42 days of unbearable horror in Taliban Prison

Parisa Azada’s civic life began long before Afghanistan’s political collapse. In 2018, at the age of eighteen, she joined her first demonstration. At the time, activism did not feel like an act of survival; it was part of becoming an adult, of entering society. She was studying, attending university, participating in public discussions, and slowly finding her place in the city. Life felt open. The future felt negotiable. She describes those years as ordinary, structured, and hopeful. She was newly present in public space — learning how institutions worked, how protests were organized, how voices could matter. Her activism existed alongside her education and daily life, not in opposition to it. There was risk, but not terror. There were limits, but not total closure. That life ended abruptly on August 15, 2021. On the day Kabul fell, Parisa was living in a dormitory. News moved faster than understanding. Within hours, everything familiar became unsafe. She packed what she could carry and left immediately, returning home through streets filled with confusion. People were running, crying, arguing, trying to escape or hide. Fear moved faster than information.

That journey home marked the beginning of a different reality — one in which being a woman in public space became a liability. For nearly a week after the takeover, Parisa remained indoors. Her family did not allow her to leave. Rumors spread rapidly: that girls were being taken by force, that women were being married against their will, that activists were being targeted. Families with daughters reacted instinctively — restricting movement, enforcing silence, prioritizing survival. Gender control tightened not only through armed authority, but inside homes. Public space disappeared for women almost overnight. When the Taliban announced their interim cabinet — composed entirely of men from a single ethnic group — Parisa and other women felt that silence was being formally legalized. Their response was not ideological at first; it was civic. They asked basic questions: Where are women? Where is representation? Who decides our future? On September 8, 2021, women gathered spontaneously in protest. They came from different provinces, ethnicities, and age groups. There was no organization, no formal leadership — only urgency. For Parisa, this moment marked a return to visibility, despite fear. The demonstrations became a space where women reclaimed their presence, even temporarily. Soon, they realized spontaneity was not enough. To continue, they needed coordination, names, strategies. On the night before their first organized protest, they gathered in a private home. They discussed slogans, routes, and messages. Print shops refused to print banners, afraid of consequences. So Parisa stayed awake all night, writing slogans by hand, preparing posters until morning. Her role expanded quietly. She worked behind the scenes — writing messages, organizing materials, coordinating media coverage, documenting protests. She provided photos and information to journalists and women’s rights platforms. Protest became labor — unpaid, exhausting, dangerous labor — carried largely by women. With visibility came backlash.

Women protesters were not only targeted by armed forces, but rejected by society itself. Taxi drivers harassed them, accusing them of destroying public safety. Street vendors threw stones, vegetables, and insults. Families discouraged participation, fearing retaliation and shame. The streets became hostile spaces where women were treated as intruders. Violence escalated quickly. Protesters were beaten, shocked, whipped with cables, slapped, and sprayed with tear gas. Armed men fired shots into the air to disperse them. Threats followed demonstrations — online, by phone, through messages. Men identifying themselves as Taliban officials warned Parisa to remain silent, to stop “undermining the system.” For two years, intimidation became constant. Surveillance became normal. Threats blended into daily life. Parisa continued working, protesting, documenting — knowing she was being watched, but refusing to disappear. By 2023, the pressure intensified. Callers knew her movements, her workplace, and the centers she attended. Her life was mapped by others. Still, she continued — partly because fear had already reshaped her existence, and partly because stopping felt like surrender. On November 13, 2023, surveillance turned into arrest. That morning, Parisa prepared for another protest. She left home early to collect printed banners. From the moment she stepped outside, she was followed. Realizing this, she warned her fellow activists and attempted to return home. Before she could, two vehicles blocked her path. Armed men beat her in public, forced her into a car, and struck her head until she lost consciousness. When she regained awareness, she was covered with a blanket, seated between armed men. One pressed his elbow into her neck to prevent her from making noise. She was taken to an unknown detention facility. The building was dark, unfamiliar, heavily armed. She was placed in solitary confinement, without information or explanation. For forty-two days, Parisa was imprisoned. She was interrogated repeatedly, day and night. She was denied proper food and rest. She was treated as a criminal — accused of being funded by politicians, supported by men, directed by foreign interests. Each question assumed that a woman could not act independently.

Her answers remained the same: she acted alone. The torture was both physical and psychological. She was beaten, humiliated, and isolated. For two days, she was suspended against a wall with her hands tied above her head, her feet unable to reach the ground. The strain injured her neck and spine permanently. Repeated blows to her ear damaged her hearing and vision. Even now, years later, the pain persists.

She says she eventually stopped distinguishing between physical and mental pain, both became constant. Before her release, she was forced to record multiple confession videos. She memorized statements and repeated them on camera. One recording was intended to prevent her family from claiming abuse. At the time, she was severely ill, suffering from pneumonia, struggling to breathe. Still, she was forced to comply. Her release came through pressure, not justice. Women’s rights activists, media attention, and family intervention played a role. Her mother sold household carpets to raise money. Her freedom came at the cost of family security. Returning home was not relief. In a deeply traditional society, detention carries stigma. Support from male relatives was hesitant, complicated, and incomplete. Recovery was slow. For months, Parisa remained in Kabul, undergoing physiotherapy at home, unable to move freely, constantly afraid.

Eventually, she left Afghanistan for Pakistan — seeking medical care and safety. Exile brought new challenges: unfamiliar language, culture, isolation, and the constant fear of deportation. She lost her home, education, work, and community. Her life became suspended between past trauma and an uncertain future. Despite everything, Parisa refuses silence. She says protest is not something she chose — it is something imposed by injustice. Her body carries the consequences of visibility, but her voice remains intact. She insists that what happened to her is not exceptional, but part of a system designed to remove women from public life through fear. Her message is direct but restrained: stand with Afghan women. Do not normalize their disappearance. And to women still inside Afghanistan — nothing should limit you.