by Atifa Annabi (orcid: 0009-0005-1838)
When the Taliban took over Afghanistan again, the city fell into a silence filled with screams. Every street, every home overflowed with fear and anxiety, asking the same unanswered question: “What happens now?”
People rushed to get passports, hoping to flee a homeland that no longer felt safe. The Kabul Passport Office turned into a beehive under siege. Women stood still under the scorching summer sun, cloaked not only in burqas but in the heavy weight of scrutiny—Taliban eyes that saw neither humanity nor dignity.
In that endless line, I stood behind a woman in a black burqa. Her trembling hands revealed that this was her first time wearing it—not a garment of faith, but one of forced silence. Three children clung to her; two girls and a boy, all with eyes full of unanswered questions.
The biometric officer’s harsh voice pierced the silence:
“Your husband’s brother isn’t here? He’s in Iran? Your father-in-law is dead? Go, auntie! Don’t waste my time. Look how many people are waiting!”
She stepped back, defeated. Her silence screamed.
Then it was my turn. The officer asked:
“What year were you born, Atifa?”
I replied, “2006.”
He said, “We can’t register you. Come back with a male relative.”
A storm raged in me: “Why? Am I not human? Can I not decide my own future?”
I called my brother. As I waited, I sat beside the woman and gently asked, “Auntie, why didn’t they let you finish?”
She sighed deeply. “My husband is gone. They say my children’s uncle must come. I’m their mother, but they say a mother isn’t a legal guardian.”
And there it was—the cruel truth in a single sentence:
“What is your father’s name? Your husband’s name? We need a male guardian. Mother? No, a mother has no identity.”
That moment shattered something in me. A mother, who gives life, who stays awake at night, who is left widowed and alone—can’t get passports for her children just because she is a woman?
I asked, “Where is your husband?”
She replied, “He was a soldier in the national army. He disappeared in the war with the Taliban. We never found him. It’s hard to accept, but now I’m alone. I must raise my children alone.”
Her eyes held back tears, but her voice carried strength.
This wasn’t just her story—it’s the story of so many Afghan women.
From that line outside the passport office, I saw the invisible chains society places on women:
If you laugh loudly – “It’s inappropriate.”
If you cry – “You’re too weak.”
If you defend your rights – “You’re rude.”
If you rebel – “How dare you disobey?”
But being a woman isn’t just about being someone’s daughter or wife.
**It’s about being fire, strength, and life.
It means rising again no matter how many times the world pushes you down.
It means turning your pain into a battle cry.
If you dream – “You’re shameless.”
If you want more – “You’re ungrateful.”
If you choose your path – “Who gave you permission?”
But being a woman means building yourself—even without anyone’s permission.
A woman’s body is watched, judged, silenced.
If she wears a headscarf – “She’s dangerous.”
If she doesn’t – “She’s immoral.”
If she’s tired – “She’s acting like a victim.”
If she wants freedom – “Who do you think you are?”
But to be a woman means standing tall in spite of it all.
To rise with fire in your eyes and scars on your soul.
To keep fighting even when the world pretends you don’t exist.
In a world that tries to erase them, every woman who resists becomes a revolution.
That woman in the burqa and her children and thousands like them might never be named in history books. But their silence, their pain, their resistance they shake the conscience of the world.
If we don’t write, we’ll be forgotten.
If we stay silent, injustice will echo.
I write so that women in Afghanistan and across the globe know: their identity, their worth, and their fight can never be erased.
For Citation/Reference (APA):
Annabi, A. (2025). When a Women Has No Identity. JMAG (2025, September 01). https://jmag.jaamir.com/when-a-women-has-no-identity/
