Online Warnings, Physical Threats: The Cost of Writing in Afghanistan

The “16 Days of Activism” campaign is a global movement aimed at raising awareness and ending gender-based violence against women and girls. Held annually from November 25 (International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women) to December 10 (Human Rights Day), the campaign brings together countries, civil society organizations, and activists. This year’s theme, “United to End Digital Violence Against All Women and Girls,” emphasizes the urgent need to combat online harassment and discrimination.

The Rights Monitor Media will cover the campaign by sharing news, reports, personal stories, and reflections from Afghan women and girls, highlighting their experiences with violence and restrictions.

By: Fatima

I grabbed my book bag. I don’t know why, but I told myself: Write again.

Then I thought: what if those threatening messages come back? What if I receive another warning like, “We’ll find you and your family. We’ll break your hand so you can’t write…”?

At that moment, a thought flashed: Throw all your writing in the trash. I argued with myself—was it right to discard my voice, the one meant for girls, with my own hands?

A strange nudge made me pause. I wanted to pull out the painful memories, pour them out—but not destroy them. Maybe I had to endure them, maybe melt them down. A candle has no meaning in total darkness, yet I still had to think of my family. Their faces appeared in my mind. What had they done wrong? The thought revived my guilt and tempted me to change my mind.

I reminded myself: you wanted your voice to be heard, not for your family to carry the weight. My hands trembled as I turned off the tablet. I told myself it was nothing; maybe the threats had been sent to everyone who wrote freely, whose voices had stretched too far. Some had been restricted, some censored, some vanished in the strangest ways. That alone was terrifying enough to push anyone into a sad, heavy challenge. I had written—and I intended to write more, even if I had to censor myself.

I placed the tablet between my books. Walking down the alley, a strange anxiety gripped me. Why is being a woman always tied to fear and threat?

A new medical complex had put up a poster: “Doctors’ Complex…” I wondered why they had only listed the female doctor’s last name. Why must a woman always be attached to someone else’s name?

I tucked my scarf behind my ear. I’ve never gotten along with scarves. My straight, loose hair was tied back. Every time I pulled the scarf over my head with trembling hands, I thought of the tablet hidden in my bag, how I never brought it outside for fear it would be checked.

As I glanced at the charcoal seller by the street, I remembered something I had read the night before about digital security: “There is no excuse for online abuse.”

Without thinking, I reached into my bag, pulled out the tablet, and opened it to the saved messages—the folder I had locked for four years, believing it safe and out of reach.

My eyes were on the screen when the sudden screech of a car stopping made me jump. A harsh voice, one that could shake anyone, said:

“What are you wearing? Go home. Women must wear a burqa. Why should a woman be outside at all?”

He scolded me, eyes fixed on my hair.

My hands froze. I shoved the tablet back into my bag and hugged it to my chest. I said nothing and hurried away, but his footsteps followed. My only fear was being told to hand over my phone or tablet.

A thousand thoughts raced through my head:

What if they are the same people who threatened me on Facebook?

What if they see my writings?

What if they find out?

I told myself I wasn’t publishing anything anymore—not even photos. But still, I could be arrested for “improper hijab.” And if they checked, they could find my writings. I looked around anxiously, wary of the neighbors who might report me. From the car, the man shouted: “Stop, or I’ll call them to come take you.”

I don’t know how I kept my courage, but I didn’t stop. I was worried for my writings, worried that if they were discovered, my family’s safety would be trampled.

My steps slowed. I turned back and said: “What do you want? What’s wrong with my hijab? Is my hair the problem?”

I pulled my scarf over my head and met his gaze.

“You came out of Street Ten,” he said. “You don’t belong here.”

I said firmly, “Go your way. I will adjust it.”

“Fix your hijab, or we’ll take you in,” he replied.

I looked at his intrusive eyes. Said nothing. Walked on. They passed by and left. I looked at the street—the thick dust rising into the air.

Now every day, sunlight through my window reminds me of that burning street, where dust stings the nose, and where I remember the phoenixes whose ashes give birth to women again.

I still write—with courage. Courage that may cost a noose, but remains a gift.