home, women journalists and activists continuing to fight for their rights, mothers watching with horror as history repeats itself for their daughters, as well as LGBTQI+ individuals. They documented how the Taliban, allowed by a deeply patriarchal society, have systematically erased women from society, taking away their most basic rights: to go to school, to university, to work, to travel, to dress as they wish, to go to public baths, to parks, or even to the beauty salon.
The starkest change that Kiana and Mélissa noted since August 2021 was the general loss of hope among women that things might improve for them, as dreams of having an education and becoming members of society were shattered before them, becoming the primary victims of recurring economic and food crises, and a health system that has all but collapsed. In the words of one women’s rights activist, who has since left the country, seeing no future for herself in Afghanistan: “We have forgotten joy, we don’t know from where any can be found. I’ve lost all motivation. I cry alone, hidden. It’s as if someone has locked me in a room and won’t let me outside. Even food has no taste.”
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Muska, 14, has what the Persians call a “moon face”, a term that flatters the roundness of her cheeks, a symbol of beauty in this part of the world. Her family are returnees, driven out of Pakistan and back to Nangarhar by the unrelenting persecution of the police. Muska was born in Pakistan and attended a madrassa there, learning to read and write. But when they returned, the weight of a country in collapse pressed down on them. No home, no work, no network, and for Muska: no schools anymore, and few prospects. For the family, every day became a matter of simple survival.
Muska, in a light pink and strict hijab, sits outside her family’s mud-walled house, telling her story as if reciting someone else’s fate. Her father, burdened with debt, took the only offer that came his way: he agreed to marry her to the landlord’s son in exchange for a well and a set of solar panels, the value of which does not exceed a few hundred dollars.
Child marriage isn’t new to Afghanistan. But since the Taliban’s return in 2021, it has surged. The economic collapse triggered by sanctions, frozen assets, and the cessation of foreign aid has pushed families into desperate compromises and in many cases, young girls are the currency of survival. By securing a marriage, and thus a dowry, parents can feed their other children, pay off debt, and have one less person to feed.
In this grim landscape, NGOs and UN agencies became lifelines thanks to the international community’s rapid funding. Their presence averted famine after August 2021 and in the following years, saved millions. However, they remain stuck in simply avoiding the worst, as the economic crisis lingers, and as the much needed development programs, especially job creation and private sector support, are struggling to restart. As a result, in 2025, almost half of the population, or 22.9 million people, will require humanitarian assistance to survive, according to OCHA – 25% of them women, 53% of them children.
In the malnutrition ward of a hospital supported by Action Against Hunger, Wazhmah, a nurse, cradles a baby girl, Maryam – her third admission in two years. “More malnourished baby girls than baby boys are brought here,” the nurse explains. In times of hunger, men and boys eat in priority: they are the ones working, leaving the home, and bringing back money and food. The women and girls – those who remain hidden behind courtyard walls – are fed what is left. Maryam weighs just 5.5 kilograms, about half of what she should at her age, according to WHO’s weight curves. The nurse expects to see Maryam again soon, as she knows her family’s situation had not improved.
This already fragile humanitarian system was dealt a blow on December 24, 2022, when the Taliban banned Afghan women from working for NGOs. By April 2023, the ban extended to UN agencies. This decree forced organisations into a moral quandary: suspend operations in solidarity with women workers, or continue delivering aid in a manner that excludes half the population (in a country as conservative as Afghanistan, women aid workers are essential to reach Afghan women and girls in need of aid).
Outside Afghanistan, the debate became a geopolitical battleground: Should aid continue under such conditions, possibly enabling the Taliban’s discriminatory policies, or should the international community hold firm, even if it meant the suffering of millions? Inside Afghanistan, the answer was simple. For women like Muska, or Wazhmah, the nurse tending to malnourished babies, halting aid was not a principled stance but a death sentence. Women already bore the brunt of Taliban policies, and now, they would also suffer from the international community’s response to these policies?
The family is facing severe financial difficulties, with five months of overdue rent at 1,500 Afghanis per month (19.50 euros). Her husband, who previously worked in a factory, is now unable to work due to a spine injury. “Before the change, things were good, I could send my kids on the street to work, they could bring back some money, and my husband was able to work.” Despite the hardships, she refuses to send her children to beg for food, although they sometimes collect plastic to burn for warmth. She dreams of a better future for her daughter and wishes she could provide everything her daughter needs, especially medical care for her leg pains. “We have dignity, I don’t send my kids to the neighbours to collect food… Even if we don’t have food or anything to eat, we sit still and hungry, but we won’t go knock on the neighbour’s door to get food.”
Over time, most NGOs found ways to navigate the ban. Exceptions were negotiated with local Taliban commanders, who understood, pragmatically, that women were essential to the operation of aid systems. Health and education sectors saw official exemptions, and emergencies like the Herat earthquakes forced flexibility. In many areas, women aid workers were allowed to operate under strict conditions: they worked from home, or visited communities under the escort of male relatives, or attended offices on designated days. The arrangements were informal, unspoken deals, with commanders in charge accepting to close their eyes to the non-implementation of the national edicts, issued from the ultra-conservative Supreme Leader in Kandahar. Despite this, the pressure from the Taliban bore their fruits: 43% of reasons given by aid workers leaving their job was Taliban policies, a December 2024 survey found,[1]Reliefweb, Afghanistan. Tracking Impact Report on the Ban on Other Restrictions on Women for NGOs, INGOs and UN – Tenth snapshot (December 2024), 31 December 2024, … Continue reading by far the main reason for their departure.
Overall, the situation continues to degrade, albeit more slowly that some feared. In 2024, the Taliban issued a total of 135 directives, with 14 of them specifically focusing on female participation in humanitarian operations, according to OCHA.[2]OCHA, Afghanistan: Humanitarian Access Snapshot (December 2024), 16 January 2025, https://www.unocha.org/publications/report/afghanistan/afghanistan-humanitarian-accesssnapshot-december-2024 Based on those, in December 2024 alone, OCHA reported 31 incidents linked to the delivery of humanitarian aid with gender dynamics: “restricting women from participating in distribution, restricting their access to health medical institutions, preventing registering women beneficiaries in the projects, visiting offices to search for women staff, and suspending the hiring process of women staff.”
The Taliban’s own internal divisions shaped this uneven reality. In some districts, secret schools operated with a nod and a blind eye from local commanders, provided the students remained veiled and discreet. Many younger Taliban fighters, especially those who had lived abroad or considered themselves pragmatic rulers, accepted women’s participation in work and education as long as it adhered to their interpretation of Sharia. Increasingly, high-level Taliban started expressing their discontent with the harshness of the edicts against women’s rights.
The human rights and humanitarian crises continue to feed each other, with a 2024 UN-Women report linking the numerous restrictions to their families’ mental health and to increased domestic violence, even inside their own homes.[3]Reliefweb, Afghanistan, Situation of Afghan Women – Summary of Countrywide Consultations with Afghan Women (July 2024), 30 October 2024, … Continue reading
These contradictions – the harsh edicts issued from Kandahar and the quiet, pragmatic concessions made locally – formed the tangled web within which Afghan women and aid workers navigate their lives. Afghanistan, trapped between the grinding machinery of geopolitics and the dogma of its rulers, remains a place where survival demands ingenuity. And as for Muska, and for Maryam, each story is a testament to the costs that crises keep having on women and girls.
