By Davi Jacobs
In 2014, agriculture professor Sophia Wilcox at the University of Maryland launched the Women in Afghanistan (WIA) program to teach Afghan women how to farm. It was a seed of hope among barren soil marred by decades of turmoil. Through her, I met and interviewed several women whose lives have since unraveled under the Taliban rule: a pregnant activist in hiding, a midwife barred from working, and a polio advocate unable to save more children.
Their names are changed in this article for security reasons.
After the United States’ withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021, at-risk Afghans were offered three pathways to safety: the overwhelmed Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) program, the rare Priority-1 (P1) refugee referrals, and the Priority-2 (P2) track requiring civil society workers to self-evacuate to a third country. But neighboring Pakistan has begun detaining and deporting undocumented Afghans. The situation worsened when the Trump administration indefinitely froze refugee admissions from Afghanistan.
The narratives of these women unearth the repercussions of political abandonment and healthcare failures under the new regime. The strongest voices are silenced before they can be heard.
At 17, Fatima’s (name changed for security reasons) drive for change took root when she defied her family’s expectations to study chemical engineering. Her brother followed her to university every day until he was convinced she wasn’t doing anything “haram” (forbidden in Islam). With her father’s support, she persisted — and later dedicated herself to transforming how families viewed girls’ education.
Afghanistan’s educational progress has always been fragile. Before the Soviet invasion in 1979, schooling was slowly expanding. The Soviets introduced reforms, but the prolonged military conflict between the different mujahideen factions reversed those gains. Under the first Taliban regime (1996–2001), girls were barred from school entirely. After the 2001 U.S. invasion, schools reopened. Today, Afghanistan is the only country that bans both secondary and higher education for girls.
After graduating, Fatima founded a grassroots NGO that promoted education and civic engagement. Her team turned to imams (Islamic religious leaders) and referenced the Quran, which supports the pursuit of knowledge for every Muslim. She also became a community mobilizer, a council deputy, and a local radio host.
Her unwavering dedication to social impact, documented through numerous interviews and social media posts, drew attention from the Taliban. However, since the government was then under the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, she was able to navigate this risk. But, ever since the Republic was overthrown by the Taliban in August 2021, her life has been at stake.
Her province fell to the Taliban within three months. She briefly fled, then returned to a community where Taliban searches had begun. Relatives warned her that gunmen were asking questions. Then came the threats: a phone call informing her that colleagues had been beheaded. Another offering a former colleague a Taliban post if he turned her in.
Her father urged her fiancé — formerly the WIA project’s security manager — to help her escape. They married in secret, went into hiding, and sold everything to survive. But they couldn’t get out. Targeted murders have been unprecedentedly increasing, and the bodies of the people they once knew continue to surface.
Fatima hasn’t seen her family in nearly four years. She spends her days confined indoors, moving outside only when necessary.
Her struggles are compounded by her young son, who is fighting a severe kidney disease, and a very difficult pregnancy, which has made her too weak to safely get an abortion.
Fatima had hoped that her family would be evacuated through the P2 process — a special visa pathway where Afghans who helped U.S. forces during war times could emigrate to the U.S. — but the suspension of the P2 process by the Trump administration affected her the same way the government's collapse in Afghanistan did. Women had no hope then, and now they are in the same situation.
Her past work once gave her purpose — now it chains her to danger. “I feel like I’m falling apart,” she wrote via WhatsApp. “How can I care for my sick child? How can I give a good life to the one growing in my womb?”
In the past, Fatima was the one advocating for others, but now she is in a situation where she is helpless. Like the majority of women left behind in Afghanistan, she is a prisoner in her home.
In such difficult circumstances, she still went out of her way to connect me with a female healthcare worker, a testament to the strength and resilience that define her.
For Dr. Zahra (name changed for security reasons), midwifery was more than a profession — it was a promise. She had seen women die silently in childbirth, denied medicine and dignity. Tradition reigned, often at the cost of life.
For decades, Dr. Zahra dedicated herself to the field. As a young midwife, she was able to expand her capabilities while spending days, sometimes completely alone, on the road and nights in the darkness of remote hospitals.
Entering the medical field in Afghanistan under the Islamic Republic began with passing the national Kankor exam after 12th grade. High scores allowed admission to study medicine. Midwives, however, did not attend medical school and were often trained through two-year programs like the Community Midwifery Education (CME), backed by the Ministry of Public Health and international NGOs.
Afghanistan’s women’s health system has long reflected the country’s political instability. Under the first Taliban regime, women were barred from accessing medical care. The U.S.-backed era brought clinics and training — but only as long as foreign aid lasted. Many professionals have since fled.
Now, the Taliban allows women to work in hospitals — under suffocating constraints. Strict uniforms are required. If the “Promotion of Virtue” team finds a woman speaking to a male colleague, both risk interrogation or detention.
With hands trained to save lives and a heart scarred by loss, Dr. Zahra has been pushed into the shadows. One of thousands of midwives now sidelined by a regime that treats healing as rebellion.
Dr. Maryam found her calling in door-to-door immunization campaigns. For two decades, she worked as a provincial polio officer.
Her work was never easy. Many believed vaccines were a Western plot to cause infertility, and others asked why she brought medicine but not food. She repeatedly returned until trust took root.
Polio remains endemic in only two countries: Afghanistan and Pakistan. Under the Taliban, many vaccination campaigns have been suspended or restricted.
Dr. Maryam escaped to the U.S. 13 months ago under her husband’s SIV case. She works as a substitute teacher and is studying for a public health certificate. She hopes to serve again — this time among immigrant and underserved populations in the U.S.
But her heart remains with those left behind: colleagues in despair, friends barred from working, and children at risk of diseases once nearly eradicated.
Once pillars of the community, these women are now deprived of the tools to serve. The U.S. invoked them when their skills were needed and abandoned them in a time of need. The futures they were working to build have been forfeited.
Their stories demand that we reckon with the cost of broken promises. We must act now to restore their rights, reopen pathways to safety, and uphold the promises made to those who risked everything for change. [GlobalVoices/VS]
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