White Scarf and the Red Nightmare: An Afghan Girl’s Story

While this year’s 16 Days of Activism campaign focuses on gender-based violence online, the reality for women and girls in Afghanistan extends far beyond the internet. Since the Taliban regained power, violence and restrictions against women have risen to unprecedented levels. 

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: Shahla

Today I sat down to write a sad or happy memory for my memoir-writing class. After thinking for a long time, I realized that I haven’t had a happy memory for quite some time. Still, I wanted to begin writing about the things that have weighed on me like this.

I don’t know where to start—from which moment, which incident. From this morning? Or from yesterday that passed? From the things that upset me, or from the fears and nightmares that visit me every night?

Everything in my mind is tangled—so much so that I try to keep myself busy all day and night just to prevent my mind from thinking. I don’t want to let it think about what has been taken from me during these four long years. Every time I want to write, my mind and my pen get stuck on my fears.

Last night I had another nightmare; not every night, but every other night I certainly see one, and I wake up crying and terrified. But last night’s dream was so frightening that I was crying in my sleep. My mother said, “No matter how much I called you, you wouldn’t wake up. You were crying and asking for help.”

I was standing by the window, lost in thoughts about why I have so many nightmares and what the reason could be. My sister called me; she was holding a brown scarf and said, “What do you think? Should I wear this color today?”

I wanted to say, “No, wear the black one.” I stared at the other scarf in her hand. I stayed silent for a moment, and my mind traveled back to a few years ago—when that scarf was with me every day; its whiteness was still like snow, with a unique shine.

My heart sank. I don’t even remember the last time I wore my school scarf. After the schools were closed, I never looked for it again, and I never asked where my white school scarf had gone.

My sister said, “Come with me today. My friends want to meet you.”

When she saw my refusal, she said in a gentle, pitying tone, “What will staying home do for you? You’re depressed. Come on, let’s go. You’ll enjoy it. We can talk on the way.”

Unlike her, with her colorful coat and white scarf, I wore my usual black scarf and black coat. We left the house together. It had been a week or two since I last went outside; the city felt strange to me—like I was walking through a foreign place for the first time. My sister tried to talk about anything and everything, just to keep me from thinking.

As we passed a butcher shop, my eyes fell on a boy wearing blood-stained white clothes. In one hand he held a chicken’s wings, and in the other a large knife.

My sister went into the next shop to buy snacks, and I stood by the door, watching the boy and the chicken in his hand. He placed the chicken on the ground, pinned it down with his foot, and slid the knife under its throat. As the chicken flapped desperately, I suddenly remembered the dream I had a few nights ago.

In the dream, I was sitting at home with my mother and sister. My mother was watching Afghanistan International’s news, and my sister was on her phone, sharing updates with her. Since I wasn’t interested in the news, I was gazing at the darkness outside the window, not paying attention to their conversation. I was drowning in endless thoughts when suddenly my sister said, “Mother, mother, look at this picture.”

Curious, I leaned closer to see. Before I could even look, my sister said with distress, “Mother, look! The Taliban have beheaded this girl. Mother, look at her head.”

My eyes fell on the girl’s hair—short, braided hair tied with a red hairband. The picture showed her head from the back; her face wasn’t visible. The head was placed on the ground—bodyless—and around it were the legs of the men standing in a circle around her.

The girl’s blood had reddened the ground. In the dream, I kept telling myself I wished I hadn’t looked. My mother was screaming, beating her chest with her fists, repeating, “Mother! Mother! Oh my dear child!”

No matter what we did, she couldn’t calm down. I woke up, and ever since that dream, every night I feel as if that girl’s head is inside our home; wherever I go, I feel like the severed head is following me.

The butcher had killed the chicken and separated its head from its body; the chicken’s head lay on the ground, far from its body—just like that girl. Two killings that resembled each other; someone had slaughtered an animal, and someone had slaughtered a girl. A girl like me, full of hopes and dreams.

Now that I am trying to write, I close my eyes and the picture of that girl with her braided hair is in front of me. A girl who might be all of us.