Maybe leisure – play, rest, daydreaming – is the most radical resistance against repressive forces. In this article, Afghan women writers living under Taliban rule or as refugees reflect on their in-between times, where life is lived.
Leisure has always been policed. Entire classes were once defined by it – consider the ladies and gentlemen of leisure who flaunted their idleness as a mark of status across cultures. For others who were less privileged, the idea of rest and fun has often been heavily scrutinized. Certainly for me, growing up in a conservative family in northern India, fun was not something we girls got to have everyday. There was something unladylike about it, and women who were seen as indulging in silly, enjoyable things, just for their own pleasure, were seen as at best selfish, at worst dangerous and doomed.
Perhaps the most extreme form of this scrutiny in our current political lives in the West is reserved for refugees. If a person who is claiming asylum is seen as having fun, or enjoying his or her life, it becomes evidence of their claim being fraudulent; in fact it confirms the entire idea of refugees being freeloaders. Leisure is weaponised to defend the status quo, to ensure that those on the margins have no claim to the ordinary joys that belong to rightful citizens. Their suffering must be evident and constantly manifest in order for them to deserve refuge.
These essays were written as a provocation against this idea, as part of a months-long group workshop I facilitated with Untold Narratives. The authors are Afghan women who have now lived under five years of Taliban rule, as well as women living as refugees in Europe. They locate tafreeh – fun, ease, pointless (in)activity – in their lives, creating portraits of city and countryside, and of the toll the government’s draconian rule as well as the deep economic crisis have taken on the internal and external terrain of Afghans. They address the cost of seeking refuge and the scars of displacement faced not only by women but entire family constellations, by a generation of Afghans who have only known war. But they also trace something else – the human instinct to frivolity and play, the stubborn persistence of daydreaming, and the dark humour so beloved to Afghans.
In each essay, the writers reveal the depth of their everyday lives, which are often difficult and infuriatingly unfair, but are never flat or monotone. It is possible to read these as portraits of defiance, of women finding ways to have fun in the darkest times. It is also possible to read them as an invitation to empathy; a refusal of the dehumanising narrative that asks us to see Afghan women – along with refugees and others on the margins – as victims alone. As sufferers deserving of sympathy only as long as they stay frozen in their pain, like flies caught in amber.
These texts about the audacity of women at rest are in fact despatches from a battleground. They offer something more flawed and complete, and perhaps that makes them harder to read. If these women are human like us, what is happening to them becomes harder to look away from.
– Taran Khan
Atifa
Green Words
I mixed a bit of cinnamon and ginger in the water. This time I have lower back pain as well as stomach cramps. I drink the mixture unwillingly, toss and turn and walk the length of the corridor many times. Maybe walking will help with the nausea from the mixture. It’s 12:30 in the afternoon, mum is coming from the mosque, her black scarf is wet. She said, “It’s a nice soft rain.” Then, “Cook eggs for lunch, eggs are warming in nature, they may make you better.”
A few days ago, I read something about eggs. “Eating dairy products and eggs during menstrual periods is dangerous and can cause blood clots.”
I don’t feel like cooking, so I don’t pay much attention to what I read.
I get a blanket from the bedroom and hope that a short nap will make me feel better. I lie down but cannot get to sleep. On my phone I check the news channels.
“Many homes in Isfahan and Tehran are damaged as a result of rocket attacks. The price of chicken and eggs has risen. No information yet on when the internet will be restored.”
Last night I finished reading Seh Zan Herati (The Three Women of Herat) by Veronica Doubleday, about three women singers from the city. I don’t have any book to read tonight. Reading at night has become a habit. When everyone is asleep, I read the pages that I don’t get the chance to look at during the day. The night’s silence, and reading: these are my only two saviours during this war.
I decided to go out and get dressed. The rain ruins my eye liner and mascara, so I only put on a bit of light lipstick. I wear my black trousers, topped with a royal blue scarf. Home is five minutes away from the library. This time I chose a new route, via the bazaar.
In contrast to where we live, the street I crossed had a tree outside every house. I could see drops of rain on all the leaves. I stopped to take pictures of the raindrops on the leaves. Some passersby stared at me, others just carried on. I got to the bazaar that is located on a side street. It is lined with butchers, vegetable shops, confectionery stores and shops selling make-up. Almost everyone was walking in the drizzle without umbrellas. Except one little girl carrying a blue umbrella with small flowers. Her long and wavy hair was tied up.
I didn’t buy anything, just watched people do their shopping as I made my way to the library.
I went straight to the literature section. They have almost every famous book in the world here, but today I am after Afghan literature. A title catches my eye. Kucha-e-Man (My Street), by the Afghan writer Akram Usman, about life in Kabul’s Old City in the 1950s. It is two huge volumes of more than 600 pages each. I only borrowed one.
It was now five in the afternoon. I put the book under my arm and left the library. It was still raining. I could be home by 5:05, or explore a new street to get home.
Benafsha
A trip for myself
The car stopped at the checkpoint and gunmen who were in charge of the security of the area asked: “Where are you going?” My brother from the front seat said,“To our village.”
Along the road, I saw a few women, busy weeding the fields or crossing the road. They were wearing big chadars, holding a corner of the cloth under their teeth. Little girls in black school uniforms and white scarves walked home in groups.
Mud huts with smoke coming out of their chimneys, and a sky so blue that the sight of a cloud was a rarity. Every few minutes, the car lurched from side to side on the unpaved road. This meant we were getting closer.
A familiar feeling in my heart. This serenity in this garden always brings a smile to my face. I get out of the car and the wind caresses my body. I sighed thinking, “Why can’t I live here all the time?” But I left this place years ago in search of a better life. And it had changed. The new layout of the roads, cars, houses and people here were unfamiliar to me. I had also changed, and grown into a woman who got an education, who had opinions and made choices. Things that are considered taboo here, but are part of my normal daily life. If a girl wants to express her opinion or wants to live in her own way, they will call her shameless.
Despite all these difficulties, there are many things that my heart loves about this place. The fresh air, green trees, the fields of wheat that dance with the wind, and the kind people.
Close to the garden gate, an old wooden bridge connects the two sides of the river.
There are no steps leading to it. Some villagers climb it with caution, and others carelessly, as they are not scared of falling.
The story goes that years ago a carpenter built this bridge. When he was asked why he didn’t make any steps, he simply smiled and said: “This bridge is not crossing over but for understanding”.
I open the door to my house and see a little girl in the yard. That child is familiar.
Fatana
A Dance
After morning prayers, I don’t go back to sleep because I have so many chores to do around the house, like hoovering, washing the dishes and cooking. My hands work but my mind is searching for a story, a report, or a new topic to write about. I always carry my mobile phone with me because I use it like a notebook. These days it is usually switched off though because there is no electricity to charge it. The government announced that with the summer months coming, there may be more power cuts, as they will give power to office buildings rather than homes.
I picked up my computer from on top of a pile of books. It also didn’t have any charge. I get so fed up in such situations. I took a deep sigh. My mother, who was beside me, doesn’t like my sighing. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Are you ok? You have a family, what else do you want?”
I had forgotten that my mum told me last night that it’s our neighbour’s daughter’s wedding and we are invited. I opened my wardrobe. All the clothes looked the same: big sleeves, pleated skirts and big scarves. I closed the wardrobe.
From the corridor I heard my mum: “Get ready girls, we will be the last ones to get there and will miss everything.” “Mum! I don’t want to go, take Malalai and Breshna with you,” I said. Breshna was ironing her clothes, she laughed. “Girl! What are you saying? You have to go, you don’t have any choice. If you don’t go, they will gossip about you, asking why she is hiding and not going to weddings.”
Uff, fine then.
“But Breshna! I want to wear clothes I like, and style my hair the way I want, and live for myself for once.”
I often wonder, what does it feel like to do something for yourself? I don’t think that I have done that even for a single day in my entire life. When I get free time, I am expected to make the most of it. If I spend it cooking my favourite dish, then I wouldn’t have fulfilled my responsibility towards society and others.
But yes, I can comfort myself and do something for myself. I can go on the roof and sit there for a long time and feel like I am embracing the sky. Like I am at a gathering of stars, dancing among the lights, dancing and dancing my favourite dance, the one I really like. In my dreams, all my tiredness comes to an end. I am in the arms of a wide and endless sky.
Maryam
The Clear Stone
I inhaled the sharp smell of vinegar and held my breath for a moment. I suddenly remembered that many years ago, the same smell had burnt my sister’s nose. Those days, I used to be so excited about going on a picnic. Did my heart hurt like it does today? I took a deep breath and mixed the meat, then closed the pot.
In the corridor outside the kitchen, everyone was panicking. They walked around shouting at each other. Nobody did anything, it was just noise.
I saw my father sitting in a corner, cleaning his shoes, mumbling to himself. No one could hear his voice and he did not look up. I thought of the days when I would buzz around him constantly, and he would laugh his deep laugh – the one that could shake the entire house. Where is that father now? Time changes people.
My mother’s voice brought me back to the day. “I have said so many times, don’t touch my stuff.” I quietly said, “I haven’t.” My sister called from the other room, “It’s here!” My mother didn’t say anything, but I heard her deep inhale, the way she usually inhales before an argument.
I heard my brother from outside, “Hurry up, it’s getting late!” He is always in a hurry. His voice was louder than everyone else’s. Since my father spoke less, he shouted more. The car waited outside. Once we left the house, everyone was quiet. You could only hear the doors shutting. I sat beside my mother. Didn’t say anything.
On the way I looked at the trees, their branches bowing over the street. The longer we drove, the greener it got. It felt like I was seeing this road for the first time. Probably because it was so long ago when I last visited. I don’t even remember why we stopped coming here, and I don’t know when and why we became like this.
When we got to the Paghman river, the first thing I saw was the clear water, quiet, not argumentative. Everyone got off. My mother and my brother’s wife got busy arranging the food. I walked towards the river. My dad’s voice: “ Don’t go too far.” For a moment, it felt like he was still there.
I sat close to the water and picked up a stone from the river bed. It was clear and cold. I walked into the river. The stones slipped under my feet, I tried to balance myself. The cold water reached my legs, my knees and I felt breathless. I shut my eyes for a bit. And suddenly everything went quiet.
Sheba
Routes
It was just before sunrise when I heard my dad’s voice. “Hurry up, get into the car, it’s getting warm. Everyone is going out; the roads will be busy today.”
My younger sister and I would always argue over the window seat because there was beautiful scenery on the way to Laghman through Mahipar, Sorobi, Naghlo. We were traveling to our village after many years.
We arrived by late evening. The sound of the river, the evening call to prayer from the mosque, birds singing while returning to their nests, these were all mixed together.
In my memories, my dear grandmother would wait for us, with our beds ready on the rooftop. Nights in the village are different from the city, there is no traffic noise and no lights. It’s only the stars and the moon that brighten homes and streets.
We woke to birds singing, a light breeze and the smell of a wood fire. My cousin baked bread in the oven and boiled cow’s milk on the stove. I looked at the yard. The old mud house was still standing, the mulberry tree in the middle of the yard still spread its shade, there were clay water jugs leaning against the wall. We hurriedly had breakfast and got ready to go to the river side.
Among the green fields there was a narrow path. On both sides of this path there were wheat and rice fields. I sat on the riverbank and put my feet in the water. Waves came and went, and each one seemed to be easing my tiredness and stress.
We spent so much time on this riverbank as children. Sometimes we threw small stones into the water or ran in the green fields. We went home only in the evening. I remember the smell of fresh grass, the smoke rising from the courtyards and the sun setting slowly. Everything was so fascinating, it felt like I couldn’t get enough.
That night when I lay down on the rooftop, I felt something sweet in my heart, like finding something I had lost.
Samira
Five Pieces of an Owl’s Heart
The scorching heat of the sun at noon spread like a nightmare on the streets of Ghazni.
It had been four days since the communication network was cut off. For others it may only have been a technical problem. But for me, a mother whose children were scattered around the country, the silence meant total loneliness. My hands would move towards my phone, check the silent screen, and close it again helplessly. My eldest daughter’s last message was still on the screen. “Madar jan, it’s the last week of my pregnancy, I wish you were with me.” And nothing after that.
I suddenly looked at the dark corner of the room, to my old easel and painting brushes. Like a voice was calling me from years ago. The sharp and familiar smell of oil paint filled the room. For a moment my real self came back to me. I picked up the brush, it felt heavy in my fingers.
The first touch of the paint: a wavy line appeared and the yellow paint went everywhere.
With the name of God, I drew another yellow line of light in the middle of the white canvas – a line for my eldest daughter. For it to be a sun and shine in her child’s life. Then I made desert flowers spring to life, for my newly married daughter in Kabul, starting out in a new city. Then a tree trunk for my older son, working hard with his father to provide for the family. After that, the bright orange of autumn for my second son, who is studying in Kabul university, and whose absence makes my house feel empty. who was the sugar in my tea, the sweetness in my life. The house felt so empty without him. At the end, a light green for my third son, studying medicine, with the aim of helping people one day.
The sound of the brush on the canvas was the only thing you could hear.
The night arrived and the air turned cooler. I heard the key turning in the lock and my husband along with my eldest son coming home from work. They were tired, and worried for me. Maybe they thought I had collapsed from sorrow. But as they opened the door, both froze where they stood, and then they both smiled.
I was standing behind the canvas, with my scarf and hands full of paint.
Muska
The Leaf of Mint
Every six months I draw lines on a sheet of white paper with black pen, and then draw a few lines down the middle. Then I write numbers, then in that table, I write the names of authors, the title of the book and the price of the books. When I buy a book, I put a check mark next to its name. Every week I google the names of new books I want to read, and then check which bookstore around the area I live in has a copy.
I buy most of these books from bookshops in Cinema-e-Pamir or Pul-e-Surkh, which are open air markets in a busy part of Kabul. Most of the time I take a transport from my house-that’s what we call a private minibus- rather than a milli or public bus. The market is usually really full of people, including a lot of women and girls, who are wandering around buying books. On every trip I find new faces, especially young girls who are in the 7th or 8th grade, who can’t go to school. The owners are all the same people – I know many of them by face- they have been there for a long time, since before the Taliban’s takeover.
I like to take my time and look over the books, and see if I can get a discount. Sometimes there is a discount of 20-50 Afghanis for buying 3 or more books. But sometimes the shopkeepers don’t have patience for this back and forth and don’t let me haggle, because they are too busy with other customers. I feel a little bit scared, being out there looking at books, because the Taliban don’t let us buy books openly. But I can’t stop going to this market just as I can’t stop reading, because each time I get a book I feel like a child whose mother had given her some candy. This has always been my feeling about books.
In this roadside bazaar, there are books by Afghan writers like Akram Usman and Rahnaward Zaryab. There are also other writers like Dostoyevsky and even Adolf Hitler, I don’t know why people are very interested in his politics. Usually the books are arranged by their weight and volume. Most of the books in my bookshelf are by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I think he is a writer who knows me better than I know myself. In every story he writes, I can find myself. My favourite book by him is Shabhaye Roshan (White Nights).
This month I didn’t have a lot of money and could only buy one book. I picked White Fang by Jack London, translated to Farsi by Bahar Ishraq. This book has 431 pages, but it did not seem very long at all. I read it all within a week. The novel is about a wolf named White Fang who lives in northern Canada, which is an extremely cold place. The wolf is brought up among wild dogs and wolves and faces the harsh reality of nature and fighting and hunting for survival. Then White Fang is captured by humans and sees a bit of love and mercy. This changes his character from being a wild beast to a kind and reliable one. I do agree with this message that people are kind to animals, it’s true in some places but maybe not in Afghanistan right now.
As per habit I put a few mint leaves inside my new book and close and open the book many times for the mint scent to be mixed with the smell of fresh books.
Almost everyone around me says I am not a sociable person. I respect their opinion. But I am always myself, and I am content if my whole world is my room and my few books.
For this reason, I began a group of readers with five other women, we are all the same age. We read books and talk about them, we borrow and lend books to each other. All five of us travel with the help of books to a world that is impossible to travel to otherwise.
Sometimes, we meet at each other’s homes or a cafe. But most of the time we meet online, which is safest. We decide the books we read together. The last title we picked up is a novel called Khakastar Roshanai (Ashes and Light) by Zehra Yagana. She is an Afghan writer from Herat, who lived through the first Taliban government. What she describes is so similar to our lives. When I read it I felt so sad, for Zehra and for us, you can say it was like seeing ourselves in her pages.
What I find wonderful about reading is this– how can you read something that seems so close to you, when it is written by someone so far away? How can someone write something 100 years ago and it is something we can feel now? How is this possible? This is the magic of books and reading.
Lima W
My Birthday
Today is my birthday. Last year, three people wished me a happy birthday. The rest didn’t. They probably didn’t remember, but I don’t care. Last year I was really happy and bought new clothes for my birthday. Today I also want to celebrate my 23rd birthday. I went to my mother’s room and said, ‘Let’s go out’. She also became happy and agreed.
I wore the red outfit that I had stitched for myself last year. I did my makeup. I put my hijab on over my outfit and went out with my mother. We took the car towards Darul Aman palace on the edge of Kabul, and went up the hill that lies behind it.
When I was a child, I used to live in the village. My village was in a mountainous area surrounded by small hills. A bit further was a dam, and orchids grew around it. But I loved the mountains the most. When I was around 17 years old, I climbed to the top of the mountain. While going up, I could hear the birds singing. It seemed like they were happy, and didn’t expect anyone else to bring them happiness.
Today is my birthday, and climbing up the mountains makes me happier than anything else. I feel like I don’t have any problem in my life, nobody has ever bothered me, no one has ever made me upset. I think – this is what life should be.
Contributors
Atifa is from Bamyan, Afghanistan, and she grew up surrounded by books before she could understand their words. One day those books inspired her to become a writer. Writing became her survival, first in Afghanistan and now in exile in Iran. Her goal is to write the stories of the ordinary, everyday heroes.
Benafsha Danish is a writer from Afghanistan with a degree in Persian (Dari) Language and Literature. She works as a teacher and has been writing fiction since her second year at university. Her literary interests focus on both fantasy and realism, and through her writing she explores the relationship between imagination and everyday life. As both an educator and a writer, she is committed to promoting literature and creative expression. She believes that stories have the power to inspire reflection, foster empathy, and create meaningful dialogue between people.
Fatana Zhowand is a writer from Afghanistan. She is the founder of an online literary and academic magazine for Afghan women and girls. She believes that the pen has the power to bring about change, and her hope is to serve her community, particularly women, children, and young people, effectively through writing and cultural activities.
Lima W is a Pashto writer, who works to support and mentor other women writers in Afghanistan. In her writings she seeks to reflect the lives, challenges, and voices of Afghan women. She was studying for a degree in Pashto Literature at Kabul University when the Taliban returned to power in August 2021 and as such was unable to complete her studies.
Maryam Noorzai is an Afghan writer and former Pashto Literature student at Kabul University, where her studies were cut short when the university was closed to women. She writes to preserve memory, bear witness, and reclaim stories that might otherwise be forgotten. Her work explores identity, displacement, belonging, and the quiet resilience of Afghan women. She continues to write from Kabul, Afghanistan.
Muska is a writer from Afghanistan with a degree from the faculty of communication, journalism and public Relations from Kabul university. In 2025 she had two short stories published in translation in Usawa Literary Magazine and Shuddhashar. Alongside writing, she is also a painter.
Samira Alemi is a graduate of Persian Literature and Language from Kabul University. In August 2021, Samira was studying for her master’s at Kabul University when the Taliban returned to power, and she was forced to flee. She now lives in France with her family.
Sheba Gaheez is an Afghan writer and Pashto editor with a master’s degree in Pashto Language and Literature. Her fiction has appeared in national and literary journals. Her work gives voice to Afghan women living under silence, discrimination, and exclusion.
The original texts were translated from Dari and Pashto by Shekiba Habib, who also provided interpretation throughout.
This collective piece was produced as part of Paranda, a writer development programme and global network of women writers in Afghanistan and the diaspora, facilitated by Untold Narratives and supported by KfW Stiftung.
