Witness 4 Written Testimony

Endless greetings to the members of the Permanent People’s Tribunal!

I, the writer and narrator of this story, testify with full awareness and with a sincere and responsible heart.
As an Afghan woman who has been a victim of harsh, humiliating, and discriminatory treatment, I offer this testimony to the Permanent People’s Tribunal.

This is the true story of my experience, in which I was subjected to verbal threats, insults, humiliation, and psychological violence, simply because I am a woman traveling without a male guardian.

The story reflects the reality of a woman living under a traditional, patriarchal system, whose only “crime” was being a woman and needing to travel.

I present this testimony as my small contribution to the struggle for justice, the preservation of human dignity, and women’s rights—in hopes that this voice represents thousands of other Afghan women who, hidden in silence, fear, and oppression, are unseen and unheard.

With full awareness, integrity, and human commitment, I submit this story to the People’s Tribunal so that it may be recorded in the memory of justice.

On one hot summer morning, July 23, 2024, I suddenly faced an urgent matter that required me to travel from Kabul to a distant province. My husband worked in one of the districts and could not accompany me because of the distance. I had two small children, and out of necessity, I had to travel with them alone.

Early that morning, I went to the bus terminal. I tried several vehicles, but no driver would let me board. They all said the same thing:

“You don’t have a mahram (male guardian). You’ll cause us trouble at the Taliban checkpoint.”

Some drivers even told stories of others being beaten for taking unaccompanied women, which terrified me. Yet my need was urgent—I could not turn back.

Around 10 a.m., I coincidentally saw a driver I knew, a man who had once been my neighbor. I explained my situation, and he kindly agreed to take me. The vehicle filled up with passengers, and we set off. As we approached Taliban checkpoints, my heart pounded with fear.

At noon, near one of the checkpoints, an armed Talib signaled us to stop. When he saw me sitting in the front seat, anger filled his face. He ordered the driver out of the car and yelled for me to get down. Trembling, I took one child in my arms and held the other by the hand.

He shouted:

“What is your relationship with this woman?”

The frightened driver replied:

“She’s one of the passengers, and for a time, she was our neighbor.”

The Talib grew furious:

“A neighbor is not a mahram! How dare you let her travel with you?”

The driver tried to explain:

“She had an urgent matter. Her husband is at work, and she had no one else to accompany her. I felt sorry for her, so I brought her along.”

The Talib demanded:

“What does this woman do?”

The driver answered:

“She’s a teacher.”

Then the Talib turned to me and shouted:

“Aren’t you ashamed? Doesn’t your husband know you travel alone? Have you no honor?”

I tried to explain calmly, but he was beyond reason. He asked for my husband’s number. The driver gave it, but there was no signal coverage in my husband’s area, which only made the Talib angrier. He kicked the driver again and again.

When I intervened, trying to explain my situation, his rage grew. He stared into my eyes as if I had committed a great sin and hurled deeply insulting, degrading words at me—words that pierced my soul and shattered my sense of womanhood and motherhood.

Then he turned again to the driver and continued beating him mercilessly. The man didn’t fight back; he just bowed his head in silence. His only crime was helping a woman and her children.

Other passengers began stepping out of the vehicle. The air was heavy and tense. A few of them cautiously approached and pleaded with the Talib:

“Brother, please forgive them. The woman is alone with her two children. She had an urgent need. Let this go; it won’t happen again.”

The Talib paused, as if trying to restore his authority in front of the crowd. Then he said coldly:

“They must sign a written pledge. They must sign and stamp it with their thumbprints!”

We had no choice. The driver and I were taken into the checkpoint cabin. They brought out a piece of paper stating that I pledged never again to travel without a mahram and that if I did, I would bear full responsibility for any consequences.

With trembling hands and tearful eyes, I signed and stamped the paper.
The Talib then said, as though dispensing justice:

“Now I have upheld the law.”

But inside me, nothing was left—no feeling of safety, only humiliation and fear.
My children, who should have been learning about kindness and dignity, instead learned fear from the sight of armed men.

That day, I realized that in my homeland, even being a woman and a mother had become a crime.
In the land where I once worked as a teacher, dedicating my life to building a better future, I now had to sign a pledgepromising that I would not travel unless accompanied by a man.

Something inside me broke. My hands shook—not only from fear, but from the collapse of human dignity. My young child clung to me tightly, sensing that something terrible had happened, though unable to understand.

That day, it was not only I who was humiliated—the humanity, motherhood, womanhood, and freedom of Afghan women were all trampled underfoot. The “pledge letter” was not a legal form—it was a symbol of patriarchal control over women’s bodies, movements, and choices.

When I returned to the vehicle, silence filled the air. The other passengers avoided my eyes. My children pressed themselves into my arms; I forced a shaky smile, trying to appear strong. But inside, something had shattered beyond repair.

On the road back, I thought:

In a land I love so deeply, where I have taught and served, how has being a woman become a sin, motherhood a burden, and humanity a hostage to power?

I realized that in this country, to move, to live, to simply be, a woman must seek permission, sign pledges, and prove her right to exist.

That day, I was humiliated—but I still carry hope. I believe a time will come when no woman in my homeland will need to sign a pledge to travel, to live, or to be free.

That day, these very wounds will become our badge of honor.

With deepest gratitude,
Raha (“Arzo”)