Afghan Migration To and Through Italy: No place to call home

Fabrizio Foschini

Afghanistan Analysts Network

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Because of its position, Italy has been a major junction in Afghans’ migration to Europe for the past two decades. The area around Trieste on Italy’s northeastern border, in particular, has come to represent in recent years one of the foremost terminals on the land route from Turkey, the so-called Balkan Route, and a veritable gateway to the European Union. Despite this and the very high recognition rates for Afghan asylum seekers, Italy has remained mostly a country of transit and unlike other European countries, still lacks major well-established Afghan diaspora hubs. AAN’s Fabrizio Foschini, who has worked with or closely observed Afghan migrants in Trieste for over a decade, reflects on what is holding back the development of the Afghan diaspora in Italy and how recent changes in asylum policy at the European Union and Italy are affecting Afghans’ movements and decisions. 

The story goes that when Amir Amanullah (r 1919-1929) visited Italy in January 1928 during his ‘Grand Tour’ of Europe, he was met by the Italian King, Vittorio Emanuele, with a witty remark: pointing to the similarity between their names, the Italian monarch bestowed on his Afghan homologue a royal decoration, the Supreme Order of the Most Holy Annunciation, in the effect, making him an honorary cousin. One-and-a-half years later, dethroned by the revolts against his attempts at modernisation, Amanullah made it back to Italy as a refugee, broken in power and spirit, but with a number of family members and retainers and expecting suitable assistance and hospitality by his Italian ‘cousin’. Taken aback, Vittorio Emanuele was forced to oblige, probably cursing his earlier attempt at wittiness.

The dynamics between the Italian state and the Afghan asylum seekers could be said, half-jokingly, to repose on similar misunderstandings. On one hand, for the best part of the past two decades, Italy has honoured its commitment to Afghanistan and the plea of those fleeing first violence and now lack of freedom there with some of the highest asylum recognition rates in the EU; on the other, behind the façade of this recognition and beyond the legitimation of their status, Italy does not have much to offer Afghan refugees.

This report, following AAN’s update[1] in the summer on the situation of Afghan migrants along the Balkan Route, will outline aspects of Afghan migration to and through Italy, looking at the numbers of those transiting and those staying in the country over the past decade and to the living and working conditions they face, with a particular focus on the country’s northeastern border region.

Patterns of Afghan migration through and to Italy

Since the early 2000s, Italy has featured consistently on the map of Afghan migrants. At first, they mostly travelled through Greece and reached Italian shores by ferry, often hidden in lorries. While most continued to other destinations, some stopped in Italy and small communities started to develop in Rome and Milan, with Hazaras representing a relative majority. In the mid-2010s, the land route through southeastern Europe, later known as the Balkan Route, gained prominence. Afghans thus entered Italy through the border between Slovenia and the Friuli Venezia Giulia region, often regrouping in the regional capital, Trieste, or in Gorizia, located near or, in the case of the latter, on the border.

The humanitarian corridor of 2015-16 saw unprecedented numbers of migrants, many of them Afghans, reach Europe via the Balkan Route. Although the main branches of the humanitarian corridor bypassed Italy, Friuli Venezia Giulia was still affected because of its proximity. However, only a small number of the Afghans arriving in Italy in that time applied for asylum: rather, they took the chance to reach destinations further north and west and it was mostly migrants from other nationalities, especially Iraqis and Pakistanis, who opted to claim asylum in Italy.

Although not experiencing a surge comparable to those in other European countries, the number of Afghan asylum seekers in Italy increased steadily from the mid-2010s.[2] Applications rose from 1,365 in 2012 to 2,056 in 2013, to 2,994 in 2014, peaking at 3,975 in 2015. In 2015 Italy awarded a record number of asylum decisions to Afghan asylum seekers: 4,283, of which the great majority consisted of either of the five-year types of international protection, that is the status of ‘political refugee’ (381 instances) or being granted ‘subsidiary protection’ (3,279 instances). Only 59 requests were rejected, making Italy one of the surest countries for asylum applications for Afghans in the whole EU.[3] 2016 saw only 2,860 applications.

In the following years, recognition rates for Afghans remained constantly above 95 per cent. The subsidiary protection became the standard decision issued to Afghan nationals almost by default, being awarded on average to around two-thirds of those applying. Rejections were altogether very rare and Afghans had very good chances of seeing any overturned on appeal. At any rate, Italy never arranged the deportation of Afghans whose demands had been rejected, as was done by a number of other EU countries in the years before 2021.

Despite this, Afghan asylum requests fell to 982 in 2017 and 599 by 2019. A new spike in the number of asylum requests came in 2021 (5,250) with the re-establishment of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan (IEA). This was clearly linked to the evacuation of August 2021: Italy airlifted nearly 5,000 Afghan nationals in the wake of the collapse of the Republican institutions (Italian Embassy in Afghanistan).[4]

The following year, 2022, asylum demands fell to 2,113. However, reflecting the backlog of requests from 2021, the number of asylum decisions rose: 4,211 and 4,230 decisions were made in 2021 and 2022, respectively, and were overwhelmingly positive. Meanwhile, the Italian government, in partnership with civil society and charitable organisations, launched a humanitarian visa scheme for selected Afghans (vulnerable individuals and families, and those who had a history of working with Italian organisations in Afghanistan) admitting 1,200 people in 2022-23 and a further 700 in 2025, via a third country (Pakistan, Iran or Turkey) (AIDA p58).

In 2023, 1,900 Afghans applied for asylum in Italy and in 2024, 2,042. Afghans still ranked better than most countries in terms of the outcome of their asylum demands: in 2024, out of 1,833 decisions on Afghan asylum seekers, only 149 were rejected, an 8 per cent rejection rate, inferior only to those from Burkina Faso and Mali. Afghans were also, by far, the nationality most often granted full refugee status in 2024, with 851 applicants qualifying for it; an additional 782 were given subsidiary protection and only 51 a lower-type special protection (UCS).

Afghan applications have been slightly on the increase in the last three years because of both continued favourable recognition rates in Italy and declining acceptance in other EU countries, especially those already hosting large numbers of Afghan refugees, such as the Scandinavian countries, Germany and Belgium. Faced with higher hurdles and uncertainties, many Afghan asylum seekers originally directed there – or already arrived there – considered falling back on Italy as a more viable second choice. Most Afghans still arrive via the Balkan Route, while a smaller but significant fraction reached Italian shores by boat from Turkey, circumventing Greece. Most of the Afghans on the Balkan route are single men. The sea route, presenting a different range of dangers, came to be the route of choice for many single women and families.[5]

A separate mention must be made for non-accompanied minors. Already in 2017, AAN reported on the comparatively high numbers of Afghan children transiting through Italy. Most seem originally to be aiming for Switzerland, but a significant number end up applying for asylum in Italy, which offers decent reception programmes for minors.[6] Indeed, Afghan nationals still top the list of nationalities among non-accompanied minors who apply for asylum in the country. In 2025, they represented roughly a quarter of those in the reception system and made up almost the same percentage of those who applied for asylum in 2025, with 219 out of 950 (Ministero del Lavoro; AIDA p124).[7]

In every EU state, ‘subsequent applications’ (as opposed to first-time applications) by Afghans, once negligible, were at their highest ever in 2025, making up almost half of the total 108,765 asylum requests by Afghan nationals across the union (UNHCR). This has created a new group of asylum seekers, the so-called ‘failed refugees’, who often subsequently try to apply in other countries. In 2025, NGOs began to report increasing numbers of Afghans seeking assistance in Ventimiglia on the western Italian border, where they would normally transit when leaving for France, Belgium, or the UK: they were returning to Italy to apply for asylum after having their applications rejected in other countries (AIDA p57). The same movement has been happening on the northeastern border of Italy, where it is Afghans who saw their applications rejected in Austria, Germany or the Scandinavian countries who are arriving.

However, long-established patterns of asylum recognition for Afghans in Italy might have begun to change. In 2025, 2,755 Afghans applied for asylum, but positive decisions decreased to 82 per cent, and the rate of five-year international protections also fell relative to a two-year type of protection issued by Italy, labelled ‘special’ or ‘humanitarian’ protection.[8]

In 2025-26, different estimates of the number of migrants on the Balkan Route circulated, contributing to uncertainty about the number of arrivals in Italy. Frontex, the European agency for the management of external borders, and, to a lesser extent, other organisations such as IOM and UNHCR have pointed to a marked decrease in overall migration flows on the land route (see our previous report), while some NGOs working with migrants at Italy’s northeastern border have disputed this.

At any rate, the continued arrival of Afghans in transit and as asylum seekers in Italy seem certain for the next future, as proved by the most recent data from the first half of 2026. Afghans made up around twenty per cent of the 5,000 migrants identified as entering the EU via the land route in Southeastern Europe, most of them heading to Italy, as AAN has detailed in its previous report on the situation in Serbia. Moreover, during the first half of 2026, Afghans were, together with Bangladeshis and Egyptians, the most represented nationality on the Eastern Mediterranean sea route,[9] which proved the most used in 2026 so far, with nearly 17,000 arrivals (UNHCR). A significant number of those Afghans who arrived in Greece will likely continue on to Italy, either by land or by sea, in the coming months.

Another recent survey by UNHCR which heard from Afghans en route to Europe found 21 per cent of 657 migrants interviewed between January 2025 and July 2026 in the Balkans listed Italy as their choice of destination, second only to Germany. It is unclear how many intended to apply for asylum and stay in Italy, though. And then, even for those who may want to stay, it is not clear if this is going to prove a viable choice in the long run.

Migrant movements along the Balkan Route in 2026. Map: Roger Helms for AAN; Graphics: Žolt Kovač for AAN, 2026
An unstable diaspora

According to a recent migration survey, as of 2025, around 19,000 Afghans were residing in Italy (ISMU, p103). As a new migrant group in the country, the community’s numbers have shown clear growth over the past fifteen years, from fewer than 4,000 in 2011 (Wikipedia, based on Eurostat data). The increase was driven by the high number of asylum applications between 2014 and 2016 and after 2021. Altogether, the Afghan diaspora in Italy is still negligible compared to those that have developed in other EU countries such as Germany or France or even in less-populated ones such as Sweden or Austria.

In its 2017 report, AAN had already described the difficulties Afghans were facing in establishing themselves in Italy, without an already rooted diaspora community to provide newcomers with support, advice and access to jobs.[10] After a decade of Afghan migrants transiting through the country, with a significant proportion applying for and obtaining asylum, it remains difficult to assess whether this obstacle has been overcome. Numbers alone do not necessarily work here, as we reported back then:

…obtaining protection and the various necessary documents in Italy has not meant the beginning of a new, sedentary life for the majority of Afghan newcomers. Mostly, they would move out of Italy to try and find a job in some other European country.

Although difficult to verify, prolonged observation suggests that many Afghans who obtain asylum in Italy eventually move on and relocate, temporarily or permanently, out of the country. The transient nature of the presence of many Afghans in Italy has hindered the development of numerically relevant and cohesive communities, apart from a handful of major cities such as Rome, Milan, Bologna or Turin. This lack of rooting stems from several factors. As explained in our previous report, there existed already “an ‘insulation’ between older migrants [ie the few high-profile refugees already in Italy, where Zaher Shah and part of his entourage had also fled in 1973], from urban and educated backgrounds who are fully integrated, and more recent newcomers.” Afghans were therefore divided by fault lines of economic status and ability to integrate in Italian society.[11]

Along similar lines, a division may currently be reproducing itself between refugees who were evacuated in 2021 or through successive relocation programmes and those entering Italy through the Balkan Route. The first come often from urban and educated backgrounds, have better working skills and, in some cases, even previous knowledge of the Italian – or at least English – language. Moreover, they are often in family groups and usually end up in the care of committed organisations that run efficient programmes capable of providing the tools for successful integration into Italian society and the job market. On the other hand, migrants coming via the Balkan Route are mainly young men from rural areas, often with only basic education and language skills. The language and training courses they are offered during reception programmes have been shrinking, along with the average reception time they are granted and their chances of entering subsequent government support programmes.

Moreover, Afghans arriving from the Balkan Route are overwhelmingly single men. Once they receive asylum, they do not automatically succeed at bringing their families from Afghanistan. Family reunification has always been a long and complex procedure and a source of frustrations for Afghan refugees in Italy. Nowadays, the process has become even more arduous and burdensome: with the Italian embassy in Afghanistan closed, Afghan citizens who apply for family reunification need to do their paperwork at embassies in nearby countries (Pakistan or Iran) and often to reside legally in the country where the embassy is located in order to be able to access it. Finally, family reunification is impractical not only from a bureaucratic perspective but also from an economic one, as Afghans in Italy soon learn.

Italy: A republic founded on informal labour?

Italy’s job market for newly arrived migrants is constrained and most available jobs are in the agricultural or tourism sectors, both characterised by seasonal and informal labour. For those with limited professional and linguistic skills, it is virtually impossible to pursue other occupations, except for those with the capital to open a small shop, grocery, call centre/money transfer, fast food, or other services directed at migrant communities. Consequently, it is mostly single young men from rural areas who opt to spend time working in Italy after receiving asylum documents – their families left behind in Afghanistan, at least for the time being – while those with a degree, previous working experience or a family with them try to get a better job in other EU countries as soon as they can.

The resulting dispersal of many Afghan refugees who stay in Italy to rural areas, together with their frequent relocations to pursue short-term job opportunities, perpetuates the fragmented and transient nature of the Afghan diaspora in Italy. Moreover, even for day labourers, job competition is tough: Italy sits at the crossroads of three major migrant routes into Europe and sees other large communities from Africa and South Asia seeking low-skill or seasonal work for wages many Afghans cannot readily accept. As an Afghan migrant said: “Behind each of us there is half a village back home, that we have to support.” That may be true for every migrant labourer, but Afghanistan is not a cheap country to live in and the cost of living has been on the rise due to the now year-long border closure with Pakistan.

The pervasive presence of informal labour in the Italian economy allows some members of migrant communities to position themselves as providers of labourers to a range of economic actors, from farms to building companies, and to exploit their compatriots and other migrants by having them work without proper contracts or safety regulations, or for longer than the recorded working hours.[12] This so-called caporalato (‘gangmaster’) system is based, along with the connivance of many Italian economic actors, on the willingness of its victims to be exploited in order to get to work and earn some money at all. The people involved at the various levels can be from very different national backgrounds. However, a shared nationality usually facilitates both access to the labour market through gangmaster intermediaries and, it seems, the acceptance of exploitation by the labourers. Afghans, like most other migrants, need to earn money fast in order to support people at home, but rarely have the numbers or the connections to be those running the rackets.

The author has observed several Afghans quitting their prospective careers in the shipyards of Monfalcone near Trieste – the biggest in Italy, where the non-unionised workforce is largely from Bangladesh and mobilised through Bangladeshi small firms and labour agencies – and leaving for other EU countries because of the impossibility of progressing beyond a certain level of recompense.

Where most migrants involved in this abusive system are easily coerced into accepting poor working conditions and pay, either through proximity (if compatriots of the gangmasters) or because of their irregular or vulnerable juridical status in Italy, ie failed asylum application – Afghans are an exception, with regular permits of stay by virtue of their high recognition rates as asylum seekers. This apparent strength can make them more vocal in claiming their rights and some exploiters are well aware of that. The author remembers many futile attempts by a very gifted young Afghan tailor to find employment in the Chinese-managed, largely informal, textile district in the city of Prato. Each time, he came back puzzled by the rejection, until a fellow Pakistani would-be tailor, who had just been hired, explained: “They saw your papers: you are a political refugee, you’re gonna be a troublemaker.” Such situations take a dramatic turn, when migrants who protest against unfair wages or abusive working and accommodation conditions are punished with violence and even death by their exploiters, be them Italians or fellow migrants.[13]

In this context, it is no surprise that, after receiving their asylum documents in Italy – which allow them to travel legally across the EU – many Afghans move on to other countries and return to Italy only to renew them. The single most important factor limiting the growth of the Afghan diaspora in Italy is probably the appeal of many other European countries, where, despite the ever-present risk of abuse and exploitation, wages and salaries are considerably higher at almost all levels. This is especially true for refugees with connections to compatriots or prior experience in a given country, but the pull factor is not limited to those cases. There is a sheer economic incentive at play: the awareness among Afghans in Italy that the country’s salaries have been stuck longer than in any other European country amid an ever-growing cost of living. Even many Afghans who have been living for over a decade in Italy, perfectly integrated and skilled so as to be part of its social and economic life and some even having obtained citizenship, are leaving in search of better wages. Secondary movement within the EU after initiating an asylum procedure (European Parliament briefing) and continued mobility after asylum have both been observed and researched as recurring phenomena for Afghans refugees in Europe (Global Migration Research Paper). In this case, however, Afghans are also reacting to a situation specific to their country of asylum. Despite the obvious differences, by leaving Italy, they behave like the increasing number of young Italians who also leave to seek better jobs elsewhere (Reuters).

More stable Afghan communities will have a chance to develop only in those areas of Italy featuring the coexistence of more structured, post-2021 relocation programmes involving whole families in urban environments and a more varied job market. Such conditions may favour the economic and cultural integration of sufficiently large groups of Afghans, thereby enabling the capacity to attract and employ other Afghans in catering or in providing services to their compatriots. So far, however, the development of this type of community has been stunted even in the very city that has seen the highest number of Afghans transiting or applying for asylum over the past fifteen years -–Trieste. To understand the situation there, it is necessary to look more closely at trends in migration flows on Italy’s northeastern frontier and at the policies trying to regulate, control, or discourage them.

Number-crunching on the Balkan Route

When the land route through the Balkans became prominent for Afghan migrants in 2010s, Trieste, a medium-sized port city on Italy’s northeastern border, could boast of a fairly well-developed reception system. Local NGOs and government offices relied on expertise gained during previous refugee crises caused by the ex-Yugoslavia wars of the 1990s. Until 2015, all asylum seekers were hosted in small flats spread across the city and offered intensive language courses and vocational training. Later, rising numbers of refugees and reduced government support for such programmes posed increasing hurdles to this model, reducing reception to its basics (for details see our 2023 report).

Even after that, Trieste has continued to represent for migrants a major goal, a place where they could finally discard the fear of being detained by police and pushed back across a border, or harassed by greedy smugglers and criminal groups.[14] Some migrants cash in their ‘Game’ achievement and stop in Trieste to apply for asylum; others simply rest and regroup before continuing on. Indeed, once migrants overcome the last risks posed by informal push backs at the Italian-Slovenian border,[15] the city offers them a rare chance to come safely out of hiding and live openly.[16] After weeks spent almost entirely in hiding or in the care of their smugglers’ handlers, this comes as a respite, even if it means living on the streets and sleeping rough in abandoned old buildings (InfoMigrants). Local authorities have neither the scope nor the will to assist all migrants, but long-established charities still offer migrants help and advice.

Every evening since 2018, a network of volunteer organisations united under the umbrella Linea d’Ombra (Shadow Line) has been present in the square in front of Trieste train station, providing medical first aid, warm meals and information to migrants. The choice of venue is no accident: the square has long been the meeting place for migrants in Trieste. Newly arrived migrants, after walking across the border that runs along the Karst plateau above the city, head to the square to get information and find a place to stay in the Silos area of the old port, located just behind the railway tracks; those already there, waiting for a place in the reception system or to start the next leg of their journey, gather daily with relations or friends already living or staying in the city.

The presence of a large number of migrants occupying public spaces in the centres of major cities also characterised the height of the Balkan Route in 2015-16, hence the various ‘Afghan Parks’ of Belgrade and other southeastern European cities (read this 2016 AAN report). Since then, local government or upscale urban development projects have evicted migrants from central and visible locations and relegated them to marginal places, typically disused industrial complexes and railroad hubs at the city outskirts, which offer migrants basic accommodation and transport facilities, while being conveniently invisible to residents and tourists.[17] In Trieste, such a marginal space, the old port with its dilapidated warehouses, dead railway lines and empty wagons, is located too close to the heart of the city centre and cannot be insulated from it.

The daily gatherings have split the city’s public opinion and become a national case, with many volunteers from Trieste and across Italy and neighbouring countries joining to support migrants,[18] while local right-wing parties and some city residents criticise them, especially after episodes of criminality among migrants squatting in nearby areas. In the face of the decidedly anti-migrant tones assumed by the political debate and part of the local institutions, this mobilisation of civil society transcends a purely charitable effort to take up a social and political role: in cooperation with organisations for migrants’ rights such as ASGI, Linea d’Ombra aims to uphold the moral and legal standards connected to the right of asylum, which they feel the institutions in Trieste are neglecting (InfoMigrants).

These organisations also reported on the number of migrants’ arrivals in 2025-26; they differed from statistics made available by some international bodies. Frontex, for example, claimed a 42 per cent reduction in irregular border crossings on the Western Balkan Route (includes the land borders of Romania, Hungary, Croatia, and Bulgaria) in 2025 and another 24 per cent in the first half of 2026 (Frontex, Frontex). Organisations working with migrants in Trieste have instead said that the overall drop in arrivals over the past couple of years is minimal. The director of the Italian Consortium of Solidarity (ICS), Gianfranco Schiavone, estimates that arrivals in Trieste fell by only about 15 per cent last year and argues that, in the first months of 2026, they increased. The International Rescue Committee (IRC) also reported a 27 per cent decrease in arrivals in Trieste in 2025 (IRC 2026) and a 31 per cent increase in the first eight months of 2026 (RaiNews).

This shows that increased border controls have not effectively reduced the flow of migrants to a trickle, as the official narrative would have it. Rather, like the karst rivers that crisscross this region, securitisation policies have forced the flow underground, only for it to resurface in Trieste. Many migrants in the Western Balkans stay under the radar of even the humanitarian actors present in the Balkans, moving secretively and relying on their smugglers’ network for accommodation. As the efforts of police forces in Serbia, Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina increasingly concentrate on making migrants invisible, the number of migrants on the Balkan Route is likely being underreported by organisations like Frontex.

Data by the local organisations corroborate the notion that the arrival of migrants at Italy’s northeastern frontier has continued unabated in 2025-26 and that among them, Afghans continue to represent the major group. According to the IRC registry, Afghans have ranked first among the nationalities arriving in Trieste for the past five years, with altogether nearly 30,000 Afghans spending some time in the city between 2021 and 2026 while on transit or eventually applying for asylum there. Although their number declined after 2023, with 3,889 individuals registered in 2025, they still constituted 40 per cent of the total (IRC 2026). Moreover, in 2025 the IRC recorded, for the first time, an increasing trend among Afghan migrants to state that Trieste was their final destination; 41 per cent said so, a notable shift from previous years when they pointed to other destinations inside the EU (IRC 2025).

Indeed, 2026 so far shows a prospective increase, with 2,735 Afghans recorded as arriving in Trieste in the first eight months of the year. Unaccompanied minors featured prominently, accounting for 576 of a total.

Arrival of Afghans in Trieste January-August 2026.
Data from the IRC/Diaconia Vallese monitoring monthly surveys in Trieste Central Station

Other cities in the Friuli Venezia Giulia region also reported rising numbers of Afghan asylum seekers. Gorizia, which, like Trieste, sits right on the Slovenian border, recorded a major spike in Afghan asylum seekers in July 2026; they were almost the only nationality arriving in the city. September saw a more varied background among asylum seekers; however, Afghans still featured prominently, with around one hundred demands.[19] Udine, though slightly more removed from the border, also recorded that Afghans formed the vast majority of those applying for asylum in the spring of 2026 – 83 per cent of the 450 individuals contacted by the local organisation Ospiti in arrivo during their survey.

This is consistent with the EUAA’s mid-year review, which at the end of June 2026 reported a 77 per cent increase in asylum demands by Afghans in Italy compared to the same period in 2025 (EUAA, p26). What are the reasons for these numbers, given what has been said about Italy’s economy not offering great opportunities for Afghan migrants? One is certainly the lack of alternative opportunities: although some other EU countries, and Germany foremost, remain the most coveted destinations, lower recognition rates, longer waiting times for asylum papers and the risk of deportation[20] in case of rejection make Italy a reasonable choice. Moreover, some EU-designed asylum mechanisms influence migrants’ choices, sometimes with unexpected results.

A bureaucratic twist across the EU

In the past, the Balkan Route used to split in Belgrade, from where it went in two completely different directions: migrants who went north and crossed into Hungary would continue further north and west into Slovakia and Austria, to reach Germany or Scandinavia. Those who headed west into Bosnia or Croatia continued through Croatia and Slovenia until they reached Italy and then France.

This may no longer be the case; all routes seem to lead to Trieste, or at least to the eastern Italian border. Speaking to Afghans in Belgrade and in Trieste, AAN heard that many migrants heading from Serbia to Hungary report plan to travel from Hungary through Slovenia to Italy; once there, they would continue on to Austria and Germany. It is not only the controls on the Austrian – Hungarian border that influence the decision to make such a detour, but also the fact that being fingerprinted in the Eurodac biometric system in Italy can be a bonus for migrants. By now, asylum seekers with their first EU fingerprints in Croatia are routinely reassigned to that country under the terms of the Dublin agreements[21] if they later try to lodge an application in central or northern Europe. By contrast Italian fingerprints seem to prevent other countries from sending back asylum seekers. Italy is one of Europe’s major recipients of migrants in transit from both the Mediterranean and the Balkan routes and hosts a sizeable number of asylum seekers, so initiating a Dublin transfer procedure with Italy is an arduous enterprise that many other EU countries would rather not face or, at any rate, not be able to carry out with success.

In 2025, Italy received 19,889 Dublin requests (ie requests for Italy to ‘take back’ asylum seekers), down from 24,217 in 2024. Not a single Dublin-related transfer took place last year, however, likely because Italy suspended transfers to other EU countries on 5 December 2022 and was still maintaining that suspension in 2025 (AIDA).

The inability to activate a Dublin procedure is sometimes also due to a shortage of facilities for families in the Italian reception system, which is shaped by arrival patterns that see a vast majority of single men. In recent years, moreover, the need to expand reception capacity, reduce benefits and their duration to cut costs, as well as the political hostility of state organs at the local and national level towards programmes aimed at long-term, resource-intensive reception systems have further reduced suitable structures for families. As a result, requests by other EU countries for Italy to accept responsibility for an Afghan family may be blocked by the need to ensure guarantees about the type of reception that family will receive once there (AIDA p102).[22]

The flip side of the coin is that, among the Afghans currently applying for asylum in Italy, a growing number are not first-time applicants, but individuals whose claims have been turned down by other EU countries. As mentioned in the first section of this report, they have reached almost half of the total asylum requests by Afghans across the EU in 2025.

The new country of asylum may deem such applications inadmissible and send applicants back to the first if no new elements are presented or the situation in the country of origin has not deteriorated; for Afghans, different recognition rates can be enough to secure success. Moreover, recent jurisprudence offers hope to subsequent asylum seekers. In late 2023, the Court of Justice of the European Union (CJEU) issued a ruling on questions posed by civil courts in Rome and Florence about the transfer of asylum seekers to Italy who had already been rejected elsewhere. The CJEU ruled that the Italian judges could decide to apply the sovereignty clause and examine asylum claims when transferring the applicant to another EU country might ultimately lead to their deportation to an unsafe country, thus violating the non-refoulement principle.[23] The courts subsequently decided in favour of the two Afghan asylum seekers who had applied against the transfers to, respectively, Germany and Sweden, and their applications were examined anew in Italy (AIDA pp93-94).

Differences in recognition trends and policies across the EU countries have long influenced each other more to the effect of causing dysfunctionality than bringing about a balanced and cohesive system. Even recent developments connected with the European Pact on Migration and Asylum (known in Italy as PAF), which is aimed at standardising policies and procedures, are now affecting asylum practices at Italy’s northeastern border in new and unpredictable ways.

The (il)logic of deterrence in 2026

As summer 2026 was approaching, all eyes – migrants and workers on migrant issues – were fixed on the European Pact on Migration and Asylum, set to be applied from 12 June 2026. Some migrants feared radical overnight changes, and smart smugglers no doubt made good use of those fears to extract higher prices from their unfortunate customers. What happened in Trieste after the fateful date was indeed a radical departure from the established legal framework.

Under decree-law n.100, issued by the Italian government on the same day the EU migration pact entered into force,police in Trieste began applying the so-called accelerated border procedure to asylum applicants crossing the border between Italy and Slovenia.[24] The normal asylum procedure was thus replaced with one that offers fewer guarantees to applicants and shorter time windows to appeal against decisions. Although the PAF was devised to sort asylum seekers from countries considered safe under EU rulings more quickly and should thus not affect those from Afghanistan, in Trieste, several Afghans have been subjected to it and later appealed its rulings. Moreover, any future radical change to the reception system in Trieste, such as shrinking reception places, would affect Afghan asylum seekers as well.

The impact of the massive application of PAF during the summer of 2026 was strongly felt in the asylum and reception system in the city. The fast-tracking was only relative: asylum seekers could still be waiting in the streets for weeks or months before being suddenly summoned and taken by the police to a migrant hub outside Trieste. Legal advisors to migrants complain that asylum seekers are made to believe that they cannot leave its premises lest they be considered to have abandoned the reception project. This makes it difficult for asylum seekers to get legal aid in the city and, coupled with the very tight timing of the procedure once the intake has taken place, leaves many without a clear understanding of their options. The asylum interviews are reduced to a mere formality (their record hardly filling one page) and the timeline for an appeal against the decision is only five days.

As of early October, the PAF faces increasing hurdles. Throughout August and September, civil courts in Trieste and other Italian cities have upheld migrants’ appeals, ruling that the Italian-Slovenian border is not an external Schengen border (AIDA update on PAF). The police authorities have been forced to revive the ordinary procedure and shift part of the applications back to it.

According to ICS director Gianfranco Schiavone, with the PAF the government’s objective was to cancel the normal procedure in the areas of the country most affected by arrivals, or at least to make them inhospitable to asylum seekers. In Trieste, the aim would be to make the city a place of mere transit, disincentivising asylum seekers from applying for protection there. The implementation of the PAF coincided with an inexplicable months-long halt to the transfers of asylum seekers from the streets to reception projects in other parts of Italy, which, in normal times, is the only remedy for the chronic overcrowding of migrants left without shelter in Trieste. Faced with the failure of other policies aimed at containing migration flows, this type of indirect deterrence might have become an option.

The decision by many countries to suspend the Schengen area free-travel agreement and reinstate border controls in the past few years and by Italy with respect to Slovenia since October 2023 (Associated Press), has proved largely ineffective. Mixed Slovenian-Italian border patrols mostly focus on road and railway communication networks, of only marginal use by migrants crossing the Italian-Slovenian border around Trieste. True, high-profile migrants or families may opt for an all-inclusive car transfer bringing them beyond the border, but single young men, who make up the vast majority of migrants on the Balkan Route, normally cross the hilly country marking the border between Slovenia and Italy on foot. Periodic evictions of migrants from the old port warehouses have proved just as ineffective (Linea d’Ombra): given the wealth of empty buildings available in deindustrialising (and depopulating) Trieste, it amounts to kicking the problem around a few blocks without solving it.

However, if creating a bottleneck in the reception system was truly the authorities’ contingency plan to reduce pressure on Trieste from migration flows along the Balkan Route, this would require thorough revision. Deterrence, which implies leaving migrants to their own devices to live on the streets, clashes with the authorities’ parallel agenda of rendering migrants invisible so as to pacify public opinion. It also fails to account for the harsh reality of migrants’ mindsets and priorities, and what they are prepared to put up with to find a new home in Europe: given the risks and abuses they have already faced, making life harsh for them on arrival in Italy is hardly a deterrent.

Time is telling; time will tell

Time seems to be the all-important factor for Afghans when deciding where to apply for asylum. Many asylum seekers want to reach a destination where they can work and send money home as soon as possible, so are in race against time. That means the probable timeline for getting asylum papers in a particular country beats the quality of the reception programme or even proximity to relatives or friends in another. The quest for speed in bureaucratic procedures and in securing accommodation is typically hard amid crowded Italian police stations, asylum commissions and reception systems. Like the choice of which route to take or smuggler group to hire, it is also a battle largely fought out on social media. This was the case, for example, with L’Aquila, a small city in central Italy removed from any migrant route or major job market, which, after being featured in a Pashto-language video posted on TikTok in late 2025, experienced a sudden boom of arrivals and asylum requests by Afghans, hopeful of getting faster reception and, most importantly, their paperwork done (InfoMigrants).

The figures provided by migrant support organisations illustrate the scale of the problem. The gap between declared intentions to apply for asylum in Trieste and actual requests is revealing. IRC reported that in 2025, 3,607 individuals expressed their intention to apply for asylum in Trieste. Yet only one-third, around 1,200 applications, were eventually registered at the police station. Even accounting for migrants who changed their minds and moved on immediately, and for those who were transferred and induced into other reception programmes by the authorities, this still leaves a significant number of individuals who were ultimately unable to access the procedure at all and were forced to move and try to apply elsewhere (IRC).

The introduction of the accelerated border procedure in Trieste did not speed up the reception timeline; although it has sped up the procedure itself in police stations and asylum commissions once an applicant is in the system. However, any reduction in the waiting time to obtain asylum documents can become a pull factor for asylum seekers with a fair chance of getting protection. It seems likely that Afghans would easily come to terms with the risk of being ‘PAFed’, prioritising getting any type of asylum document that would allow them to move around legally, and being happy with a lower-level types of protection in a comparatively shorter time – they can always appeal against any decision, hoping, sooner or later, to see it transformed into full international protection.

So, even measures aimed at deterring migrants could turn out to be acceptable for at least some Afghan asylum seekers who are willing to cope with a rough street-life, a short and very basic reception programme – if any at all – and a horizon of informal and underpaid labour (or fast relocation to other EU countries and long-term mobility from one to another). Only, this fits exactly the representation of the migrants whom many Italians and most Italian right-wing politicians keep complaining about: young, male, uneducated, living on the margins of society and potentially engaging in criminal activities.

If the future of asylum laws lies in deterrence, it is difficult to see how far can asylum seekers and host countries be pushed. Afghans will likely be willing to accept ever-harsher conditions of travel, reception and asylum procedure. Thus, Italy’s continued role as gateway to Europe for Afghan migrants is certain. The way the situation in Italy evolves and influences Afghans’ ability to get asylum and their decision to stay or move on, will continue to be relevant for the rest of the European Union.

Edited by Jelena Bjelica and Kate Clark

References

References
↑1 See Jelena Bjelica and Fabrizio Foschini, A Good Smuggler is Hard to Find: The evolution of Afghan smuggling networks in the Balkans, Afghanistan Analysts Network, 25 July 2026.
↑2 By comparison, in 2012, Germany saw 7,498 asylum applications by Afghans (BAMF 2012), 31,382 in 2015 and 127,012 in 2016. A great part of the 2016 figure consisted of the backlog of applications from Afghans who had arrived in 2015, but were unable to apply for asylum at once. See Thomas Ruttig, Afghan Exodus: Afghan asylum seekers in Europe (3) Case study Germany, AAN, 17 February 2017. In the same years, France recorded 444 Afghan asylum applications in 2012, 2,200 in 2015 and 5,641 in 2016 (AIDA-ECRE France).
↑3 Figures taken from the Italian government’s UCS, AIDA-ECRE and Eurostat databases.
↑4 This was one of the highest numbers among EU countries: Germany evacuated 4,100, France 2,600 and the Netherlands 2,500 (Reuters). The UK airlifted 15,000 Afghans in 2021 (UK government).
↑5 See Fabrizio Foschini, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: No good options for Afghans traveling to and from Turkey, AAN, 12 May 2022. This hitherto ignored route came to the attention of the public when a shipwreck near the coast of Calabria in southern Italy cost the lives of nearly one hundred migrants, most of them Afghans (Human Rights Watch).
↑6 See Fabrizio Foschini and Jelena Bjelica, Afghan Child Migrants: Italy, the preferred country of transit?, AAN, 6 September 2017. Afghans interviewed in 2026 mentioned how those minors well below the age of majority cross Italy aiming to apply for asylum in Switzerland, while others, already around the age of 18, prefer the less strict admission requirements by Italy.
↑7 This does not include all non-accompanied foreign minors present in the reception system in Italy, but rather only those among them who apply for asylum.
↑8 This makes more complex the comparison of recognition rate at the European level, as such nationally-devised forms of protection are unregulated by the EU and are thus counted as negative decisions in some statistics, such as those by the European Union Agency for Asylum (EUAA).
↑9 This is defined by UNCHR as the route leading migrants from Libya and Egypt to the shores of Greece and Cyprus. Use of this route has been expanding in 2026, especially with an increase in arrivals from Libya to Crete.
↑10 See Fabrizio Foschini and Jelena Bjelica, Afghan Asylum Seekers in Italy: A place of temporary respite, AAN, 13 September 2017.
↑11 Regional and ethnic background also played a role in keeping Afghan communities in Italy fragmented. Hazaras, who constituted the majority of arrivals in the early 2000s, had developed a close-knit community in Rome and even attempted to create associations. However, they had failed to include the newcomer Afghans from other backgrounds, for example a majority of arrivals from the Balkan Route who, increasingly so since 2021 and up to the present days, are Pashtuns.
↑12 Italy has witnessed in the past two decades the burgeoning growth of Bangladeshi and Pakistani diasporas – and now hosts the most numerous in Europe after the UK. Members of these communities are often better positioned than Afghans to access the job market.
↑13 In June 2026, three Afghan labourers were trapped in a vehicle and burnt to death, together with a Pakistani national, by two other Pakistanis who had hired them as strawberry pickers (The Guardian). A fourth Afghan, who managed to escape through the boot and survived with burns, said that they had been threatened for protesting for overdue pay. He said the gangmasters had set the minivan alight after blocking the labourers inside, a scene fully recorded by the fuel station’s surveillance cameras. The labourers had been moved across workplaces in various Italian regions by the same gangmasters and had to themselves pay for their transport. It is possible that the “huge Pakistani mafia.” as the survivor termed it, had decided to set an exemplary punishment, or that a personal dispute had escalated beyond the pale (MeltingPot).
↑14 The near mythical status acquired by Trieste for migrants traveling along the Balkan Route has been further explored in Claudio Minca and Dragan Umek, Trieste is Beautiful at Night’, in Thinking Like a Route: Counter-geographies of informal migration in the Balkans, Claudio Minca and Yolanda Weima (ed), Edward Elgar Publ., 2026.
↑15 Push backs were more frequent in 2019-20. They stopped after the mobilisation of local civil society and a court sentence in January 2021 which deemed that Italy’s pushbacks of migrants to Slovenia were illegal, though occasionally, they are reinstated. For example, four migrants were readmitted from Italy to Slovenia in 2025; see AIDA 2026 update for Slovenia, p25.
↑16 This is correct even though instances of smugglers’ violence against migrants in the city and its surroundings has increased in recent years: in 2025 a Pakistani smuggling network with links in neighbouring Slovenia and Croatia was busted after it had kidnapped and held Indian migrants for ransom in a Trieste flat (Rai News), while in November 2024 an Afghan smuggler was arrested for kidnapping and assaulting two migrants heading to Trieste near Lokev, Slovenia, just a few kilometres before the Italian border (Slovenian Police).
↑17 See Martine van Bijlert and Jelena Bjelica, Afghan Exodus: The re-emergence of smugglers on the Balkan Route, AAN, 10 August 2016.
↑18 Practical and symbolic initiatives of solidarity with the migrants travelling on the Balkan route are also undertaken, such as field trips to bring humanitarian help to and monitor the situation of migrants in Bosnia or, just recently, the public commemoration of five migrants, most of them Afghans, who had drowned while crossing the river Kupa on the Slovenian-Croatian border at the end of September 2026 (Associated Press).
↑19 Personal communication with asylum personnel in Gorizia, October 2026.
↑20 Since May 2025, Germany has resumed deportations of Afghans back to Kabul. The focus has been on convicted criminals, but recently, some rejected asylum seekers with no criminal record have been included, as well (Reuters). Other EU countries are taking similar steps (New York Times).
↑21 The Dublin Regulation is a series of treaties among EU countries stipulating that asylum procedures are the responsibility of the EU country of first-entry and that asylum seekers must be transferred back there.
↑22 This situation may of course not last forever: some EU countries have recently started to push for Italy to accept Dublin transfers. It seems that after the inauguration of the European Pact on Migration and Asylum in June 2026, such efforts have been more resolute and Austria was able to send back at least four asylum seekers to Italy in August, reportedly following similar moves by Germany and Switzerland (ANSA).
↑23 Non-refoulement, a principle of international law forbidding countries from returning individuals to places where they face the risk of persecution, torture or grave harm, has often been invoked to argue against the readmission of migrants on the Balkan Route to countries where they experience abuse at the hands of security forces and criminal groups and also, as here, against the deportation of Afghan nationals back to Afghanistan.
↑24 A ministerial decree from 5 August 2019 had already identified border and transit areas for the implementation of this accelerated examination of asylum applications; these included Trieste and Gorizia as the only northern provinces in a list featuring mainly coastal areas in southern Italy. In line with this decree, in 2019, the police subjected a few migrants intercepted at a short distance from Slovenia to the border procedure, but attempts at implementing the decree were soon dropped (possibly because informal readmissions to Slovenia took priority back then) and were not revived until the EU Pact came into force.

 

Afghan Migration To and Through Italy: No place to call home
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Afghanistan, 25 Years Later: Journalist Emran Feroz on the Legacy of “America’s Longest War”

Democracy Now!

October 08, 2026

“During the 20 years of America’s longest war in Afghanistan, we could clearly see that failure was coming,” says journalist Emran Feroz, just back from a month of reporting in Afghanistan. He says the relative economic and political gains under the Western-backed government were undercut by widespread corruption and violence, particularly in rural Afghanistan. “You had torture prisons next to Burger King and KFC and Starbucks.”

Transcript
This is a rush transcript. Copy may not be in its final form.

AMY GOODMAN: This is Democracy Now!, democracynow.org. I’m Amy Goodman, with Nermeen Shaikh.

NERMEEN SHAIKH: This week marks 25 years since the U.S.-led invasion of Afghanistan, the beginning of what would become the longest war in U.S. history. Less than a month after the September 11th World Trade Center attacks, the United States launched airstrikes against Afghanistan. The Taliban government was ousted within months, but the U.S.-led war and occupation would continue for nearly two decades, during which more than 100,000 Afghan civilians were killed, according to the U.N. More than 2,300 U.S. service members died. The U.S. spent trillions of dollars on the war and efforts to build an Afghan government and military, that ultimately collapsed with stunning speed in August 2021.

Today, Afghanistan is facing a deepening humanitarian crisis. Women and girls have been shut out of higher education and face sweeping restrictions on their work, movement and participation in public life.

AMY GOODMAN: Our next guest, Austrian Afghan journalist Emran Feroz, is just back from a month reporting in Afghanistan. His new piece for Truthout is headlined “The War on Afghanistan Was Launched 25 Years Ago. It Still Hasn’t Ended.” He’s joining us from Stuttgart, Germany.

Emran, welcome back to Democracy Now! Why don’t you lay out what you found, as you’ve just returned from Afghanistan? The U.S. bombed Afghanistan when the Taliban were in power, and the Taliban are back a quarter of a century later.

EMRAN FEROZ: Hi. Thanks for having me.

So, yes, I spent almost a whole month in Afghanistan, and the thing is that, as I wrote in this piece, I believe the “war on terror” is not over, especially because since the U.S. withdrawal, a lot of airstrikes are still taking place, especially in the last weeks and months. And all these airstrikes are being conducted by the Pakistani military regime, which kind of took over America’s role and is now using the same “war on terror” arguments that we heard for 20 years, again to hit Afghan civilians. And the recent strike just took place a few days ago in the south of the country, close to the Pakistani border. And again, most of the victims were civilians, especially children.

NERMEEN SHAIKH: So, Emran, if you could say — you know, a lot of people were surprised by the fact that the Taliban came back to power so quickly. Who was supporting the Taliban in all those years?

EMRAN FEROZ: I mean, during the 20 years of America’s longest war in Afghanistan, we could clearly see that failure was coming. The Afghan regime in Kabul, the pro-Western Afghan regime in Kabul, was highly corrupt and was engaging in a war that seemed to be endless because too many people were profiting from it. And this war actually made a lot of people angry and, you know, left them frustrating, and a lot of these people, actually, especially in Afghanistan rural sites, started to support the Taliban again.

But I also want to highlight that a lot of the places that I visited during the last weeks, for example, Bagram Air Base, close to Kabul, were in fact breeding grounds for America’s enemies, because you had this huge prison complex in the middle of the country, which became kind of a Little America. You had torture prisons next to Burger King and KFC and Starbucks, and a lot of young men who vanished there and who never came out, or a lot of people, including Taliban fighters, who were brought there and, in fact, became even more radicalized through the things that happened there.

AMY GOODMAN: In fact, you wrote this piece, just out, headlined “Why Bagram Air Base Remains a Target Five Years After U.S. Exited Afghanistan.” If you can talk about what’s happened to women and girls there now?

EMRAN FEROZ: The situation of women and girls is pretty bad in Afghanistan. I mean, it’s — as already mentioned, they have no access to higher education. Also, there is a lot of — like, you know, a lot of problems when it comes to letting them work, allowing them work. And you could clearly see that girls and women in Afghanistan are facing these repressions, and that, actually, unfortunately, the Taliban themselves declared war against them. That’s what at least a lot of Afghan girls and women are going to tell you.

And you see that also a lot of people, for that reason, still try to leave the country. Afghanistan is still producing a lot of refugees, tens of thousands of people who want to leave the country. And especially in the cities, when you talk to people, including my own relatives and friends, they say, “OK, what should we do here? Especially when it comes to the future of our daughters, there is no future here. So we are forced to leave, even if we don’t want to do that.”

And this is, unfortunately, the harsh reality that everyone knows about, including a lot of Taliban officials. And if you talk to them, you will also hear different things. For example, there is kind of a discrepancy between the Taliban leadership in Kabul and the one in Kandahar, which is making the laws. And it seems that, especially in my case, like the things that I experienced, is that a lot of Taliban themselves do not really support these repressions, but they are forced to do it because there is a strict hierarchy, and they fear that they’re going to be split if they start to fight about this.

AMY GOODMAN: Emran Feroz, we want to thank you so much for being with us, Austrian Afghan journalist, author of Graveyard Empire: Four Decades of Wars and Intervention in Afghanistan.

That does it for today’s show. Steal This Story, Please!, the documentary about Democracy Now!, will be viewable online for the first time in an exclusive special event starting Tuesday, October 13th, at 8 p.m. Eastern Time. If you live in the United States and Canada, you can watch the film in your own home and be part of the post-screening Q&A, question and answer, with me and the filmmakers, the Oscar-nominated filmmakers Carl Deal and Tia Lessin. The conversation will be moderated by the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Maria Hinojosa. To find out more, you can go to StealThisStory.org. You can join us and help support the impact of this film that celebrates the importance of independent media. I’ll also be at Fort Collins and in Boulder at University of Colorado the 26th and 27th of October. I’m Amy Goodman, with Nermeen Shaikh, for Democracy Now!

Afghanistan, 25 Years Later: Journalist Emran Feroz on the Legacy of “America’s Longest War”
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Nine Months Under the Emirate: One woman’s pregnancy in Kabul

Hamid Pakteen • Roxanna Shapour

Pregnancy is often described as a time of joy, anticipation and preparation, but for many women in Afghanistan, getting through those nine months can feel like an obstacle course. In this instalment of the Daily Hustle, AAN’s Hamid Pakteen speaks to Zarghuna, a 38-year-old mother in Kabul, about her latest pregnancy. With her husband stranded abroad, no midwife at the local clinic and little money to spare, even routine antenatal care became difficult to arrange. Her story shows how economic hardship, the Islamic Emirate’s restrictions on women’s mobility and a strained healthcare system put women’s lives in danger.  

I’m 38 years old and live with my four children in a small house in Kabul’s Deh Sabz district. My daughters are ten and five, my older son is eight and my youngest is just over a year old. My husband used to be the head teacher at a private high school during the Islamic Republic, but he lost his job when the Taliban came to power. He spent several months looking for another job in Kabul, but when nothing turned up, he decided to go to Iran for work. There, he found a job on a farm. He didn’t earn much, but it was enough for him to live on and send money home every month.

The last time my husband came to Kabul, I was already pregnant with my youngest son. He told me he was planning to go into business with an Iranian he’d met at the farm and that they wanted to start a vegetable trading business in Dubai. He promised me he’d keep coming home every three months and would be there when it was time for me to deliver the baby.

But after he got to Dubai, he lost his passport and his tazkira (Afghan ID card). His visa later expired and, without a passport, he hasn’t been able to renew it or come home. Getting new documents is taking a long time. In the meantime, he’s been picking up odd jobs, mostly night shifts at Dubai’s vegetable market. He also lost money trying to get the vegetable business started and ended up in debt. Most of what he earns now goes towards his own living expenses and paying those debts, so there isn’t much left to send us.

Making ends meet

When I got married, I was 20 and was just about to finish the tenth grade. I hadn’t been able to go to school during the first Emirate, so I’d been trying to catch up and really didn’t want to stop. But my husband was against my going to school. He said that, since he was a teacher himself, he would teach me at home instead. I agreed, and he kept his word. After we married, we would sit together at home and he would teach me different school subjects.

I didn’t know it at the time, but those lessons later gave me a way to earn some money. When what my husband sent home was no longer enough to support us, I used what I’d learned from him to start a small school in our house. I mostly teach girls from the neighbourhood, teaching the Holy Quran and some school subjects.

I have about 40 students and ask each of them for 100 afghanis (USD 1.55) a month. But people around here don’t have much money, so they can’t always pay. I don’t pressure them. I just ask them to pay when they can. I know which families are struggling and, if they really can’t afford it, I don’t take anything from them. The little I earn helps cover some of our household expenses.

When I started to feel unwell

I was happy to be having another baby and, at first, everything seemed fine, so I didn’t go to a doctor. But as the weeks went by, I started to feel unwell. I was teaching in the mornings and spending the rest of the day doing housework and looking after the children. I was tired and thirsty all the time and sometimes I felt dizzy.

By the time I was in the third month of my pregnancy, I knew that I had to go to the clinic. There used to be a midwife at the clinic near our home in Deh Sabz, but when I went there, they said they didn’t have one anymore. I’d have to go to the government hospital or a private clinic in the city centre to see a gynaecologist. That made things much more difficult. Since the Taliban came to power, I can’t go out without a mahram (close male relative) and in any case, I’ve never gone into the city alone in the all the years I’ve been married. My husband told me to stop teaching for a while, rest and look after myself. He said he’d call his brother, who lives next door, and ask him to take me to the doctor.

So my brother-in-law took the day off work to take me to a private hospital in the city centre about half an hour’s drive from our house. The doctor there was a very nice woman. She did an ultrasound, listened to the baby’s heartbeat and ordered blood tests. She said I was very weak and anaemic and that the amount of water, which she called the amniotic fluid, around the baby was low. She gave me some medicine, told me to eat better and asked me to come back every month so she could keep an eye on the baby and me.

When care is hard to reach

But going to the doctor every month was easier said than done. First, I had to find the money to pay for transport and the doctor’s fee. Then I had to find someone to look after the children and a mahram who could go with me. Our home is far from the city centre and I have to walk part of the way to the main road and then take a taxi the rest of the way. I was afraid the Taliban might stop me and ask where I was going and why I didn’t have a mahram with me. Also, in our culture, a woman doesn’t usually go to the hospital, the market or into the city alone. So if I needed to see a doctor, I had to find a male relative who could go with me. The only person nearby who could take me was my brother-in-law, but he has his own family and responsibilities, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking him to take me to the doctor every month. So even though the doctor had told me to come back every month, I didn’t manage to see her again until I was seven months along.

By then, I’d become very weak. I was sick to my stomach all the time and couldn’t manage the housework anymore. My parents live in Kapisa, so they weren’t nearby to look after me or help with the children. It was obvious that I needed to go back to the doctor. Finally, I asked my husband to speak to his brother and ask him to take me. I felt embarrassed having to ask my brother-in-law for help, but by then I was so weak that I didn’t really have a choice.

I could tell something was wrong as soon as I saw the look on the doctor’s face. She scolded me: “I told you that you needed to come every month. You’re severely anaemic and dehydrated, and the amniotic fluid around the baby is very low.” She said that if I hadn’t come when I had, I might have lost the baby. Her words really shook me. All sorts of thoughts were running through my mind. What if things had gone badly wrong and I’d lost the baby or even my own life? Would my husband ever forgive me for losing the baby?

The doctor told me I needed to follow the treatment she was giving me exactly and eat better so that both the baby and I would be stronger. She prescribed a lot of medicine, as well as injections and IV fluids. She warned me that if I stayed this weak and anaemic, I could have serious problems when it came time to give birth. She told me that my body wasn’t strong enough for a normal delivery and that I’d probably need a Caesarean section. This time I took her seriously. I started the treatment and I’d walk to the nearby clinic every day with my son to get the injections and IV fluids, but by then I was so weak that even that short walk was hard for me.

As my due date drew closer, I got more and more tired. Walking became increasingly difficult and I started having pains in my stomach and lower back. I’d already decided that I’d go to a government hospital to deliver because I couldn’t afford to go private. I’d delivered my other children at a private hospital because my husband’s job at the school came with health insurance. But that isn’t an option anymore. A Caesarean section at a private hospital could cost between 20,000 and 30,000 afghanis [USD 310-466] and I didn’t have that kind of money. Even the two times I’d gone to the doctor during my pregnancy, I had to borrow the money from my brother-in-law.

My husband was still away and I couldn’t go to the hospital alone. I also needed some help with the children and housework after I delivered, so I asked my mother to come from Kapisa and stay with me.

The night I went into labour

It was early in the evening when I went into labour. At first, I didn’t think much of the pain, but as the night went on, the pain got stronger and stronger. I woke my mother and son and told them what was happening. They ran to the neighbour’s house to ask them to look after the children while we were gone and called my brother-in-law, who went to the main road to find us a car.

Meanwhile, my labour pains were getting stronger and my mother kept telling me everything would be alright, but I kept thinking about my husband and if only he were there to hold my hand and take me to the hospital. He’d been there for the birth of all our children; this was the first time he wasn’t, and in that moment, I felt his absence more than ever. Eventually, my brother-in-law found a car, and we set off for the government hospital in the city with his wife and my mother. By the time we reached the hospital, the pain was unbearable. A midwife examined me and said I was already in active labour. I was terrified. This pain was nothing like I’d experienced in my earlier pregnancies.

Waiting to be seen

The hours that followed were very difficult. We waited for a long time and no one seemed to be paying much attention to us. I could see people who’d arrived hours after us being taken inside while we were still waiting. My brother-in-law went from one doctor to another trying to get someone to attend to me. Finally, a doctor came and told me time was running out and I needed an operation. I didn’t want a Caesarean and kept hoping I’d be able to have a natural delivery. But the pain was unbearable and the doctor told me the labour had gone on too long and that unless I had a Caesarean section, the baby would die.

I was exhausted and in pain, worried about the baby and thinking about my three children at home and my husband being away. Everything was going through my mind at once. The way the doctors behaved made it even harder. They started yelling at me and using harsh words. One doctor told me that if I wasn’t going to have the operation, I should go somewhere else and stop wasting their time. How could a woman say something like that to another woman in distress?

In the end, I agreed to the operation. Then there was a lot of paperwork, with many forms to fill out and sign. I had to sign a paper saying that I consented to the Caesarean section and that, if anything happened to me during the operation, the doctors would not be held responsible. I was in so much pain, and the paperwork took a long time. The doctor told my brother-in-law to go out and buy the supplies they needed for the surgery. Once he came back with them and the paperwork was complete, they took me to the operating theatre.

When I came round afterwards, I was still very weak and had some bleeding, so the doctors kept me in the ward for two days and two nights. Once I started to feel a little better, they told me I could go home and gave me some medicine to keep taking at home.

I remember holding my baby and feeling relieved that he was safe. After everything that had happened, that was what mattered most to me.

Looking back

I’ll never forget the way I was treated in the government hospital. These problems aren’t new. They existed during the Republic too, but they’ve got worse since the Taliban took over because more people are using government hospitals now that families have less money. At the government hospital, patients aren’t treated with respect. They make you feel like you have no value. If something happens to a patient, there’s no one to answer for it. To get better treatment, you need money or connections. If you have neither, no one will speak for you.

Getting medical care has also become more difficult where I live. There used to be a midwife at the clinic near our home in Deh Sabz and because the clinic is close by, I could have gone there on my own for my monthly check-ups. But there isn’t a midwife there anymore. That meant that whenever I needed to see a midwife or gynaecologist, I had to travel into the city centre, and for that I needed both a mahram to go with me and money for the taxi.

People go to government hospitals because they can’t afford private care, but once you’re there, almost everything except seeing the doctor costs money. You have to buy your own medicine and if you need tests or other examinations, you often have to pay for those too. During the Republic, some of these things were free in government hospitals. You still had to buy medicine outside, but now patients have to pay for much more. At the same time, people have less money than they did during the Republic, so even small costs are difficult for many families to manage.

Sometimes I still wonder whether things might have been different if it had been easier for me to get care. At every stage, there was something else to arrange, someone else I had to depend on or another expense we had to find the money for. Somehow, we managed each time. But I often think about how easily things could have gone the other way.

Edited by Roxanna Shapour and Kate Clark

 

Nine Months Under the Emirate: One woman’s pregnancy in Kabul
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A Parallel Education System: The Taliban’s madrasa expansion and its implications for gender, society and regional security

Timor Sharani

Afghanistan Analysts Network

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In June 2026, HAMRAH Network published Taliban Madrasas: Ideological Consolidation, Gender Persecution and Afghanistan’s Future Stability, which documented the scale of the Taliban’s madrasa expansion. Drawing on ground-level fieldwork conducted in Kandahar and Bamyan provinces between March and May 2026 and interviews with more than 34 individuals with direct knowledge of the education sector, the report reveals an educational transformation of a speed and scale without precedent in Afghanistan’s modern history. In this Expert Voice, the report’s author, Timor Sharan,* presents its key findings and analyses their significance for Afghan society, regional stability and international engagement.

The full report, including sourcing, methodology and the HAMRAH Network’s recommendations, is available here.

An unprecedented transformation

Before August 2021, there were approximately 5,000 madrasas that formally registered across Afghanistan, while many more functioned informally without state regulation. In September 2025, the Taliban’s de facto Ministry of Education reported over 23,000 registered religious education institutions, with more than 3.65 million students – talib al-ilm(seekers of knowledge) – enrolled. This near-fivefold increase in four years represents not merely an expansion, but a wholesale restructuring of Afghanistan’s religious education system, with a knock-on effect on state-run schools.

Registered religious education institutions now outnumber Afghanistan’s more than 18,000 public and private schools (see Table 1 below). Against this backdrop, the Taliban established only 276 new public schools since they have retaken power, despite not all children having access to a school – a disparity that underscores the extent to which religious education has been deliberately prioritised while the public school system is reduced to a residual function.

Much of this growth has been achieved not by building new institutions from scratch, but through what might be described as a “franchise model”:[1] bringing pre-existing private, informal and community-based madrasas under Taliban administrative control in exchange for government salaries, formal certification and access to state resources. At the same time, the Taliban have systematically converted public education infrastructure. Documented cases include Abdul Haji Habibi High School in Khost province – one of the most modern secondary schools in southeastern Afghanistan – converted into a madrasa in 2022, displacing approximately 6,000 students and 130 teachers. Across all 34 provinces, teacher training institutes were shuttered and converted into jihadi madrasas, while the Ministry of Education simultaneously abolished its Teacher Training Department entirely.

Metric 2023-2024 Sept 2025
Standard madrasas 19,669 registered institutions 22,972 registered institutions (in which 27,379 students were provided with accommodation and food).
Dar ul-Huffaz 1,277 (with accommodation capacity for 1,650 talib al-Ilmapproved in 2023) Data on the total number of Dar ul-Huffaz centres is unavailable; however, 1,800 talib al-ilm were reported enrolled, of whom 300 are girls.
Dar-ul-Ulooms 115 Data unavailable
Orphanages (with religious teaching) 39 9,000 orphans receiving religious education in madrasas
Madrasas in prison Data unavailable 92
Total madrasa enrolment 3,687,200 Exact data unavailable.  The IEA is reported to have enrolled 29,013 new students (grade 1-14) in 2025-26.
Jihadi madrasa enrolment 21,000 26,000
Table 1: National Scale of Madrasa Expansion (2023-2025). Source: Ministry of Education, Summary Report on the Implementation Progress of the Ministry of Education’s Operational Plan Achievements, September 2025. NB: Figures should be treated as minimum estimates; this report’s provincial findings indicate significant undercounting. Official data do not distinguish between newly constructed madrasas, formerly private institutions brought under Taliban registration and repurposed public facilities. 
A layered architecture of ideological control

The Taliban have developed a layered religious education infrastructure comprising several distinct institution types which together form an interlocking system of religious instruction, politicised ideological socialisation, leadership reproduction and societal control – see Table 1.

Standard madrasas – the largest category by number – provide mass religious conditioning through a curriculum rooted in the Dars-e Nizami tradition, with its heavy emphasis on Quranic memorisation, Hadith studies and Hanafi jurisprudence. Dar ul-Huffaz centres specialise in Quranic memorisation and typically enrol children at a very young age – they are the earliest point of entry into the broader madrasa system. Dar ul-Ulooms are seminaries, providing advanced theological training for the future clerics, judges, muftis and religious administrators who will staff Taliban governance structures for the next generation. Female madrasas have become, since the Taliban’s ban on girls’ secondary and further education, the only remaining legal education option for girls above grade six.

The most politically significant category is the jihadi madrasa. Established by decree of Supreme Leader Hibatullah Akhundzada and administered through a special Kandahar-based directorate that reports directly to him – in other words, outside the normal Ministry of Education chain of command – these institutions function in practice as screening and recruitment mechanisms for the Taliban’s administrative, religious and security structures. The acting Minister of Higher Education, Neda Muhammad Nadim and former Minister of Refugees Khalil al-Rahman Haqqani have both publicly called for madrasas to instil jihadi and military concepts. Officially, the Taliban acknowledge one jihadi madrasa per province. HAMRAH’s fieldwork in Kandahar alone documented 23.

Ultimate doctrinal authority flows from the Supreme Leader’s office through a newly established General Directorate of Religious Affairs in Kandahar. The Supreme Leader directly appoints senior administrators of jihadi madrasas, sets doctrinal parameters and exercises final approval over the curriculum. This governance architecture – the Supreme Leader holding doctrinal authority, ministries of education and higher education managing operations, ulama councils enforcing local conformity and the Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice monitoring compliance – is designed for durability. The Generate Directorate of the Religious Affairs in Kandahar manages the operation of Jihadi schools.

What the fieldwork found: Kandahar and Bamyan

HAMRAH’s provincial fieldwork illuminates both the scale of Taliban madrasa expansion and its unevenness with findings in two provinces telling markedly different stories about the same national project.

In Kandahar – the Taliban’s ideological and administrative heartland – the Provincial Directorate of Education recorded 1,522 madrasas operating across the province in 2026, with an estimated enrolment of approximately 608,800 students. Kandahar City alone accounts for 340 madrasas and approximately 136,000 enrolled students – nearly one quarter of total provincial enrolment. Researchers verified much of this data through field visits to Kandahar City and four surrounding districts and identified at least 23 Dar ul-Ulooms and jihadi madrasas in the city and its immediate surroundings alone, against the Taliban’s official acknowledgement of one jihadi madrasa per province.

In Bamyan – a predominantly Hazara and Shia Muslim province with historically high rates of girls’ enrolment in schools and a history of anti-Taliban resistance – the transformation has been starker in relative terms. Total enrolment in the province’s madrasas (all Sunni) stood at approximately 6,972 students in 2023. By 2025, that figure had roughly doubled to approximately 12,800. More than 2,500 students now graduate annually from these religious institutions, compared with fewer than 1,800 from public schools – down from more than 4,000 before 2021 (see Table 2).

Indicator 2023 2024-25
Public madrasas 84 136 (incl 16 not yet registered)
Female madrasas 1 public 1 public, 1 private
Dar ul-Ulooms 1 public, 1 private 1 public, 1 private
Dar ul-Huffaz 10 Data unavailable
Jihadi madrasas 0 1 (capacity 1,000 students)
Total madrasa students 6,972 (3,401 male; 3,571 female) ~12,800 (est.)
Annual madrasa graduates Not recorded >2,500
Annual public school graduates >4,000 (pre-2021) ~1,800
Table 2: Madrasa Expansion in Bamyan Province; Sources: Bamyan Provincial Directorate of Education (2023 and 2025 data); HAMRAH Network fieldwork. 

Bamyan also illustrates a hardening posture toward non-Sunni communities. In early 2026, students at Bamyan University were told that dormitory accommodation would only be available to Sunni Muslim students following the Hanafi school. A December 2025 report by Rawadari documented the Taliban’s use of coercion and financial incentives to convert Ismaili Shia communities in four districts of Badakhshan Province. These are not isolated incidents but early indicators of a hardening posture toward non-Sunni communities as the Taliban’s power consolidates.

The evidence from Kandahar and Bamyan points to a coordinated effort to rapidly expand the madrasa network, which has become a central instrument of the Taliban’s project to reshape and penetrate Afghan society. They have subordinated madrasas in these provinces to their administrative framework, repurposing them and establishing new ones as instruments of movement-building, state consolidation, enforcement of their decrees and the cultivation of popular legitimacy and support. In Kandahar, their heartland, madrasa expansion is vast and has deepened the Taliban’s reach into society. In Bamyan, it is being used to reach into non-Sunni communities and extend Taliban dominance, with plans to bring Shia madrasas under state control too.

Financing Madrasas

The full cost of the Taliban’s madrasa expansion programme is difficult to establish; no public disclosure of expenditure has been made. The World Bank reported in 2025 that education spending accounted for 18.8 per cent of the total Taliban budget – approximately USD 675 million – the second-largest sector after security. A 2023 AAN report found that 95 per cent of the education budget went on salaries alone. Read alongside the Taliban’s own data – 87,592 religious education posts advertised nationwide, with recruitment of 50,000 personnel underway in 2025 – the implication is clear: a substantial and growing share of the Ministry of Education’s budget is directed to salaries for religious teachers, madrasa instructors and administrative personnel.

Beyond the state budget, the Taliban draw on several additional funding streams. The Supreme Leader maintains a significant discretionary budget, which funds madrasa construction and management outside normal appropriations processes. Coercive fundraising targeting private individuals and businesses has become increasingly common. As one businessman in Kandahar told HAMRAH researchers: “Paying for a madrasa’s salaries, food and building costs is the price of getting things done under the Emirate.” Sustaining and funding a madrasa has become an informal way to secure contracts, licences, or favourable treatment from authorities – conferring religious legitimacy alongside political advantage. Some of the largest madrasas in Kandahar documented in this study were linked to key Taliban figures, including Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, who established al-Jamiah al-Islamiyyah Dar-ul Uloom Kandahar following the Taliban’s return to power, from which approximately 1,000 students graduate annually.

Religious taxation provides another funding stream. The Emirate takes what in most Muslim countries are private charitable donations as state taxes. They are ushr – a tithe of approximately ten per cent levied on the harvest – and zakat – a tax on increases in livestock. In 2023, the Taliban reported collecting approximately one billion dollars through these taxes – funds flowing directly to the Supreme Leader’s office for distribution at his discretion. The scale of investment required to sustain a network of 23,000 madrasas cannot be explained by the Taliban’s domestic revenue base alone and the sources, mechanisms and governance of madrasa financing remain inadequately documented.

The institutionalisation of gender persecution

The madrasa network has become the primary infrastructure through which the Taliban’s gender persecution is being institutionalised and internalised. The system of gender discrimination – characterised by leading human rights organisations and a growing number of governments as gender apartheid – is being encoded in doctrine, enforced through surveillance and deliberately designed to outlast the current political moment.

A survey involving 8,245 women across all 34 provinces found that 56 per cent identified the Taliban’s ban on girls’ secondary education as the primary reason families enrolled daughters in madrasas.[2] Today, between 1.4 and 2.2 million girls are barred from attending school beyond primary level.

Field interviews documented that female madrasa students are consistently taught that men are permitted four wives, that women should accept and not question their husbands’ remarriage and that early marriage – particularly to fighters and those involved in jihad – is to be sought and celebrated. One girl, interviewed in Kandahar, noted that three of her friends had already married at age sixteen.[3] Physical compliance with Taliban gender norms is enforced within madrasa settings with notable rigour: girls are monitored not only for hijab observance, but for the colour of their nail varnish, the shape of their eyebrows and the colour of their clothing. This pervasive surveillance of female bodies normalises a culture of control that extends well beyond madrasa walls.

The social consequences are immediate and visible beyond the classroom. Field interviews documented stories of brothers pressuring sisters to marry early and abandon education, armed with religious authority derived from their madrasa instruction (see the report below). Children are being taught that their loyalty to the Emirate takes precedence over family bonds and that monitoring and reporting the behaviour of parents and relatives is not a betrayal but an obligation. The report also documents parents withdrawing sons from madrasas specifically out of fear that their children had become informants within their own households. As one community elder in Kandahar recounted, after speaking with the head of provincial intelligence: “Be aware that we now have informants in each one of your households.” The madrasa system, the elder observed, was the ideal training ground for this kind of conformity.

The long-term implications are profound. A generation educated exclusively within this framework will inherit and enforce a social order in which gender persecution is not policy but doctrine – normalised, naturalised and sanctified by religious authority. This is, by design, self-perpetuating.

The ideological threat

In July 2022, following criticism from ulama regarding the ban on girls’ education, Supreme Leader Akhundzada warned that criticism of Taliban authorities was “not permissible” in Islam, framing dissent as fitna – a state of social disorder incompatible with Muslim duty, to be eradicated by all means necessary. The acting Minister of Higher Education stated that those who undermine Taliban order “by speech, pen, or in practice” are considered wajeb ul-qatl – permitted to be killed. Meanwhile, our research found that non-Hanafi religious minorities are increasingly characterised in madrasa teaching as guilty of bid’aa – illegitimate innovation from the correct path of Islam – and legitimate candidates for conversion. Dissenters, women and religious minorities inside Afghanistan are the first targets of a doctrine that treats disagreement as a religious offence.

The primary concern is not that jihadi madrasas are systematically producing battlefield combatants – available evidence does not support that conclusion at this stage. The more consequential threat is ideological: the annual production of tens of thousands of graduates formed within a framework that treats religious authority, political loyalty and militant identity as inseparable.


The full report, including sourcing, methodology and the HAMRAH Network’s recommendations, is available here.


*Timor Sharan is Executive Director of HAMRAH Network and a former Senior Policy Analyst for Afghanistan at the International Crisis Group (ICG). He is the author of Inside Afghanistan: Political Networks, Informal Order and State Disruption.

References

References
↑1 On the franchise model, see Haroun Rahimi and Andrew Watkins, The Taliban’s Dynamic Efforts to Integrate and Regulate Madrasas And the Motives for Doing So, the Raoul Wallenberg Institute of Human Rights and Humanitarian Law (RWI), May 2025.
↑2 Organization for Policy Research and Development Studies (DROPS)/BISHNAW, Community Tracking Poll on Women’s Experiences and the Shift toward Madrasa Enrolment in Afghanistan, 2024.
↑3 Statistical modelling released by UN Women projects that the ongoing ban will trigger a 25 per cent increase in the rate of child marriage, putting 37.5 per cent of all Afghan girls at immediate risk of forced underage marriage.

 

A Parallel Education System: The Taliban’s madrasa expansion and its implications for gender, society and regional security
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Borrowing from the Future: How an Afghan trader sank deeper into debt

For many small traders, buying goods on credit is part of doing business. It allows them to trade even if they do not have the money to pay for stock up front. However, that also leaves them vulnerable when deals go wrong, creditors demand repayment or the economy takes a downturn. Borrowing more money to cover a loss or settle an outstanding debt may offer temporary relief, but can also draw a trader into an intractable cycle of debt with far-reaching consequences. In this instalment of the Daily Hustle, AAN’s Hamid Pakteen hears from a car trader whose business initially prospered because dealers were willing to give him cars on credit. But after a series of losses, he found himself borrowing to repay what he already owed. He describes how mounting debts forced him to sell inherited land and cost him the trust of the very people who had helped his business prosper. 

Most nights, the light in our living room stays on late. After everyone in my family has gone to sleep, I sit there alone with a sheet of paper, taking stock of my creditors and how much I owe each of them. I add up the figures over and over as if the numbers might somehow change if I count them again. Some evenings, when I hear people coming and going outside, I wonder if one of my creditors has come to my home to ask for his money.

There was a time when I was a self-assured trader in our local market. I bought and sold goods, mostly cars, and believed that, with a little more effort, I could build up my capital and put away a nest egg for the future. When someone trusted me enough to give me goods on credit, I took it as a sign that I had a good reputation. Today, I’m no longer that man. I’ve sold most of my assets and spent years struggling to repay my debts. What is hardest of all is that I’ve lost the trust of people who once believed in me. I think back to the first time I bought goods on credit. If someone had told me then that one day I’d be borrowing money to repay a loan, only to borrow again to pay that one back, I wouldn’t have believed them. But that’s exactly what happened.

How I first fell into debt

My name is Muhammad Wali. I’m 38 years old and was born in Ghazni city into a large household of 14 people, including my parents, two paternal uncles, two paternal aunts, four sisters, three brothers and me. Over the years, our family gradually grew smaller as my aunts, uncles and sisters married or moved away. My father married a second wife and, after living with us for a few years, moved with her to Kabul and later to Turkey. We never heard from him again. We only learned that he’d died when his second wife showed up at our house to settle the inheritance.

I was still at school when he left – my two older brothers worked and supported the family. But after a few years, they married and started their own households. They helped out when they could, but I had to put my plans to go to university on hold and start working to support myself and my mother.

When I was 20 years old, I joined some of my friends from Ghazni in Iran. I found work in a mechanic’s shop in Tehran and earned enough to support myself and send money home to my mother. Back then you could earn more in Iran and my employer gave me a place to live, so I even managed to put a little bit of money away for a rainy day, but I had to come back to Afghanistan when my mother arranged for me to get married. By then, my brothers and I had gone our separate ways. I spent the little money I had saved in Iran on the wedding and had to take whatever work I could find to make ends meet and support my mother and my wife. Then my mother fell ill and I had to borrow money to pay for her treatment. At first, she recovered, but she needed more treatment that we couldn’t afford, so I kept borrowing to pay for it. By the time my mother died, I was already in debt. By then, I had a family of my own – my wife, two daughters and two sons – and what I earned as a day labourer wasn’t enough to cover our household expenses and repay my debts.

From taxi driver to car trader 

Then one day a friend gave me a car on credit. He told me I could work as a taxi driver and had a year to pay him back. The car changed our lives. I could finally earn a living and, little by little, things began to improve. Then I met a car dealer in Ghazni, who bought cars in Herat and needed someone to bring them to Ghazni and sell them and he asked me to work with him. I sold the taxi and paid back what I owed my friend. I worked with the car dealer for two years and learned the ropes before I started trading cars on my own. At first, I’d take one car at a time on credit, sell it for a profit in another province, mainly in Khost, Paktia or Kabul, and repay the dealer. Over time, as my business grew, so did people’s trust in me. Dealers started giving me one car, two cars, even ten cars on credit because they knew I would sell them and pay back what I owed. I didn’t worry about being in debt. The loans let me do business and I was sure I’d be able to repay what I owed. But things didn’t turn out as I’d expected.

Things took a turn for the worse when one of my creditors unexpectedly asked for his money back earlier than we’d agreed because he needed it for a family emergency. To pay him back, I had to sell a car for less than what I’d paid for it. I used the money from the sale to repay him, but the loss left me without the capital I needed to keep trading. I told myself that this was a temporary setback and that I would make up the loss on the next deal.

To keep my business going, I took another car on credit. This time, I had six months to pay for it. Six months seemed like a long time. I thought I could make enough money from a few good deals to cover my losses and pay back what I owed. But once again, I needed cash urgently and sold another car at a loss. I used the money to repay the six-month loan, but the loss left me with even less capital. I took another car on credit and borrowed more than before, hoping that a bigger deal would help me make up for my losses and turn a profit. Instead, I kept losing money and taking out larger loans. I was paying back one creditor after another, but each new debt was bigger than the last. Instead of getting out of debt, I was sinking deeper into it.

Buying more time

Before I knew it, this had become my way of life. Whenever a repayment deadline approached and I didn’t have enough money, I’d borrow again. Each new loan bought me a little more time, but it also left me with more debt. The economic situation became even more difficult after the Taliban returned to power. People had less money and very few were buying cars. My profits kept shrinking, just when I needed to earn more to repay my growing debts. Whatever I earned went towards paying off old debts, leaving me without enough money to keep trading or cover our household expenses.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about how much profit I might make that day. Instead, I worried about which creditor was waiting for his money and where I’d find the money to pay him.

When I finally sat down and added up everything I owed, I could hardly believe the total – five million afghanis (USD 77,600). I sat and stared at the paper for a long time. To me, that number meant far more than money. Behind those figures were deals, promises and sleepless nights spent worrying about who to pay and how. I thought about how I’d ended up in this situation. One small loan followed another, one losing deal followed another and one promise to pay tomorrow became a promise to pay the following week.

The cost of my debts

When I could no longer earn enough to repay my debts, I had to start selling what I owned. The hardest decision of my life was to sell the land I’d inherited from my father – land that had been in our family for generations. But my creditors wouldn’t wait and I had no other way to pay them. I sold the land one plot at a time and used the money to repay my creditors. Each time I sold a piece of land, I hoped the burden of debt would ease. But after paying my creditors, I’d add up what I still owed and realise that I was still heavily in debt.

As my debts grew, I also began to lose the trust of people who had once been willing to lend me money or give me goods on credit. People who had once been willing to do business with me on a handshake and a promise now asked what had happened to the money I already owed them. Some wouldn’t do business with me at all, while others would only deal with me if I paid cash up front. Sometimes, in the market, I’d see someone I’d known for years turn away as soon as he spotted me, trying to avoid me. That was when I realised I’d lost their trust and that their trust was worth more to me than money.

As the economy worsened after the Taliban returned to power, people had less money and my creditors were under more financial pressure. They started pressing me harder to pay them back. I understood their position. They’d lent me money and had every right to expect repayment, but I simply didn’t have enough to pay them. Eventually, some of them lodged complaints against me and the police called me to come to the station. I explained to them that I wasn’t trying to avoid paying my debts. I was doing my best to repay everyone, but I needed more time to earn enough money. The police spoke to my creditors and persuaded them to give me more time to pay back what I owed.

Someone looking at my situation from the outside might ask why I kept borrowing when I knew it was making things worse. But when a creditor was waiting for his money, I could think only about how to get through that day. I wasn’t thinking about what would happen tomorrow.

Still paying the price

Looking back, I wish I’d stopped taking out one loan after another and believing that the next deal would bring in enough money to clear my debts. Maybe then things wouldn’t have got so bad. My debts have cost me more than money. I have sold much of the land I inherited from my father, damaged relationships and lost the trust of people who once did business with me.

I’ve managed to pay back a bit more than half of what I owed, but I still owe two million afghanis (USD 31,150). I’ve started working as a day labourer a few days a week. It’s good, honest work, but I don’t find work every day, so I still trade cars, although now I only buy a car when I know I have a buyer. Sometimes, I still have to borrow money, but I’m much more careful now. Before taking on any new debt, I think about how much I can realistically afford to repay.

I still hope that one day I’ll pay off my last loan and there’ll be no creditors’ names left on my list. I want to live without fearing what tomorrow will bring and regain the trust I’ve lost.

What worries me most is what my mistakes might mean for my children’s future. Who will want to marry my daughters when their father is known as a debtor? How will I afford my sons’ weddings? I’m especially worried that my sons might have to leave school and start working to help me repay my debts. I don’t want that to happen. My children shouldn’t have to give up their education or their futures because their father made bad decisions.

Above all, I want my children to have a different life from mine. I want them to finish their education and build their own futures without worrying about the debts I’ve left behind. I hope they’ll learn from my mistakes, especially the importance of keeping their word and not making promises they can’t keep. These are lessons I’ve learned the hard way and I hope I can show them that it’s possible to make a living without falling into debt as I did.

Edited by Roxanna Shapour and Jelena Bjelica

 

Borrowing from the Future: How an Afghan trader sank deeper into debt
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Pakistani Airstrikes in Afghanistan: Civilian Casualties and the Mecca Pact Distraction

Khaama Press

On 1 October 2026, Pakistan again carried out airstrikes inside Afghanistan, this time targeting areas in Kunar and Helmand provinces. The United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA) confirmed that at least 10 civilians were killed, most of them children, and nine others were injured. Afghan authorities said three civilian homes were struck. Pakistan, however, said the attacks were based on credible intelligence and targeted hideouts belonging to the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) and the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA), claiming that 22 militants were killed.

The latest attacks came only a week after Pakistan’s air force struck ten locations in Kandahar, Paktia and Khost on 24 September, killing four civilians according to Afghan authorities, and just days after earlier strikes in Kunar and Paktika in which the UN confirmed three civilian deaths.

Islamabad has repeatedly described its attacks as deliberate, precise and proportionate, presenting them as necessary responses to militant attacks and threats allegedly originating from Afghan territory. Yet the growing civilian toll and continuing deterioration of Pakistan’s own security situation raise serious questions about that justification. These strikes appear to serve two additional political goals for Islamabad that go beyond its stated counterterrorism strategy against the TTP: avoiding the difficult commitments Pakistan faces under the Mecca Joint Defence Agreement and diverting attention from Field Marshal Syed Asim Munir’s failure to contain the worsening security situation inside Pakistan.

The record of the past year provides enough evidence to judge Pakistan’s air campaign by its results rather than its stated intentions. Between October 2025 and September 2026, Pakistan carried out repeated air and drone strikes inside Afghanistan, targeting Kabul and the provinces of Kandahar, Kunar, Khost, Nangarhar, Paktia and Paktika. The October strikes have now extended that campaign into Helmand as well.

The civilian cost has been severe. Between 26 January and 31 March alone, the United Nations recorded 764 civilian casualties from hostilities between Afghanistan and Pakistan: 372 people killed and 392 injured. By late September, UNAMA said cross-border armed violence had caused more than 1,100 civilian deaths and injuries in Afghanistan during 2026. The October 1 strikes provided another grim reminder of that toll, with the UN once again confirming civilian deaths, most of them children.

The deadliest incident occurred on 16 March, when Pakistani airstrikes hit the Omid Drug Rehabilitation and Treatment Centre in Kabul. UNAMA later verified that at least 269 civilians were killed and 122 injured, most of them patients. Amnesty International found no evidence supporting Pakistan’s assertion that the centre was being used to store weapons, ammunition or for other military purposes and called for the strike to be investigated as a possible war crime. That finding seriously undermined Islamabad’s justification for one of the deadliest attacks of the conflict.

Pakistan’s counterterrorism strategy also appears to be failing by its own stated objective: reducing militant violence at home.

On 18 September, a suicide vehicle bombing and subsequent armed assault struck the Old Police Lines complex in Kohat, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, during Friday prayers. The reported death toll later rose to at least 31, while more than 100 people were injured. It was the deadliest attack on a police facility in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa since the 2023 Peshawar Police Lines bombing. Just before the Kohat attack, an improvised explosive device struck a security forces convoy in Hangu, killing six Pakistani soldiers.

The broader statistics are equally troubling for Islamabad. The Islamabad-based Center for Research and Security Studies recorded 774 violence-linked deaths across Pakistan during the second quarter of 2026. Khyber Pakhtunkhwa alone accounted for 475 deaths—a 53 percent increase from the previous quarter—while Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan together accounted for almost 96 percent of all violence-linked fatalities in the country.

These figures show little evidence that repeated strikes inside Afghanistan have deterred militant violence in Pakistan’s border provinces. The October 1 attacks reinforce that contradiction: Pakistan said it had once again destroyed militant hideouts, yet its previous rounds of cross-border military action have not prevented increasingly deadly attacks inside Pakistan.

What the air campaign has produced instead is a growing civilian toll and deeper hostility among Afghans. Civilian homes, religious institutions and a major medical facility have been among the sites reported hit during the conflict, while Kabul has repeatedly disputed Pakistan’s claims about the targets it says it is attacking.

The air campaign has also unfolded alongside other punitive measures. Pakistan has repeatedly shut border crossings and disrupted trade with Afghanistan, severely restricting the movement of essential goods. It has continued large-scale deportations of Afghan refugees and migrants, while the Durand Line remains a source of deep political disagreement. To many Afghans, these policies are increasingly viewed not as attempts to solve bilateral disputes but as instruments of coercion.

Pakistan’s approach to outside mediation raises further questions about its intentions.

Qatar and Türkiye brokered a ceasefire between Afghanistan and Pakistan in Doha in October 2025. Subsequent talks in Istanbul produced agreement on a monitoring and verification mechanism, but the process failed to produce a durable political settlement. By February 2026, fighting had resumed on a scale that rendered the ceasefire largely meaningless. China has also attempted to reduce tensions between Kabul and Islamabad without producing a lasting breakthrough.

More recently, Türkiye’s intelligence chief Ibrahim Kalın and a senior Qatari security official travelled to Afghanistan and met senior Taliban officials, including the acting defence and interior ministers and intelligence chief. Their discussions included tensions between Kabul and Islamabad. Within days of those diplomatic efforts, Pakistan launched further rounds of airstrikes inside Afghanistan.

That sequence matters. If mediation succeeds, Pakistan and Afghanistan would both have to accept clearer and more reciprocal commitments. Continued military escalation, by contrast, allows Islamabad to act unilaterally while placing responsibility for failed diplomacy on Kabul. This makes the timing of Pakistan’s latest escalation particularly significant.

The wider regional context provides another possible explanation.

In August, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Türkiye signed the Mecca Joint Defence Agreement, establishing a collective-defence arrangement under which an attack against one member is to be treated as an attack against all three. The agreement quickly faced its first serious test.

On 8 September, Houthi forces launched a major series of missile and drone attacks against Saudi Arabia, targeting energy facilities and military sites. The following day, Pakistani Defence Minister Khawaja Asif said that aggression against Saudi Arabia could make the Mecca agreement operational and stressed that Pakistan was bound by its terms.

Pakistan’s rhetoric became even stronger in the following days. Senior Pakistani military officials pledged to stand with Saudi Arabia against aggression, while Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif told the United Nations General Assembly on 25 September that any threat to Mecca or Medina represented a “red line.” The three countries also moved toward consultations among their military chiefs on how to respond to the growing Houthi threat.

Yet strong rhetoric is not the same as committing troops or entering another Middle Eastern war.

That distinction matters because Pakistan has been here before. In 2015, despite intense pressure from Saudi Arabia, Pakistan’s parliament voted to remain neutral in the Yemen war. A decade later, Islamabad again faces the difficult task of balancing its strategic dependence on Saudi Arabia against the enormous political and military risks of becoming directly involved in Yemen.

Afghan officials have drawn their own conclusion from this timing. Taliban spokesman Zabihullah Mujahid has accused Pakistan of attacking Afghanistan partly to evade responsibilities under the Mecca pact and to divert attention from its domestic political, economic and security failures. Kabul obviously has its own interests in advancing this argument, and the allegation cannot by itself establish Islamabad’s motives. But it cannot simply be dismissed either.

The sequence is striking. As pressure increased on members of the Mecca pact to translate collective-defence promises into action, Pakistan simultaneously intensified military operations on its western frontier. By presenting itself as already engaged in a serious conflict with Afghanistan, Pakistan’s military leadership gains a politically convenient argument against deeper involvement elsewhere while preserving its strategic relationship with Riyadh.

The second motive is domestic and centres on Field Marshal Munir’s repeated inability to reverse Pakistan’s deteriorating security situation.

Military action across the Afghan border offers something that a difficult domestic political settlement does not: immediate images of retaliation, strength and national resolve. Airstrikes can dominate headlines after militant attacks and allow the military to demonstrate that it is “responding.” But retaliation is not the same as strategy.

Pakistan’s security crisis has deep political, social and historical roots, particularly in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and the former tribal areas. Bombing targets across an international border cannot substitute for addressing those grievances, strengthening civilian institutions or pursuing the political compromises required for long-term stability.

Nor can repeated airstrikes conceal the basic contradiction in Islamabad’s approach. If nearly a year of military pressure inside Afghanistan has failed to reduce militant attacks in Pakistan—and violence in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa is instead increasing—then more of the same cannot credibly be presented as a successful counterterrorism policy.

The events of October 1 show that the cycle described here is no longer merely a prediction. Less than a week after the previous round of Pakistani strikes, Afghan civilians were again killed in cross-border air attacks, even as Islamabad once more declared that militant targets had been successfully eliminated.

The likely pattern is therefore grim but increasingly familiar: militant attacks inside Pakistan, followed by Pakistani strikes inside Afghanistan, followed by civilian casualties, public anger and another round of escalation.

That cycle may provide short-term political cover for Pakistan’s military leadership. It does not provide security for Pakistan, peace for Afghanistan or a path toward resolving the disputes between the two countries.

The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Khaama Press.

Pakistani Airstrikes in Afghanistan: Civilian Casualties and the Mecca Pact Distraction
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The Measles Outbreak Cycle: A long road ahead to end epidemics 

Afghanistan has faced recurrent measles outbreaks for more than two decades, with uneven routine immunisation allowing the disease to return even after large vaccination campaigns. Drawing on interviews conducted in 2025 and 2026 with doctors, health workers and parents, AAN’s Jelena Bjelica, Rama Mirzada and Rohullah Sorush hear about the latest major outbreak in 2024-25, the overcrowded wards, multiple cases in families and deaths among young children. While measles cases fell sharply in many areas in 2026 after a major vaccination campaign in November 2025, our interviews suggest Afghanistan remains at risk of renewed outbreaks unless routine two-dose vaccination coverage improves. 

“You might not believe me, but it took a long time for us to appreciate the danger of measles to children until we experienced it. We’d been unaware of its dangers and the deaths it caused.”
– Muqem, 29-year-old father of three children in Faizabad, Badakhshan

All three of Muqem’s children contracted measles in May 2025.[1] He described one of his daughters becoming so ill she could not open her eyes. The experience shook him so deeply that it changed how the family thinks. They had not previously understood how dangerous the disease could be. More awareness, he said, including through mosques, was needed to encourage families to vaccinate their children.

Fortunately, all of Muqem’s children survived, but in the same year, 550 people did die of measles. Following the re-establishment of the Islamic Emirate in 2021, there had been a two-year gap in mass national vaccination campaigns (between 2023 and 2025) and in that gap, the country experienced its worst outbreak on record. Suspected measles cases rose to 60,000 in 2024 (WHO) and surged in 2025, with more than 97,000 suspected cases by mid-December (WHO).[2] Only after a nationwide vaccination campaign that reached more than 16.7 million children in late 2025 did measles cases decline – falling to almost 19,000 in the year to the end of August.[3] However, Afghanistan still faces the risk of measles outbreaks because access to health services in the country remains patchy and not enough children have the regular two-dose vaccination – also called ‘routine vaccination’. This is when parents take their infants for regular check-ups and vaccination in designated local health facilities.

Measles outbreaks are not a new problem: Afghanistan has experienced recurrent measles epidemics in the period under review, ie since 2001,[4] reflecting longstanding problems with routine childhood immunisation, which, in turn, are driven by poor access to health services, poverty, illiteracy, prejudice, malnutrition and the health system’s poor ability to respond.

This report draws on 12 interviews conducted in 2025 and 2026 with doctors, health workers and parents about the spread of measles, access to vaccination and the pressure outbreaks have placed on families and health facilities. Taken together, the interviews offer a snapshot of the outbreak at two different moments – 2025, when the measles outbreak put intense pressure on hospitals and households and 2026, when cases had fallen substantially in several provinces, but measles transmission rates remained high and problems with routine immunisation remained.

The report opens with the experiences of the major outbreak in 2025, with interviews conducted in July of that year Badakhshan, Farah and Helmand, with hospital doctors and two parents whose children had contracted measles. This is followed by a look at how the situation was a year later after a major vaccination campaign, based on interviews conducted in August and September 2026 with doctors and health workers in Badakhshan, Farah, Helmand, Faryab, Ghor, Maidan Wardak and Ghazni provinces, including reinterviews with the doctors in Badakhshan and Farah. The report closes with an overview of recurring measles outbreaks in Afghanistan since 2001.

The report shows that routine immunisation is not enough, often because parents lack information or general knowledge about vaccination or because health service coverage is inadequate or difficult to access, with the system especially struggling since the 2025 aid cuts. It also shows how vulnerable Afghanistan is to outbreaks unless there is substantial development support for its health sector, and how unprepared the Emirate government has been to deal with a major health crisis, presumably because the health sector has never been a budgetary or policy priority.

The 2025 measles outbreak: why vaccine matters 

Muqem, the 29-year-old father of three in Faizabad whose story opened this report, described how in 2025, his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter became so seriously ill she had to be taken to the doctor every day. He was a little uncertain about his daughter’s vaccination status: “I asked her mother and she said she had taken her to the hospital for her vaccinations, but wasn’t sure if the measles vaccine was given.” Two nephews who lived with the family also contracted measles and became very sick: Muqem believed they had not been vaccinated. One, a three-year-old, developed such a high fever and severe rash that, as Muqem described it, his skin began to peel.

In total, eight children in our extended family, including my nephews, nieces and my own children, got measles, one after another. It started when one child got sick. After she recovered, another child got infected. The children who were in the most severe condition were those who had not been vaccinated.

The experience left him convinced that vaccination mattered, not least because of the nine children in his extended family, the only child that did not contract measles was the one the family was certain had been fully vaccinated, ie had received two doses.

At the other end of the country, in Farah, another parent, Razia, described how her eight-month-old daughter contracted measles before receiving her first vaccination.[5] The child became critically ill, she said. Her whole body turned red and she appeared lifeless and was unable to drink milk.

Her body had no strength – it was like a dead body. Only her heart was beating, which was the only way we could tell she was still alive. She was admitted to hospital for eight days. It was a truly horrible situation. I pray to God that no mother ever experiences this.

For Razia, with five children, the experience also became an argument for vaccination. She said her older children had previously had measles, but experienced the illness far more mildly – which she attributed to them having been vaccinated (with at least one dose) or having contracted the disease at a later age. Children under five are particularly vulnerable if they have not received both recommended vaccine doses to measles because protection from maternal antibodies fades during infancy. Also, once infected, young children are more likely to develop serious complications, particularly if they are malnourished or have weakened immune systems. Razia’s baby was not yet of age for vaccination: “I hope and pray that no child will ever contract measles before receiving the vaccine.”

During those eight days in hospital, Razia said the number of children admitted with measles rose from around 15 to around 50. This scenario was echoed in our interviews with doctors in Badakhshan, Farah and Helmand in 2025, who described how the severe measles outbreak h placed considerable pressure on hospitals and families. Doctors in all three provinces reported substantially higher caseloads than in previous years. According to the WHO’s infectious diseases monitoring report from 2025, the highest cumulative incidence of suspected measles cases per 10,000 population was reported in Helmand (69.4) and Badakhshan (49.9).

In Badakhshan, Dr Mushtaq at Faizabad Hospital said they were admitting 50 to 60 measles patients a day in mid-2025, compared with no more than six a day in 2024. Although admissions had fallen to between 12 and 18 a day by the time of the interview (in July 2025), he estimated that as many as 2,500 measles patients had been hospitalised over the previous five months. “At the peak of the outbreak, we were admitting up to 80 patients a day,” he said. The children’s ward has only 30 beds, he said, but could be caring for as many as 180 children, forcing staff to put several patients in one bed and use corridors. “We even had to use the kitchen as a temporary ward,” said Dr Muttaq. There had been between eight and twelve deaths a month, most of them, children under two.

Dr Gulli described a similar situation at Boost Hospital in Helmand: they were seeing around 200 to 300 measles patients a week at the time of the interview (July 2025) and earlier in the year had recorded as many as 120 patients a day. He said around 15 to 20 children were admitted every 24 hours, principally those with complications or underlying health problems. “In some instances,” Dr Gulli said, “I was treating ten or so members of a single family infected with measles.” Although less than one per cent of the measles patients died, he said that still meant they had as many as four deaths every week at the hospital.

Farah’s hospital was also struggling with overcrowding. At peak periods in 2025, paediatrician Dr Farid Hakimi said they were admitting as many as 20 measles patients a day. He said the hospital lacked a dedicated quarantine section with enough nurses and also that several sick children sometimes had to share a single bed, making effective isolation difficult. “At times,” he said “we had 25 inpatients with only one nurse, working a 24-hour shift, and one doctor attending to 120 patients.” He described an unbearable situation.

In every family, around two or three children had measles. They were treated at home because their financial situation was not good enough to admit their children to private hospitals and the capacity of the public hospital wasn’t enough to admit all patients. It was such a horrible situation. People were affected both mentally and financially. For instance, three children from the same family had contracted measles, but they had no money to hospitalise them in a private hospital. So, the family bought medicine for one child and shared it with the other two as well. 

The doctors we interviewed repeatedly stressed that malnutrition, poverty and other illnesses made measles more dangerous. Dr Gulli said around eight out of every 20 children admitted with measles were malnourished. It is among the principal complications associated with deaths, along with pneumonia and dehydration. Families’ economic circumstances are also an underlying factor in a child’s prospects of recovery, with some families lacking the resources to seek treatment promptly or provide sick children with adequate food.

What the parents we interviewed instinctively felt, the doctors confirmed: gaps in vaccination emerged as the most consistent explanation for the scale of the outbreak. Doctors said many of the children they treated had no record of measles vaccination, particularly those coming from remote areas. In Helmand. In Farah, Dr Hakimi also said that most of the children he treated had not been vaccinated and described greater reluctance towards vaccination in villages and districts than in the provincial capital. In Badakhshan, access to remote areas is the main problem: while mobile vaccination teams can operate in many villages and districts, Dr Mushtaq said that places such as Wakhan, Pamir and parts of Darwaz were difficult to reach.

The doctors we interviewed also raised concerns raised about how vaccines were transported, stored or administered, particularly in remote areas. Measles vaccines must be kept within a functioning cold chain, generally at between 2°C and 8°C and protected from heat and light.[6] The doctors suspected possible breaks in the cold chain and inadequate vaccinator training.[7] In Badakhshan, for example, Mushtaq said he believed delayed delivery, cold-chain problems and administration errors may have contributed to vaccination failures in 2024 and 2025. The Helmand doctor raised similar concerns, while saying storage and handling at Boost Hospital itself were properly monitored. There is no doubt that Afghanistan’s vaccine cold chain faces persistent logistical challenges, including unreliable electricity, shortages of refrigeration equipment and the difficulties of transporting vaccines to remote areas. UNICEF and its partners have invested substantially in solar-powered refrigerators, generators and other cold-chain infrastructure. In 2024, they installed 318 solar direct-drive refrigerators in health facilities across all 34 provinces, alongside cold rooms, freezers, vaccine carriers and generators (UNICEF). There is also no evidence that might verify that it was a cold-chain failure that caused the recent measles outbreak.

What the 2025 outbreak did clearly show was that gaps in mass national immunisation campaigns in environments such as Afghanistan, where multiple children can become infected in succession in large households, are dangerous. The images of overcrowded wards, shortages of staff and large numbers of seriously ill children last year displayed how serious a measles outbreak can be. At the same time, the interviews suggest that attitudes towards vaccination were not uniformly hostile. Many parents saw vaccination as beneficial, while some who had experienced severe measles firsthand became strong advocates for immunising children. The central challenge emerging from these accounts was therefore not vaccine hesitancy, but ensuring that children, particularly those in remote and poor communities, were actually reached by effective mobile immunisation campaigns, if routine vaccination is not available, before outbreaks occurred.

The situation in 2026: a decline in cases, but not an ending 

Interviews with doctors and health workers in selected provinces conducted in 2026 showed that measles cases have fallen in many parts of Afghanistan since the 2024-25 outbreak, although the picture remains uneven. In some provinces, like Helmand, as we will see, there has been little improvement.

In Farah province, we reinterviewed Dr Hakimi. He said the number of measles cases had fallen significantly:

The number of cases hasn’t yet dropped to zero. However, the number of patients admitted has gone down compared to 2025. … to three per day on average and on some days, we have only one. These are only patients with severe conditions, not those whose condition is normal and who can be sent home. 

In Faryab province, another Dr Hakimi also reported a decline in measles cases: “The situation is good and under our control now. We have one to two cases a month.” In Badakhshan, Dr Mushtaq whom we had interviewed in 2025, said the situation was far better than that year, with only up to six measles patients admitted each week. He also said the patients’ cases were “not as complicated” as last year. However, he highlighted staff shortages and the remoteness of some areas in Badakhshan as the main problems in the province, problems that had not gone away. “We have vacancies, but we lack doctors and nurses, and if there are measles complications, we don’t have the doctors specialising in malnutrition and infectious diseases.” Also, he added, “Most of our doctors work in volunteer positions.”

Interviewees credited mass vaccination campaigns with much of the improvement. Safiullah Seddiqi, who supervises health services in Maidan Wardak and Ghazni, said measles cases fell after the ten-day vaccination campaign in late 2025 and that the children who continued to contract the disease were largely those who had not been vaccinated. In Ghor, the deputy head of the Emirate’s Expanded Programme on Immunisation, Dr Faroqi, described a similar cycle: a 2022 campaign was followed by very few cases in 2023, but outbreaks returned in 2024 and became very severe in 2025 after the two-year vaccination gap. “In 2025,” he said, “the cases increased to the level that the infectious ward of our hospital didn’t have the capacity to admit patients.”

Our interviewees in Farah, Ghor, Faryab, Badakhshan Maidan Wardak and Ghazni all agreed that access to vaccination remains highly uneven – and for a variety of reasons. In Faryab, one doctor described “white areas” that are beyond the reach of regular health services, although mobile vaccinators were increasingly being used to reach them. In Ghor, a doctor told AAN that even mobile teams could not reach remote districts, while transport costs, restrictions on women’s mobility and families’ workloads prevented many parents from bringing children to clinics for vaccination. In Farah, a doctor described a different cause: some parents avoided vaccinators and were reluctant to vaccinate their children, underscoring the ongoing importance of public awareness alongside physical access to services.

Helmand province stands out from the downward trend in cases. Dr Seraj, who works at Boost Hospital, said there had been little change from 2025 and that measles remained the most prominent disease in the hospital’s isolation ward. The ward has 34 beds, he said, and they are usually full. The peak this year had been in April, four months before the interview, when he said that 50 measles patients had been admitted, forcing the hospital to restrict admission to only complicated cases.

From my point of view, there’s not been much change compared to 2025. In our isolation ward, the number of measles patients is higher than for other diseases. It’s been two years since I started working here and I’ve reviewed the records of admitted patients. Based on these records, we still have many measles patients. Our beds are full most of the time. 

The main reason for the high incidence of measles cases in Helmand is the same, however – missed immunisation.

Our interviews, supported by the monitoring data, suggest that the mass vaccination campaign in late 2025 was followed by a substantial reduction in measles nationwide, but that it has not eliminated the underlying conditions that allow outbreaks to recur. Routine immunisation in local clinics, hospitals or other health care establishments is still not common practice, particularly in remote communities, while poverty can prevent families from seeking timely care, and health facilities may struggle when cases surge. The situation in Helmand also shows that statistics showing a national decline can conceal significant local outbreaks. Afghanistan’s dependence on nationwide mass vaccination campaigns, rather than a routine two-dose immunisation, which requires a more comprehensive health infrastructure, suggests that there is still a long road ahead in eradicating measles.

Setting the 2025 epidemic in historic context 

Afghanistan has faced recurrent measles outbreaks for the last quarter of the century, largely because routine immunisation never achieved full coverage or consistent delivery, with many children, especially in rural and hard-to-reach areas, left unvaccinated. Following the years of conflict and international isolation, beginning in 2001-02, the Ministry of Public Health, WHO and UNICEF launched large vaccination campaigns (WHO). Around 11.5 million children aged six months to 12 years were immunised in 2002. Another five million children were immunised in 2003. Reported measles cases consequently fell sharply, from 8,762 in 2001 to 559 in 2004. However, the gains were difficult to sustain. Cases rose again to 836 in 2005 and 1,835 in 2006 as routine coverage remained inadequate and many children were left unprotected, especially in the south and southeast of the country (Relief Web).

In 2005, the Country Report on Afghanistan’s Millennium Development Goals (written by the United Nations Development Programme) said the measles vaccination campaign had been effective, at least in the cities:

The measles immunisation programme has been a success in Afghanistan, with 75% of children aged less than 12 months having being immunised. Owing to much higher immunisation coverage of children in urban as opposed to rural areas, infant and child mortality rates in the rural areas are around 25% higher.

However, routine immunisation alone never reached enough children, which meant Afghanistan has kept going through the same vicious cycle: a rise in cases followed by an immunisation campaign whether that targeted a specific province or was nationwide. That brought cases down, but without routine immunisation, they were bound to rise again. Afghanistan’s 2018 Health Survey concluded that the measles immunisation rate had fluctuated, without overall improvement between 2003 and 2018, with estimated measles vaccination coverage at about 64 per cent, and with only 51.4 per cent of children ever fully vaccinated (ie, with two jabs). This suggests that emergency campaigns repeatedly reduced outbreaks, but that routine immunisation was failing to reach enough children, enough times.

Reported measles cases per year, 2020-2025. Source: WHO Immunization Portal. Graph generated on 28 September 2026

After relatively lower transmissions in 2019 and 2020, suspected measles cases again began rising across Afghanistan after the Taliban takeover, from around 30,000 in 2021 (WHO) to more than 77,000 in 2022 (WHO), as explained in more detail in the following section.

Epidemics under the Emirate

The rise in cases is directly linked to the deterioration of the healthcare system and the economic crisis that struck the country following the abrupt change of government. Since the re-establishment of the Islamic Emirate in August 2021, funding for healthcare has plummeted and the number of health facilities and medical staff has shrunk (see this 2025 AAN report on rural women’s access to health). WHO’s 2025 Public Health Situation Analysis, using 2023 data, estimated there are only 10.3 doctors, nurses and midwives per 10,000 people. It described the workforce shortage and its distribution as critical. The sharp reduction in donor support in 2025, most significantly caused by the cut in US aid under President Trump’s Stop Aid order from January 2025,[8] resulted in the closure of approximately 595 facilities since then, according to Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), with 445 closed or suspended in 2025, plus more than 150 additional health centres during the first half of 2026 (MSF). At the same time, the Emirate’s spending priorities mean health gets only one to two per cent of the budget (compared to 40 to 50 per cent spent on security).[9] The limited availability of health facilities across the country, coupled with staff shortages – particularly of specialist doctors and female health workers had the most severe impact on women, who are often tasked with taking care of children’s vaccination schedules. A series of prohibitions targeting women promulgated by the Emirate since 2021 has made independent travel difficult and in some areas, impossible, especially over long distances. In particular, a ban instituted in December 2021 on women and girls travelling “long distances” without a mahram (a close male relative) is often applied to any woman travelling independently, at all.[10]

Number of suspected measles cases based on WHO data. Graph: AAN, 2026.
Number of measles-related deaths based on WHO data. Graph: AAN, 2026.

As the two graphs above show, 2022 was the first major peak since 2001 for measles in Afghanistan, with 77,210 suspected cases and 388 deaths. The response was extensive: several subnational campaigns reached around three million children, followed in November and December 2022 by the first nationwide measles campaign since August 2021. It vaccinated 5.36 million children aged 9 months to 5 years across all 34 provinces. This appears to have contributed to the much lower incidence seen in 2023: annual suspected cases fell by roughly two-thirds to just under 29,000. Nevertheless, WHO monitoring showed cases again beginning to increase towards the end of 2023.

2024 saw another major resurgence, with 59,753 suspected cases and 289 deaths – more than double the number of suspected cases reported in 2023. Eighty per cent of suspected cases and more than 95 per cent of deaths were among children younger than five. The underlying vulnerability was considerable: Afghanistan’s 2022–23 Multiple Indicator Cluster Survey had found that only about 51% of children had received their first measles-containing vaccine dose and only 37% the necessary second dose. This is far below the level of 95 per cent, two-dose coverage (UNICEF) required to prevent outbreaks of a disease as infectious as measles.

As could be anticipated, the situation became still more serious in 2025. Cases rose steadily from the beginning of the year and reached a peak of 4,172 suspected cases every week in April. By 13 December, WHO had recorded 97,368 suspected measles cases and 552 associated deaths. This was the highest number of suspected cases recorded since 2001. In response, Afghanistan carried out a large two-phase national vaccination campaign in late 2025, reaching more than 16.7 million children aged six months to ten years across all provinces. By 29 August 2026, the national surveillance system had recorded 18,826 suspected cases and 78 deaths, compared with more than 97,000 cases already recorded by late June in 2025. Children under five still accounted for 14,367 cases, or 76 per cent of the 2026 total. Weekly cases have also been declining: between 23 and 29 August, only 292 suspected cases were reported, with no deaths and the Ministry of Public Health says the downward trend had been evident since June (MoPH).

However, there are still many children in Afghanistan who have not received at least one dose of measles vaccine. A recent REACH Initiative Whole of Afghanistan Assessment (WoAA) 2026 survey found that a fifth of respondents (21 per cent) had a child who had never received a measles injection at nine months or later and five per cent did not know if their child had received one.

Conclusion

Measles is one of the most contagious diseases in the world. The only way to really stop major outbreaks is to achieve ‘population immunity’, which requires the vast majority of the population to be vaccinated or to have previously had the disease (the UNICEF/WHO goal is 95%). Afghanistan’s vaccination practice cannot achieve this: large vaccination campaigns have repeatedly brought cases down, but weak routine, double-dose coverage caused by poor and uneven access to health services, malnutrition, periodic conflict and insecurity and the geographic isolation of many communities have allowed outbreaks to return. The fact that more than three-quarters of measles cases in 2026 were registered among children under five (both doses of measles vaccine should be administered before the age of 18 months; see footnote 5) (MoPH) clearly shows that the immunisation has not reached every child and the country remains vulnerable to renewed outbreaks.

The remedy is difficult. Rather than periodic vaccination campaigns, Afghanistan’s children, nationwide, need a two-dose routine immunisation. That it does need to be two-dose was the conclusion of a 2026 journal article, “Measles outbreak risk in Afghanistan: provincial immunity gaps and epidemic potential following immunisation system disruption,” in Vaccine, published by Elsevier. A single dose, the study found, would not give sufficiently high immunity, even if coverage were dramatically improved. The authors argue that controlling measles will therefore require a combination of sustained two-dose vaccination, large and well-targeted supplementary campaigns in vulnerable areas and the broader restoration of Afghanistan’s routine immunisation system, rather than relying on a single-dose vaccine alone.

However, in the current global political climate, Afghanistan has slipped down the international agenda and funding for basic services has become increasingly scarce. This leaves health providers, most of whom are NGO-run and donor-supported, struggling to sustain already depleted services, let alone expand preventive care or reach long-underserved communities. At the same time, a shift in Emirate policy that prioritised health and well-being is not on the horizon. Without sustained donor commitment or a change in national budget allocations, the cycle of avoidable illness, overstretched services and avoidable deaths among small children is set to continue.

Edited by Rachel Reid and Kate Clark

References

References
↑1 The World Health Organisation (WHO) describes measles as a highly contagious viral disease that is easily transmitted when an infected person breathes, coughs or sneezes and can cause serious complications and even death. While it can affect anyone, it is most common in children. The infection starts in the respiratory tract and then spreads throughout the body. Symptoms include a high fever, cough, runny nose and a rash all over the body. There is no specific cure for measles. Vaccination, which began in 1963 and has since become widespread, is the most effective way to prevent measles infection and transmission. The vaccine is safe, effective and affordable and community-wide vaccination has proven the most effective way to prevent measles.
↑2 The approximation for the number of suspected cases is based on the World Health Organization’s Afghanistan Infectious Diseases Outbreaks Situation Reports, which are published weekly. The annual estimates are provided in the situation report for week 52 each year.
↑3 The exact figure was 18,826 suspected cases by the end of August 2026 and 78 deaths had been reported, with weekly infections continuing to fall (MoPH).
↑4 This report is concerned only with measles in Afghanistan in the last 25 years, ie since 2001. This period was chosen because of the availability of data and analysis on the topic. While same data for the period before 2001 exists, it is based on estimates, or it is generalised or patchy.
↑5 The WHO recommends that children receive two doses of measles vaccine to ensure immunity. In countries with high measles incidence, the first dose is usually given at 9 months of age and a second dose typically at 15-18 months (WHO).
↑6 Once the freeze-dried vaccine has been mixed with its diluent, WHO recommends that it be kept refrigerated and used within six hours.
↑7 There have also been allegations of corruption in the recruitment and management of vaccination staff. In September 2026, Hasht-e Subh reported claims from local sources in Helmand that some vaccinator posts had been allocated to individuals with connections to local officials and that applicants had paid money to secure positions (8AM, 15 September 2026). Similar allegations emerged in Takhar, where sources accused provincial health officials of placing fictitious vaccinators on campaign payrolls and replacing experienced workers with people willing to pay for jobs (8AM, 3 September 2026). In Kandahar, vaccinators interviewed by Hasht-e Subh complained about delayed salaries and alleged that officials were recruiting relatives into vaccination campaigns (8AM, 5 September 2026). Concerns about such practices are not new: a 2018 review of the global polio programme identified the diversion of frontline workers’ payments and claims for ‘ghost vaccinators’ as financial risks in Afghanistan, although it found no evidence at the time of major systemic diversion of programme funds (The Independent Monitoring Board of the Global Polio Eradication Initiative).
↑8 See this press release from the Norwegian Refugee Council from 26 March 2025, which says:

In January the United States (US) suspended ongoing aid projects which forced the majority of US-funded humanitarian work to be put on hold or end (Devex). In February, the United Kingdom announced it would be cutting Overseas Development Assistance (ODA) from 0.5% to 0.3% of Gross National Income (UK Government). In February the Dutch government also underscored their scale back in aid announcing a 2.4 billion cut on development aid from 2027 (Government of the Netherlands). The French government announced it would reduce public development assistance by more than 2 billion Euros – close to 40%of its annual funding (RFI). Swiss, Swedish, German and Belgian governments have also announced cuts in aid assistance budgets (Devex, Devex SwissInfo, Development Today). 

See also Kate Clark and AAN team, The End of US Aid to Afghanistan: What will it mean for families, services and the economy?, 9 May 2025, AAN.

↑9 For the 2022 figures on health and security spending, see the October 2023 Afghanistan Development Update. See also figure 13 of its December 2024 Afghanistan Development Update for the split between civilian and security spending over several years. Data on public finances from the Emirate is scarce, but occasional information suggests little has changed. See also AAN’s, Survival and Stagnation: The State of the Afghan economy, 7 November 2023, and What Do The Taleban Spend Afghanistan’s Money On? Government expenditure under the Islamic Emirate, 16 March 2023.
↑10  See Jelena Bjelica and AAN Team, Rural Women’s Access to Health in Afghanistan: “Most of the time, we just don’t go”, AAN, 27 March 2025.

 

The Measles Outbreak Cycle: A long road ahead to end epidemics 
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Thirty Years after Najib: A dossier of reports on the PDPA and its legacy

Thirty years ago, on 27 September 1996, former president Dr Najibullah was killed alongside his brother, Shahpur, in the Afghan capital, Kabul. He had been sheltering in a United Nations compound since the mujahedin captured the city four years earlier, but on 26 September, the Taliban took Kabul. By the next morning, the two brothers had been seized and killed, their bodies hanged from nearby traffic lights. To mark the anniversary, we have compiled a new dossier of reports about Najib’s party, the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA), which had seized power in the 1978 coup. The reports look back at the people and events that shaped this turbulent period of Afghan history and at the contested legacy of the PDPA and its rule.

This dossier follows our 2018 Thematic Dossier XVIII: The PDPA and the Soviet Intervention, which brought together AAN reporting on the 1978 coup and its aftermath, war crimes and resistance, the Soviet intervention and the PDPA’s successor parties. Here, we bring the collection up-to-date with the relevant reports we have published since then.

These two AAN dossiers trace a political party that profoundly changed Afghanistan and whose coup d’état led to half a century of conflict. The earlier dossier looked at how the PDPA seized power in 1978 and the repression that followed, including mass arrests, torture, forced disappearances and killings, and the resistance its government sparked. It also examined the relationship between the PDPA and the Soviet Union, whose forces invaded in December 1979, as the government in Kabul faced a growing rebellion, and the decade-long occupation and war that followed.

The reports featured in this second dossier revisit that history. Thomas Ruttig’s account of the PDPA on the 60thanniversary of its founding traces the party’s contentious history – from its beginnings in 1965 and its factional struggles to the coup and its years in power, including Najibullah’s attempt to remake it as Hezb-e Watan in 1990. Two reports marking the 40th anniversary of the Soviet invasion revisit December 1979 from different perspectives: one places the invasion in the wider history of the Cold War, while the other asks Afghans what they remember of the arrival of Soviet troops and how it changed their lives. Together, the reports show how the struggle over political power, modernisation and the direction of the country became entangled with the Cold War, with consequences that long outlasted the Soviet withdrawal.

Three obituaries examine the PDPA era through the lives of people who held prominent positions in the party but are also remembered for their achievements and commitments that went beyond their party membership: Sultan Ali Keshtmand as a senior politician and advocate of greater equality for Hazaras, Sulaiman Layeq as one of Afghanistan’s most highly regarded poets and Soraya Parlika as a lifelong campaigner for women’s rights.

Accountability, which featured prominently in the earlier dossier, remains an issue decades after the crimes were perpetrated. The reports in the war crimes and accountability section follow investigations and prosecutions in the Netherlands of former PDPA-era officials accused of crimes committed more than four decades ago, including the case of a former Pul-e Charkhi prison commander, whose war crimes conviction was overturned on appeal. AAN’s analysis uncovered several areas where the tribunal’s arguments appeared flawed, including it misunderstanding the role of the PDPA intelligence agency, KhAD, and not taking into consideration legal understandings reached by the International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY) and Rwanda (ICTR). Abdul Razaq Arif died in 2025 before Dutch prosecutors could appeal the court’s ruling. These reports illustrate both the possibilities offered by universal jurisdiction when alleged perpetrators have left Afghanistan and the legal difficulties of prosecuting crimes committed so long ago.

The war crimes and crimes against humanity perpetrated by the PDPA are detailed in the final publication for this dossier. The UN Mapping Report, authored by Patricia Gossman and Barnett Rubin, also covers the crimes committed by the mujahedin parties – in opposition and in government – and the first Taliban emirate, and by both the Soviet (1979-1989) and US (in 2001) armies.

The PDPA and the Soviet invasion

Between Reform and Repression: The 60th anniversary of PDPA

Thomas Ruttig, 20 January 2025

The leftist People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA) irrevocably altered the country’s trajectory with its coup d’état in 1978, setting off a chain of events that would have lasting repercussions. The debate surrounding the extent of the Soviet Union’s influence on the party prior to this, as well as Moscow’s desire to see its rise to power, continues to this day. What is clear, however, is that the PDPA’s takeover of power and the subsequent Soviet military intervention in December 1979 touched off a shift of seismic proportions not only in Afghanistan’s political landscape but also in the lives of ordinary Afghans. Along with Western support for the mujahedin who opposed the party, the PDPA internationalised Afghanistan’s internal conflicts over modernisation and governance – they would last four decades, marking it as the last ‘hot war’ in the context of the Cold War. AAN’s Thomas Ruttig looks at the party’s history, drawing from earlier AAN reports, as well as adding details from lesser-known sources.

“Our Lives Changed”: Afghans remember the coming of the Soviet troops

AAN Team and S Reza Kazemi, 27 December 2019

Forty years ago, Soviet forces entered Afghanistan, killed then President Hafizullah Amin from the Khalq faction of the ruling communist People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA) on 27 December 1979 and brought to power Babrak Karmal, who was from the rival Parcham faction. The move was meant to be a relatively short-lived regime-change operation, but swiftly turned into a fully-fledged occupation that would last one long decade and plunge the country into an intricate, devastating armed conflict from which it has yet to emerge. AAN has spoken to a range of people about their memories of those days and how the Soviet invasion affected them and changed their lives (interviews by the AAN team, compiled by Reza Kazemi).

A Turning Point in World History: 40 years ago, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan

Thomas Ruttig, 25 December 2019

Soviet troops invaded Afghanistan 40 years ago today, on 25 December 1979. Two days later, on 27 December, they toppled and killed Amin’s Khalqi’s government which had called for the troops and had assumed they had come for their rescue. The resulting occupation that would last for more than ten years became the last direct Soviet involvement in a ‘hot’ war in the global Cold War of that era. What was meant to be a relatively short and limited regime change operation, ended up changing history. It became part of a larger configuration of events that led to the downfall of the Soviet Union and its dominance in Eastern Europe and what, at the time, was described as the ‘end of history’: the end of the Cold War and the final triumph of liberal democracy (an illusion that has become obsolete). In Afghanistan, armed conflict did not end with the Soviet withdrawal, making Afghans the main victims of this war. AAN’s Thomas Ruttig reminds us of the unfolding events and the history they were part of.

Lives and legacies 

Obituary for Sultan Ali Keshtmand (1935-2026): Afghanistan’s Soviet-era political leader and Hazara rights advocate

Thomas Ruttig, 21 March 2026

Few Afghan politicians from the era of the Soviet-backed People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA) regime combined technocratic skill with a clear focus on combatting ethnic inequality, as Sultan Ali Keshtmand did. Born into a modest Hazara family, he rose to the top echelons of the party, navigating imprisonment, internal PDPA purges and shifting Soviet strategies to twice become head of government during one of the country’s most turbulent decades. For some, he symbolised opportunity and the potential for political inclusion, but for critics, he remains inseparable from the broader record of the Soviet-backed PDPA – a loyal functionary complicit in its failures and excesses. AAN’s Thomas Ruttig, with contributions by Rohullah Sorush, examines Keshtmand’s legacy, which sits at the crossroads of ethnic politics, state-building and the Cold War, as well as his contested place in Afghanistan’s political memory.

AAN Obituary: PDPA leader and poet Sulaiman Layeq

Thomas Ruttig, 19 August 2020

Sulaiman Layeq, one of the last surviving founding members of the leftist People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA), which changed the country’s history with its coup d’état in 1978, has died in late July. In 1992, he even made it to the top of the party, albeit in its final moments. The circumstances of his death were tragic and symbolic for the state of Afghanistan at the same time: Layeq, 90 years old, died of the wounds he had sustained in a suicide bombing in September 2019 in Kabul. AAN’s co-director Thomas Ruttig looks back at the two sides of his life – the life of a highly esteemed poet and of a controversial politician.

AAN Obituary: Unfaltering women’s rights activist Soraya Parlika (1944-2019)

Thomas Ruttig, 15 January 2020

Soraya Parlika, political and women’s rights activist, has died at the age of 75. She had, said Sahraa Karimi, Chair of the Afghan Film Organisation, who made a documentary about Parlika, “dedicated her life to the life of women of Afghanistan and never left her motherland even during the hard years of civil war and Taleban regime.” This earned her the respect even among many who opposed her for having been a leading member of the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA). AAN’s Thomas Ruttig looks back at her life.

War crimes and accountability

1980s Pul-e Charkhi Commander Walks Free: War crimes conviction overturned by Dutch Court of Appeal

Kate Clark, 19 August 2024

A senior figure overseeing the notorious Pul-e Charkhi prison in the 1980s who was convicted of war crimes in the Netherlands, where he had been given asylum, has seen his conviction overturned by the Court of Appeal. His lawyers successfully argued that Abdul Razaq Arif’s crimes – arbitrary deprivation of liberty, cruel and inhuman treatment, and assault on the personal dignity – were not admissible because they had no link to the armed conflict between the then government and the mujahedin and could therefore not be considered war crimes. The Public Prosecution Service has now asked the Dutch Supreme Court to consider the appeal judgement. Senior analyst Kate Clark, has, with other AAN colleagues, followed this and similar cases over many years and here delves into the substance and points of law made in the appeal court’s judgement that may now be considered by the Supreme Court.

War Crimes Trial Begins in the Netherlands: Former commander at Pul-e Charkhi faces justice

Kate Clark, 16 February 2022

The trial of an Afghan man suspected of committing war crimes in Afghanistan in the 1980s will start today in the Netherlands. Abdul Razaq Arif is believed to have served in leadership positions in the Pul-e Charkhi prison from 1983 to 1990 and is being charged with being an accessory to or allowing inhuman treatment and the deprivation of liberty. Arif was arrested in November 2019 in the Netherlands following a tip-off in 2012 from a Dutch Afghan citizen and a seven-year- long investigation. As AAN’s Kate Clark reports, the trial is a rare instance of an Afghan accused of war crimes facing a court.

Afghan War Crimes Trials in The Netherlands: Who are the suspects and what have been the outcomes?

Ehsan Qanee, 25 March 2020

At least six Afghan, or Afghan-Dutch, citizens have been investigated for war crimes and torture in Afghanistan by the Dutch authorities. Two were found guilty and received prison sentences, one was acquitted, one died during the investigation, one was investigated but released due to insufficient evidence, and the sixth is still under investigation. All were military officials belonging to the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA) which governed Afghanistan from 1978 to 1992. The trials were conducted based on the principle of universal jurisdiction, which allows national courts to try the gravest crimes, even when they allegedly took place in another country. AAN’s Ehsan Qaane provides details about the identity of the six, the allegations against them, context about the PDPA’s era, as well as analysis about the significance of these trials for victims (with input from Thomas Ruttig and Rachel Reid).

The UN Mapping Report

 15 August 2024

In 2004, a major report mapping the war crimes and human rights violations committed in Afghanistan between 1978 and 2001 was published by the United Nations before being swiftly taken down under political pressure, allegedly from then president Hamed Karzai, some of his ministers and foreign backers and from within the UN. What became known as ‘the UN Mapping Report’, authored by Patricia Gossman and Barnett Rubin, was subsequently made available to the public on a website. As the link is now broken, the AAN is posting this important report here.

Compiled by Nur Khan Himmat and Kate Clark

Edited by Roxanna Shapour

Thirty Years after Najib: A dossier of reports on the PDPA and its legacy
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From Kabul to Pittsburgh: Book profiles women who fled the Taliban

By Bill O’Driscoll

A woman in jean shorts sits on steps
Grand Central Publishing
Samira Rustami is now a nursing student in Pittsburgh.

The 2001 U.S. invasion of Afghanistan inaugurated the longest war in U.S. history. But the war’s end in 2021 came rather suddenly, accompanied by much chaos.

That was the case for the more than 120 Afghans in the orbit of the New York Times’ Kabul bureau, who were among the estimated 200,000 Afghans who fled in the midst of the Taliban’s rapid takeover of the country. Many of the refugees were women, who under the Taliban would have faced the heaviest consequences of the reinstatement of fundamentalist Islamic rule that the 2001 invasion had temporarily ended.

A new book tells the stories of four of those women, some of whom ended up in Pittsburgh. “The Last Free Women: A Daring Escape from Afghanistan & Coming of Age in America” (Grand Central Publishing) is co-written by Rebecca Blumenstein, who as Times deputy managing editor led efforts to relocate the refugees, and San Francisco-based journalist Diana Kapp.

WESA spoke with Kapp and Samira Rustami, one of the refugees now living in Pittsburgh.

‘Locked inside the house’

Rustami said she grew up in Kabul, one of six daughters in a family where daughters were not valued or even desired.

“It was very hard on us,” she said.

book cover

But coming of age in the 2010s, Rustami managed to get an education and, at 16, earned a scholarship to a business school in India. Three years later she returned to Afghanistan and got a job in a hotel. She’d been there only seven months when the U.S. occupation ended in August 2021.

Other women in the book were at similarly promising points in life. Mursal had graduated law school and her sister Marwa was months from graduating medical school.

Rustami knew what life under the Taliban — which had previously ruled from 1996 to 2001 — would be like: more restrictive for everyone, but far worse for women.

“We’ll be just locked inside the house and be a slave inside our own house, being jailed,” she said. “And if we go outside, we have to have a male [companion] with us, either our father or brother. We have to wear specific clothing that they want us to do. We would not have any freedom, any freedom as a human being.”

Rustami’s new husband, Wais, had had his job as a Times maintenance man for just three months. But that was enough to get both of them on the list of people the newspaper would aid.

‘A mad scramble’

The new book’s co-author, Kapp, said the Times was prompted to aid its Afghan workers by a note from one of its Afghan reporters in Kabul.

“It set off a mad scramble to find a way for their local reporters, drivers, translators, everyone who worked in the bureau, and their direct family members to get out,” Kapp said.

woman in a sleeveless blouse on a couch
Grand Central Publishing
Journalist Diana Kapp is co-author of “The Last Free Women.”

She said a small team led by Blumenstein “started calling embassies around the world and looking for a way to get their people out.”

The group eventually entered the U.S. under a status called humanitarian parole, which Kapp said hadn’t been used since the Vietnam War. The Times contracted with Catholic Charities, a resettlement agency, and Blumenstein led efforts to find jobs and living arrangements for people and to place young people in schools.

Kapp noted challenges like locating apartments for tenants who had fled their homeland with little notice and lacked three months of pay stubs.

As to refugees seeking higher education, Blumenstein (who today is President, Editorial, of NBC News) worked with Carnegie Mellon University president Farnam Jahanian, whom she knew, to assemble a consortium of local schools. Chatham University’s intensive English-language program made it the destination, ultimately, for five of the refugees, including Rustami, Wais and Marwa.

Rustami, who had initially been placed in Houston, said she chose Chatham and Pittsburgh largely for … the weather?

“I don’t like the hot weather,” she said. “We were in Texas, so it was like very hot. I was like, okay, so we, we were okay with Pittsburgh.” The city’s winters reminded her of Kabul.

Also, she added, “And I like [the] people here. They’re very nice and kind.”

‘A chance to build my future’

By the time Samira and Wais arrived here, in January 2023, they had an infant daughter, Durrin. But they had more help, too: Blumenstein’s sister-in-law, Laura Kessler, who lived near the Chatham campus

“She took care of everything, most of everything in our life,” Samira said. “And now she became more than a family to me.”

woman in a dark blouse in an armchair
Grand Central Publishing
In 2021, Rebecca Blumenstein was the New York Times deputy managing editor who led efforts to help Times employees and their families leave Afghanistan.

“If I have a troubling problem, I call Laura. If my husband has a problem, the first person that comes to our mind is Laura.”

Rustami is now studying both at UPMC Shadyside School of Nursing and as an undergraduate nursing student at Chatham. Her husband is also studying at Chatham while working at PNC.

Today, with the Trump administration ramping up deportations and narrowing the pipeline for asylum-seekers, the climate for immigrants and refugees is much less certain than it was in 2021.

While some of the Times-connected refugees have gotten their green cards, many, including Samira and Wais, have not. Kapp says the review process for Afghans is on indefinite pause following the shooting, this past November in Washington, D.C., of two National Guard members. The suspect was part of a secret unit of Afghans that operated under CIA direction.

While their future remains uncertain due to their legal status, Samira Rustami remains committed to becoming a nurse and grateful she was able to flee her homeland.

“I knew it was the time that I could, that it was a chance to build my future very differently because … I knew I could not have the future I do have now,” she said. “And I couldn’t even dream about it because I was not allowed to.”

While Rustami has cut off contact with her birth family, she remains in touch with friends in Afghanistan, where girls cannot attend school past sixth grade, among other restrictions.

“They’re limited in doing everything,” she said.

The publicity tour for “The Last Free Women” has included New York, Houston, and Kapp and Rustami’s Sept. 13 visit to Pittsburgh’s City of Asylum. There have been spots on NBC’s Today Show, the PBS NewsHour, and excerpts have run in the Wall Street Journal and Vanity Fair.

“All of the women who are in the book are bravely using their voices to bring attention to this group of people who we lost this war, and it’s not something Americans seem to want to continue to think about,” Kapp said. “We really believe this is an important story to tell to bring attention to what is happening to women in Afghanistan.”

Bill O’Driscoll is a long-time Pittsburgh-based journalist specializing in the arts and the environment. Previous to working at WESA, he spent 21 years at the weekly Pittsburgh City Paper, the last 14 as Arts & Entertainment editor. He is a graduate of Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism and in 30-plus years as a journalist has freelanced for publications including In Pittsburgh, The Nation, E: The Environmental Magazine, American Theatre, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Bill has earned numerous Golden Quill awards from the Press Club of Western Pennsylvania. He lives in the neighborhood of Manchester, and he once milked a goat. Email: bodriscoll@wesa.fm
From Kabul to Pittsburgh: Book profiles women who fled the Taliban
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Afghan Women Left in Limbo: Decree 18 and the struggle to end a marriage

Early this year, the Islamic Emirate’s Supreme Leader, Hibatullah Akhundzada, issued Decree 18, which codified the grounds on which women can end a marriage. While Afghan men can divorce their wives easily, women must either get their husband’s consent, typically with financial penalties, or a court ruling. Kate Clark and the AAN team have been analysing this law – an unofficial translation of which AAN also publishes today. This report has a special focus on one major issue stemming from Afghanistan’s high rate of male out-migration – women who have been abandoned by their husbands. We heard about husbands who are abroad, providing no maintenance to their wives and children, and in some cases have remarried, but still refuse to grant a divorce. Decree 18 effectively protects such men, although some lawyers, typically where a judge is sympathetic, are finding ways around a law that prioritises the wishes of the husband. 

A translation of the Code on the Separation of Spouses by former BBC journalist and Islamic scholar John Butt is available here. 

This situation has such a bad and damaging effect on my soul. I am completely tired and fed up with life. Every morning when I wake up, I suffer greatly from a wave of hopelessness and distress. 

This woman, whom we are calling Najma, was 22 when she was married to a man of 45, an age gap that she said was “very painful.” Her husband also deceived her. Once the nikah (marriage contract) was signed, he told her he was already married to a woman in Tajikistan. He went back a month later, promising to send a visa to Najma and take her there, then broke off contact. That was almost two years ago. “He didn’t establish any kind of life for me,” she said. “He left me helpless in my father’s house. … He doesn’t call, doesn’t provide financial support and hasn’t sent a visa. … It was all a deception. He married me only for his pleasure during the short time he was here in Afghanistan.” She went on:

Now, whenever I call him, he doesn’t treat me well. He swears and insults me, saying: ‘You’re not worthy of being my wife. You’re not worth sending money to, nor worth bringing to Tajikistan. Just stay in your father’s house.” He says he won’t let me get a separation. He says, “Whenever I feel like it, I’ll come; if I don’t feel like it, I won’t come. You just have to wait and until I come, you have to live like this.”

Najma’s case is one of several we heard about, either directly from the woman herself or from lawyers representing women needing a divorce. We already knew from earlier AAN reporting by Letty Phillips and Rama Mirzada, “The Doors to Separation Are Closed for Women”: Women and divorce under the Emirate (4 May 2025), that for Afghan women, ending a marriage had become more difficult under the Islamic Emirate. Phillips and Mirzada detailed how divorce, while never much resorted to because of the social stigma, had at least become a little easier in the 1970s. Like most states that derive their legal codes from Hanafi jurisprudence (fiqh), Afghanistan introduced reforms aimed at making divorce easier for women and constraining a husband’s prerogative to unilateral divorce. It did so by enabling women to draw on the jurisprudence of any of the four schools of Sunni Islam, with Ja’fari jurisprudence[1] also formally recognised for Shia Muslims in 2004. All the other schools are more generous to women seeking a divorce than the jurisprudence of the school followed by most Afghan Sunnis – Hanafi.

After the Taliban returned to power in August 2021, they ordered that only Hanafi jurisprudence be used in the courts. Even within this constraint, however, judges could still draw on different opinions, although one opinion might always be preferred (al-ra’i al-rajah). The Amir’s codification of the law has therefore further limited judges’ leeway. As one Afghan Islamic law expert told UN Women for its Gender Alert – Decree No 18 – Code of Principles on Separation of Spouses:

While many of [the Code’s] provisions do have a basis in Ḥanafī jurisprudence, the decree appears to draw selectively from that tradition – codifying narrower positions while omitting more protective ones available within the same school – with the cumulative effect of reducing safeguards for women and girls.

This report is divided into two sections. The first examines the Code, drawing on lawyers’ experiences to analyse its implications for women seeking a separation. The second focuses on the difficulties faced by women abandoned by their husbands, an issue made urgent by the large number of Afghan men who have migrated for work. Informing the analysis throughout is UN Women’s Gender Alert – Decree No 18, with its focus on the legal, procedural and rights aspects of the Code, as well as responses to it by our translator, John Butt, who combines experience as a BBC journalist with years spent studying Islam, including seven years at the Deoband Seminary in India.

The report draws on interviews carried out in July, August and September 2026 with five lawyers (two in Kabul, two in Mazar and one in Bamyan) and three women (two in Kabul and one in Mazar). The names of both lawyers and women have been changed to preserve their anonymity.


A note on terms, which in English would all be covered by ‘divorce’ 

Talaq is when a man repudiates his wife, thereby ending their marriage. He must compensate her by paying the mahr, the Islamically sanctioned gift given by the groom to his wife at their marriage (if not already paid in full), and continue to support her while she is pregnant and for the period she has to wait before she can marry again, and for any children.

Women have two types of divorce potentially available to them. Khul’a (often commonly called khul) is a separation initiated by the wife, with the husband’s agreement, in which she forfeits compensation. Typically, she must repay her mahr and may have to make other payments to free herself.[2]

A court can also sanction a separation. This is known as tafriq and is the only way a woman can end a marriage without her husband’s agreement, or in opposition to it. Grounds for tafriq form the bulk of the Code.

In some instances, the court can also annul a marriage where its validity has been challenged (by any party) and found to be unlawful.


What is in the Code?

The Code on the Separation of Spouses, dated 24 January 2026, is non-gender-specific. However, it deals almost entirely with women and the grounds on which a court can give a woman a legal separation, even despite her husband’s wishes. The lawyers we spoke to had mixed opinions. “The Code is ambiguous and contains provisions in favour of the husband,” said Shah Mahmud, a defence lawyer in Mazar-e Sharif. Another defence lawyer, Gul Agha, who practices in Kabul, said it had made it more difficult for women to get a separation and, anyway, “a woman’s voice isn’t really listened to in the courts – they don’t attach any importance to it.” Muhammad Rahman, a lawyer in Bamyan, felt that none of the grounds given for ending a marriage benefited women, largely because they had to provide evidence, including witnesses, and because courts were ultimately reluctant to act. “For instance,” he said, “when a man beats his wife, she cannot prove it in court.” Other lawyers were seeking ways to use the Code, despite its drawbacks. Rahim in Mazar said, “It carries legal weight and can be helpful.”

The Code provides twelve grounds for judicially ending a marriage. Matin, a lawyer in Kabul, who is in touch with other lawyers around the country, said they had “identified areas which could be used to protect the rights of women.” These are: obstinacy and wrongful conduct; the husband is missing; lack of compatibility; and the ‘prerogative of puberty’. None, he stressed, were necessarily straightforward and might themselves be problematic. The report will look at these in turn.

A husband’s obstinacy (muta’anat wali) is defined in article 2.7 as “a husband who, even though he is able to do so, does not give his wife household expenses or fulfil her marital rights.” Article 22 says a wife may “petition a court if her husband oppresses her, fails to fulfil her rights, or hostility exists between the spouses.” Matin liked the reference to rights arising from the marriage contract:

The first right is respect. It is mentioned in the Quran. It is mentioned in Hadith. So, the person who doesn’t provide for the rights of his wife is called muta’anat. Also, the person who does not provide [living] expenses for his wife is muta’anat. Even the person who leaves his wife and goes abroad, does not come back and does not provide for her, he’s also an example of muta’anat. 

If the court establishes that there is “martial discord [shiqaq],” it is tasked with appointing “two arbitrators from among the families of the spouses and send them to the parties for the purpose of reconciliation and for determining which party is the wrongdoer and which is the wronged party.” The court can then only “compel the obstinate or oppressive husband to cease his oppression and obstinacy or grant his wife a divorce [talaq].” Article 19 of the Code explicitly says that a judge shall not issue a judicial separation if a husband does not give his wife living expenses, or if he is absent but not missing (more on which below). As the UN Women’s Gender Alert points out, the Code embeds:

mediation and reconciliation as the default response to oppression, … prioritizes preservation of the marriage over the safety of the woman within it, and risks treating serious violence as a condition susceptible to family-based intervention rather than as conduct requiring protection and exit.

As to article 22, it says, “the basic logic of a mechanism aimed at protecting from oppression is inverted: the person most often identified as the oppressor must themselves consent before the wife can leave the marriage.”

Nevertheless, Matin said lawyers had been able to use this article in some situations. Rahim in Mazar said he had invoked it in numerous sessions and gave a current example:

I said this person is very rude and oppressive. He has children from a previous wife who are non-mahram to my client, and they have even laid hands on her. He has committed oppression and used inappropriate language. … The argument is that under this code, if it’s proven that a person is oppressive, divorce is possible.

The judge, Rahim said, summoned the husband to court and he is now under investigation.

Matin also cited the articles concerning missing husbands. If the husband is highly likely to be dead, the woman may be allowed to remarry, but, as he pointed out, this is extremely difficult to prove[3] and the court’s ruling must be ratified by the appeal court and Supreme Court and signed off by the Amir – necessitating years of waiting and money spent. Moreover, if the first husband then turns up, he has ‘first refusal’ on the wife – she does, says the Code (article 20) “belong to” him. She has no choice in the matter. Rather, the Code automatically restores his legal control of her: “the judge shall give the first husband the choice either to keep the woman as his wife, or divorce her, or, if both parties agree, to conclude a khul’a with her.”

The Code also addresses husbands who are absent but not missing, describing them in article 2.5 as someone who has

travelled far from his home village, but his whereabouts are known. Even so, he has been gone a long time and has left his wife alone at home. He does not return home, nor does he take his wife with him. He does not even attend to her necessities and does not send any money home. Neither does he divorce her, all of which is a cause of great difficulty for his wife.

One might, therefore, expect the Code to provide a legal remedy for the abandoned wife. However, as already mentioned, article 19 specifically rules this out:

If a woman requests judicial separation from the judge on account of her husband’s absence – in cases when he is not legally considered missing – or because he does not provide maintenance [nafaqa], the judge must not order separation.

Instead, her “maintenance and housing rights … together with the other rules and matters relating to such cases, shall be governed by the relevant implementing procedure.” The procedure is not specified. This means that, on the face of it, men who have abandoned their wives and provide no support to them or their children have little to fear from the courts, a deeply problematic situation that will be examined in detail later in this report.

A third potentially useful aspect of the Code, said Matin, is compatibility (kafa’at). This is defined as the spouses being equal or suitable for each other in “lineage and status, ancestry, religion, age and other such attributes.”[4] In limited circumstances, a woman or her guardian can challenge a marriage if the spouse’s incompatibility becomes evident after the wedding.[5] According to the jurists, Matin said, incompatibility includes anything that would make it difficult for a couple to live together and while, on the Day of Judgement, “all people will be equal … we look to the realities of life, if a poor man marries a rich girl, their life will be miserable.”[6]

Compatibility becomes an issue in the fourth potentially useful aspect of the Code, according to the lawyer, Matin, the prerogative of puberty – sometimes translated as the ‘option of puberty’ – (articles 5-10), which is defined in article 2.3 as:

The right of a minor – a boy, or a girl (whether she is a virgin or has been married previously) – to annul a marriage into which one of them has entered, once they reach puberty, so long as the said marriage has come about when he or she was a minor and was arranged by a relative other than a father or grandfather.

The Code, said Gender Alert, implicitly acknowledges that “a (prepubescent) child cannot meaningfully consent to a marriage contract,” but also accepts that such a marriage can be valid, provided it has been contracted by the father or paternal grandfather, with a compatible person and with the appropriate mahr. Moreover, it says, the Code provides only “narrow pathways” to invalidate underage marriage contracts: at puberty, a girl or boy can challenge their marriage if it was contracted by someone other than the father or paternal grandfather or, if by one of them, he had misused his power because of immorality, insanity or recklessness, or married the child to an incompatible person or agreed to a grossly unfair mahr.[7] A clear example of this, wrote John Butt in a footnote to his translation of the Code, would be a girl’s marriage:

to a man much older than her, for a huge bride-price from which [the father or grandfather] – not the bride – benefits. This practice is widespread – normal even – across huge swathes of Afghanistan. Successive governments have been unwilling, or ineffective, in putting an end to this practice.

Theoretically, the Code does almost address a widespread oppressive practice – although one to do with the bride price, not mahr, and not limited to minors[8] – but it creates so many obstacles that it is hard to imagine it having much effect in practice.[9] First of all, the Code does not define puberty. It also gives the minor only a short time to challenge the marriage – when they reach puberty. Their right to reject a marriage lapses if, for a boy or a “previously married girl,”[10] they have expressed their consent, or for a virgin girl, she does not speak up.[11] The Gender Alert explains why this rule is particularly unjust:

The silence-as-consent rule established by Ḥanafī jurisprudence originally rests on a presumption of modesty (ḥayāʾ): that, as a previously unmarried girl, modesty may prevent her from openly expressing positive agreement to a marriage she favours, while she remains free to refuse directly if she does not favour it. …

Decree No. 18 imports this silence-as-consent rule into a fundamentally different question. A marriage has already been contracted, and the ‘option of puberty’ is itself an implicit acknowledgement that a minor cannot consent to entering a marriage contract before puberty.

It is difficult to imagine a young girl or boy having the wherewithal – knowledge of the law and the determination to act – to reject their marriage in public, given that they will either be living with their in-laws or with the elder who gave them away.

The Republic, by contrast, set the legal age of marriage at 16 (and in some cases 15) for girls and 18 for boys, so the Code is clearly a retrograde law and human rights and women’s rights activists have condemned it for effectively legalising child marriage (see for example, a press release from the United Nations’ Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights and a report in The Guardian). Although the Republic’s age rules were widely flouted and provided little actual protection for minors, they may have started to embed a new norm of a socially acceptable marriageable age and created some space, especially for girls – and their lawyers – to argue against early marriage. The Taliban’s Code gives far less legal protection to minors than the law of the Islamic Republic did, said the lawyer Matin, but, compared to customary traditions and practice in much of the country, it is a little better.

The other “grounds for judicial separation” listed in the Code are:

  • The spouses were breastfed by the same woman, making them ‘milk kin’;
  • One of the spouses fornicated with the ascendant or descendant of the other (for example, mother or father or son or daughter);
  • The wife has been groped or kissed by her husband’s ascendants or descendants;
  • There is a defect in the husband, specified as his penis having been severed (jabb) or incapable of erection (inin) or he has been castrated (khusa), and not if the defect develops after sexual intercourse has taken place (‘divorce-worthy’ defects specifically do not include leprosy, vitiligo or insanity);
  • Apostasy;
  • Turning away from Islam;
  • Various circumstances where one spouse has embraced Islam and the other has not – with differences on the outcome depending on the religion of the other spouse, their gender and whether they live in a non-Muslim or a Muslim country or have temporary safe conduct in a Muslim country;
  • Li’an (mutual cursing by the spouse); 
  • Zihar (the husband likening his wife to his mother).

Before ending this section, a few general points are worth making. Firstly, the Code consistently prioritises a husband’s wishes over his wife’s. In general, men have the power to divorce unilaterally (talaq) and can also choose whether to consent to a wife’s request for a separation in return for not paying her compensation (khul’a): this is their prerogative. Then, in determining whether there are grounds for tafriq, the Code rules that a man’s words are valued over a woman’s. For example, if a foster-mother informs the spouses that they are ‘milk-kin’, the husband’s confirmation of this, by itself, will be accepted and the marriage dissolved, but not if the wife confirms it and he rejects it. In several other circumstances, the Code also says that if a husband swears an oath that a wife’s accusation is untrue, unless she has witnesses, the court is bound to dismiss her claim, for example, if she testifies that her husband’s father, grandfather, son or grandson has sexually assaulted her. There is a proviso: if the husband refuses to swear an oath, the court will side with the wife. However, as Matin said: “But you know, nowadays, people are not afraid of God or the Day of Judgment. They swear a thousand times [to get] one afghani, two afghanis.”

Secondly is what is not in the Code. It frequently fails to specify what course of action should be taken and this can deeply affect what happens to women and children. An example here is the “relevant implementing procedure,” which abandoned women are supposed to take to get the maintenance and housing which is theirs by right when they marry. There are other examples, says Gender Alert:

Although Decree No. 18 provides two distinct paths to ending a marriage – annulment (the marriage was valid but is ended by court order) and invalidity (the marriage is treated as invalid and having not existed), it does not set out any procedure for invoking the latter path. Invalidity can carry materially different implications for mahr, the legitimacy of children, and the woman’s status. 

Another example would be a marriage which a woman has been forced into. This is already unlawful under a decree issued by the Amir in December 2022, and again in March 2025, which also says a woman, forcibly married off by her guardian without her consent, can “file a complaint to the courts and the authorities.”[12] Yet, there is no mention in those decrees or in this Code whether forced marriage would be grounds for a judicial separation. Gender Alert points out that other “core aspects of family law” are also absent from the Code, including “the minimum age of marriage and child custody and criminal liability for forced marriage.”

Finally, the Code takes no account of the obvious difficulties of fulfilling its requirements: it appears to operate in an imagined world where, for example, a woman is able to find witnesses to a sexual assault by a relative of her husband, even though it is likely to have taken place in the home where they all live, or a girl or boy who has just reached puberty is able, speedily, to get to a court to challenge their marriage or where women have easy access to the courts. Rather, the real-world context for this law is one where women have little agency and often little money and are constrained by Emirate edits requiring a mahram for public transport and to enter government buildings such as courts. That real-world context is also one, which in the words of Gender Alert, has “a high prevalence of gender-based violence and historically high rates of forced marriage and child marriage.”

What the Code means for abandoned women

For this report, we particularly wanted to hear from women who have been abandoned by their husbands and see how judges treat their petitions for separation.[13] We heard from three women and five lawyers to get a sense of what is happening on the ground since the law came into force on 24 January 2026.

Abida, who lives in Kabul and whose husband of seven years travelled to Iran and then Turkey for work five years ago, said that after a while, he stopped sending money to support her and their young daughter, stopped calling and eventually changed his phone number. She could no longer pay the rent or cover their living expenses and, having no independent income, was forced to return to her family, to her brothers’ house. That was hard, she said, but worse was to come. A friend of her husband’s told her he had married again in Turkey. One of her brothers spoke to the husband, who said he was not ready to pronounce a divorce (talaq) and “kept making excuses.” So, Abida decided to go to court, feeling she had to “clarify the status of my marriage through legal means.” With the support of her brother, who had also persuaded her husband’s family to help “free our sister from their bother,” and with a defence lawyer, she took her case to a judge. It was then that she ran into the Code on the Separation of Spouses:

They told me that my husband’s mere absence or failure to pay maintenance wasn’t sufficient grounds to dissolve the marriage. … I had thought that, since he’d been gone for a long time and didn’t provide living expenses, the court could immediately issue a separation. … [We had]

marriage documents, some messages and calls and documents showing that my husband was living abroad. My family explained about my living situation and his lack of financial support – but even all that was not enough for [the court]. 

Abida said the judge pressed her not to seek a separation, but instead wait for her husband as he might one day realise his mistakes and return. But Abida insisted that he had “built his own life abroad and I can no longer ruin my life because of him. My daughter and I have the right to live freely, and if it is meant to be, I will build a new life with someone who will support my daughter and me.”

Still, Abida’s husband refused to end the marriage, until finally her brother forced his brothers to speak to him and get him to divorce her. “My brother, along with some of my brothers-in-law and our local mosque leader, phoned him and he gave me a divorce (talaq).” The four witnesses then went to the court, testified that Abida’s husband had divorced her and the court officially validated the separation. “The court gave me an official document,” she said, “stating that I am now free. I can rebuild my life.”

The cruelty of starting a new life while not allowing his wife to do the same is not, it seems, unusual. Nor was the court’s response. The woman whose account began this report, Najma, whose husband is living with his first wife in Tajikistan and broke off contact soon after their marriage, has yet to go to court. Unlike Abida, she does not have her family’s backing and is still trying to convince them to allow her to seek a separation. “My case is with the family and the tribal elders. Because they’re discussing and consulting on it, we haven’t referred it to the government [the courts] yet.” Their reluctance to go to court, said Najma, is because

According to the customs of our region and our family, divorce is considered a great shame. Because of this, my family has been trying to stop me from separating from my husband or going to court. They say, “You’ll bring shame to our name with this action. A woman who goes to court no longer has a place in her family or society.”

That social stigma, which is nationwide, only reinforces the preference of families, society and the courts for reconciliation over ending a marriage, even if it is violent, abusive or, in Najma’s case, only exists on paper. Najma had also been told that “Taliban courts always rule in favour of the man and always advise women that they must tolerate their husband and live with him, no matter what condition he is in, and that the woman must accept her husband’s oppression and live with him.” She described other advice she was given, including from the wakil-e guzar [head of the neighbourhood]

[He] told me to wait and let my husband come, saying it would then be easier to file a request with the court and my case might be processed. Whenever my husband calls me, he said I should never tell him I want to separate. Instead, I should try to satisfy my husband and convince him to come to Afghanistan. When he arrives, all the elders of the area will sit down with him and persuade him either to reconcile with me, have him arrange a life for me and pay my maintenance, or divorce me. If he doesn’t accept their words, he said we can then take the matter to court, and in court, with witnesses and my husband present, we can quickly get the divorce [talaq] and reclaim my rights and get my [still unpaid] mahr from him.

A Taliban judge also advised her and her family that she should wait and try to persuade her husband to return, so that her “fate can be determined.” She said he told them “the courts can’t process my request unless my husband is present or unless he declares your divorce [talaq] in the presence of several witnesses.” A neighbour who worked in government also offered to force her husband to give her a divorce [talaq], but only if she agreed to marry him.

The judge did also tell her family that they should try “to bring the husband back to the country.” If they failed, then he said they should “bring the case to court. At that time, the court will address your issue and I can help you there. But right now, I can’t provide any help.”

Progress still, therefore, depends on the husband’s presence, or Najma overcoming family opposition to bring the case to court.

Our third interviewee, interviewee, Shakila, lives in Kabul and is currently battling for a separation, with no family backing and two children, a daughter of 12 and a son of 9, to support. Her husband left for Iran eight years ago. For the last five years, she said, he had not sent a single afghani and had cut off all communication. When she has managed to speak to him, he just says he will not be coming back to Afghanistan, he cannot support her and she must take care of her own life, herself:

I borrow money to get by. I ask my brothers what to do, and they say, “You’re off our hands now,” but how am I supposed to manage? I’m just a woman on my own. My husband doesn’t take care of me or support me. He knows nothing about how I get my daily bread, what we eat or don’t eat, or how I get by. When I call him, he behaves badly. Most of the time, he hangs up on me … or changes his numbers. I sent messages through his friends, saying if he doesn’t want anything to do with me, at least he should clarify my situation so I can build a new life, but … I get no reply. When I asked my brothers for help, they also refused, saying, “You’re off our hands. You know your own life.”

Shakila felt forced to go to court. But the judge asked her to prove where her husband was and why he had cut off contact, neither of which she has any evidence for. She does not even have a registered marriage contract and her brothers will not appear in court to defend her:

I’m in a hopeless situation. … I’m bewildered and I don’t know where I should go and who I should complain to. … Every time I go to court, my case is postponed to another session and they demand more documents or witnesses from me. … The judge told me I’m lying, that surely my husband has gone on a trip and might be in some kind of trouble and that he’ll come back, so he can’t make a decision based solely on my claim. And so I keep going around in circles with no resolution. There is no one to hear my voice.

Shakila works as a cleaner so that she has the money for rent – a dilapidated house – and other living expenses and for transport to the court – when she hopes her young son will be accepted as her ‘mahram’. “Most of the time,” she said, “I’m turned away at the courthouse gate. So far, I’ve only managed to appear before the judge twice.” He also told her to get a lawyer, but how, she asked, could she afford a lawyer’s fees?

Even with a lawyer, the courts may not be sympathetic. Shah Mahmud in Mazar-e Sharif described one of his cases:

I currently represent a woman who was married off to a man without her consent and now, due to lack of consent and non-payment of maintenance, she’s seeking a separation. However, the husband is abroad, in the United States. … a default judgment can’t be issued – according to the Code. The court’s issued several summonses, the case file is stalled and the court is considering issuing an order to suspend the file until the husband comes to Afghanistan. But it’s unknown if he ever will come in the next few years or not. And until he does … the woman lives in a state of uncertainty. 

Gul Agha, one of the lawyers in Kabul, echoed this account: “The first problem is that the court requires proof of the husband’s absence and tends to tell women and their lawyers that they can do nothing without the husband being present in court.” He added:

I have a case that is currently ongoing in court, a client whose husband has been living in Iran for nearly seven years. He takes no responsibility for his family, provides no financial support and has even cut off all contact – there’s no communication at all. According to his wife, he’s taken another wife in Iran and has severed ties with his entire family. She and their two children have been searching for a resolution for years. 

Gul Agha said he prepared her case according to both the law and sharia and submitted it to the court. Sharia, he said, clearly states that if a husband cannot provide maintenance for his wife, she may seek a khul’a, but the judge gave no consideration to the case file. Rather, said Gul Agha, “he insulted me, saying: ‘You lawyers are always fabricating such schemes for money and at the whims of women, deliberately trying to separate husband and wife.’”

Other lawyers have secured separations for abandoned wives, although their accounts typically feature a sympathetic judge. Rahim described the case of a woman in Kunduz whose husband had abandoned her, but was known to be in Turkey. Rahim said the husband “used to speak with us over the phone and talk to his wife using abusive and bad language. … The judge helped a great deal – regarding the children and the [wife’s] dignity and honour. I presented my argument and [the judge] accepted it.” Rahim said the judge then summoned the husband’s father to the court and “forced him to ask his son to come [to the court].” When the husband did not come, the court imprisoned the father and another son and released them only after they gave a guarantee that the husband would agree to a divorce [talaq] in absentia. Instead, Rahim said:

They threatened me, saying, “You’re from Mazar-e Sharif. If you come to Imam Sahib in Kunduz, we’ll do such and such a thing to you.” But I’d recorded them and let the judge hear [their words] in court. He got angry and imprisoned them. Then the man called his son in Turkey and told him to come because he and his other son had been imprisoned. But he still didn’t come. 

Matin said many lawyers, including female lawyers,[14] had reported that such pressure sometimes works: “Some husbands who were abroad even, the court summoned their family members [and] they divorced their wives by phone in front of the judge.” However, in the Kunduz case, despite a supportive judge taking serious action, Rahim still could not get a separation for his client in the face of a recalcitrant husband. The judge, therefore, referred them to a madrasa belonging to a religious scholar known as Hashimi sahib. In this case, the arbitrator was also sympathetic, a “good Sunni scholar,” said Rahim, “who does his best to solve a lot of cases when people refer to him.” After speaking to the parties, they agreed to a resolution:

The woman agreed to pay the money she had received earlier from her husband’s family. It was around 80,000 afghanis [USD 1,200]. She also agreed not to receive her mahr. So, it was a khul’a divorce. Her husband authorised his father to allow the madrasa to carry out the divorce [which] the court was happy with. The court didn’t do anything else, but got a copy of the decision and put it in the dossier and let everyone go.

This case demonstrates how an abandoned woman, in the face of her husband’s absence and intransigence, could not win her freedom in court under Decree 18. That she got a separation at all, albeit only by forfeiting her mahr and paying off her husband’s family, was a notable achievement, and only possible because both the judge and the arbitrator were sympathetic. That is not typically the case, said Shah Mahmud. The courts often refer disputes to local elders, who, along with families and the courts themselves, typically try to silence the wife and patch up a marriage:

In many Afghan communities, traditional custom is generally not amenable to divorce or separation. Several key customary features include prioritising the preservation of a marriage – families typically try to reconcile husband and wife, even when serious problems exist and the Taliban courts also … strive to prevent [the break-up of marriages]. More importantly is a woman’s economic dependence: if she has no independent income, then separation becomes more difficult for her. For this reason, families and local elders try to prevent separation to preserve the woman’s dignity and the honour of the family and the community. 

Custom typically offers “family-based solutions,” said Shah Mahmud, but women need “legally enforceable guarantees.”

A new order on abandoned ‘fiancées’ 

In recent weeks, the Supreme Court issued new instructions to the courts on what to do in cases involving men who have abandoned their fiancées (namzad)[15] in a ruling issued on a case presented to a court in Kabul:

Regarding those girls who got engaged years ago and whose fiancés reside abroad, whenever they refer to the court to determine their fate, the court is obligated to identify the persons to whom the girls have been engaged, ascertain their properties and assets, and, in accordance with the principles, seize the said assets until such time as they appear.

The letter goes on:

If their assets are not established, the court shall then, through the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, request cooperation for the purpose of bringing the aforementioned persons to court. If even then they do not appear in court, the matter shall ultimately be referred to the Council of Scholars for resolution.

Restricting the threat to seize assets to fiancés rather than extending it to husbands, limits the number of abandoned women it could help. The implications of the wording are also ambiguous (see footnote 15). Even so, it demonstrates that the state does have leverage it could use against recalcitrant husbands. Currently, it gives them an effective veto on proceedings if they decide not to engage with the court.

Looking through the Code, especially in light of this letter, which describes what the state can do to get men to live up to their responsibilities, it is clear that the Emirate’s starting point is not the problems faced by unhappily married women in Afghanistan today, but rather centuries-old jurisprudence. The Code, for example, spends more words on the repercussions of the conversion to Islam of one member of a couple who are Christian or Jewish or Zoroastrian or polytheist, with variations as to whether they are currently in a Muslim or non-Muslim country – clearly this is of infinitesimally small significance to Afghans – than it does to the desperate problem of abandoned wives.

In a country from which so many men have migrated, their ability to keep their wives, even if they have abandoned them, causes immense suffering. The Code does acknowledge the “great difficulty” abandoned wives suffer, but then facilitates the husband’s prolonging of that suffering, should he so wish, “effectively rendering the wife unable to remarry,” wrote Gender Alert, “or otherwise move on with her life, leaving her bound to a marriage that may have ended in fact but cannot be ended in law.” The Code consistently prioritises the right of the husband to decide on his marriage, without holding him to account for his breaches of the marriage contract, thereby smoothing the way for men to leave their families in poverty, their wives in limbo and their children fatherless. It provides neither relief nor remedy for abandoned women and children, nor deterrence for abusive men.

Conclusion

To escape an unhappy marriage, Afghan women need courage and determination, support from their family and/or a lawyer, money and good fortune – a sympathetic judge may be able to make proceedings easier, a hostile one will only insult and dismiss. The Code, with its bias in favour of husbands, provides few remedies for women seeking a divorce. It is one more barrier they may face alongside social stigma, family opposition, poverty, lack of documents, restrictions on travel to and entering courts, an all-male court system, antagonistic judges and a preference for reconciliation over protection. Some of the lawyers we heard from were finding ways to use the Code to help their clients, but they need to be persistent and creative, to know their jurisprudence and be able to convince judges who are often unsympathetic and may not want to listen.

These themes run through the accounts of all three of the women we heard from in this report. Abida, we know, managed to get her husband to divorce her. Still, life is not easy:

I now consider myself an independent person and feel a sense of peace, although I know that many challenges still lie ahead. … I worry about what my future holds. Who will I live with? Will I be able to protect my daughter? I’ve heard stories from those who’ve remarried and they often face difficulties and insults, such as being labelled a divorced woman [zan-e talaqi] or a ‘bad woman’. [People] say things like, “If you were good, you wouldn’t have got a divorce from your first husband,” and various other hurtful comments. But I do now feel happy and hopeful that I can start a new life with a good person.

Shakila, with her two children, in Kabul, is still trying to win her separation:

I’m deeply damaged emotionally and financially. I can’t make any decision about my future. I have neither a shared life with a partner, nor am I legally free to start a new life. The uncertainty is very hard for me and my children. I work [cleaning] people’s homes. I’m the sole breadwinner of the household. … My daughter’s sick and I can’t afford to get her treated.

I ask the authorities to pay attention to the women who’ve been left without guardians for years. Many husbands have gone abroad and take no responsibility for their families. I hope the cases of these women are handled promptly, justly and in accordance with the law and Islamic principles, so that they don’t remain in limbo for years.

Finally, Najma is still trying to persuade her family to allow her to act and take her husband, still living in Tajikistan with his first wife, to court.

At night, I can’t fall asleep due to anxiety, because on the one hand, there’s family pressure – they won’t allow me to fulfil my legitimate wish. Requesting a separation is my rightful claim and God has permitted me to ask for it, but they don’t let me and I’m forced to get their consent because I live in my parents’ house. I have no place to go, no money to support myself. I’m forced to live with my family’s permission. On the other hand, my husband’s injustice and oppression has brought me to this state. I’ve completely lost my way. I don’t know what to do or how long I should live without a destiny. I endure both friends and foes. I endure poverty and destitution. All this has had such a terrible effect on my psyche and soul that sometimes I resign myself to my own death. 

[I think that] on that day when I finally separate from such an unjust and oppressive man, I’ll be reborn from my mother, and I will celebrate it. But for now, I’m in a state of aimlessness and chaos, with no clear fate.


Edited by Roxanna Shapour and Jelena Bjelica

References

References
↑1 Privately and locally, Afghanistan’s Shia Muslims always used Ja’fari jurisprudence for personal matters. However, if a dispute reached a state court or another state institution, the state’s legal framework, predominantly based on Hanafi jurisprudence, was applied. This was broadly the position from Abdul Rahman Khan’s (1844-1901) centralisation of the judicial system until the 2004 Constitution which formally recognised Shia jurisprudence as a source of state law for personal matters, later implemented through the 2009 Shia Personal Status Law. With the Taliban’s return to power, Ja’fari jurisprudence has again been excluded from the state judiciary, so in practice, the situation has largely returned to the pre-2004 position.
↑2 Article 18 of the code says that a woman may, “with the consent of her husband,” separate herself from him by way of khul’a, in return for whatever amount of property the spouses mutually agree upon. However, it says, “taking compensation for khul’a in excess of the stipulated mahr, in cases where the wife is not recalcitrant, is not appropriate.”
↑3 Article 15 says a missing person can be ruled as dead if he “is among those missing in war or is considered highly likely to be dead and there are indications proving his death, or such a long period has elapsed that the judge’s prevailing opinion is that he has died.” If that is not the case, then the wife has to wait for such a period that the death of the missing person becomes certain and the people of his generation – his contemporaries – have all died.”
↑4 Article 3 says: “Where a woman has a guardian and she marries a non-compatible person without the guardian’s permission, her marriage is invalid.” Matin considered that this means they could argue that the opposite must be true, that women could marry “whom they like, but [the spouse] must be compatible.” However, footnote 14 to the Code raises the possibility of a guardian being able to get such a marriage annulled (see AAN’s translation for more on this).
↑5 Article 4 stipulates that if a woman’s guardian marries her, with her consent, to someone whose compatibility is unknown or whose incompatibility later becomes evident (and compatibility was a condition of the marriage), then the guardian and the woman “have the right to annul the marriage,” with the separation “tak[ing] place by order of the court.”
↑6 Rahim, the lawyer in Mazar, echoed this point, saying that the Quran and Hadith “say that spouses should be a source of tranquillity and peace for each other, that there should be respect between spouses.” Where there is incompatibility, he said, the judge should approve a separation, but, “unfortunately, Afghanistan’s custom and tradition ruins this.”
↑7 While mahr is an Islamically prescribed gift given to a bride by the groom (often, in Afghanistan, it is a pledge, and not actually handed over), another payment is also commonly made, the bride price (walwar in Pashto and toyana and sherbaha in Dari), given by the groom’s family to the bride’s.
↑8 See an earlier decree from 19 March 2025, which while not mentioning bride price by name, did outlaw, “Soliciting money from in-laws for purposes other than the mahr”, which it said was considered bribery. Decree of the Esteemed Amir-ul-Momineen (may Allah protect him) Regarding prevention of improper customs during weddings, calamities, and upon return from Hajj and Umrah (official translation).
↑9 For more on child marriage, resorted to because of debt or economic hardship, see Ali Mohammad Sabawoon, Living in a Collapsed Economy (4): The desperation and guilt of giving a young daughter in marriage, 20 October 2022 and some of the accounts in Gulhan Durzai, Pushed to the Limits: The struggle to survive deepening poverty in Afghanistan, 25 August 2026.
↑10 John Butt, in a footnote to his translation of the Code, writes:

The phrase in brackets, “whether she is a virgin or married previously” raises some questions. It is difficult to imagine that a girl could have been married twice, while still pre-pubescent, and horrific to imagine that the first marriage might have been consummated, transforming her status from virgin [bakirah] to married [thayyibah].

↑11 Only if a “minor virgin girl” was contracted in marriage by someone other than her father or paternal grandfather and did not know about the marriage before reaching puberty, does she retain the prerogative to challenge the marriage until such time as she “learns of her marriage … even if a long time has passed after puberty.”
↑12 “The consent of an adult woman (zanan-e balegh) is necessary for nikah [marriage]. If the nikah is between [compatible spouses], the risk of corruption and cheating is removed. No one can force [an adult woman] into marriage by pressure or compulsion.” Decree 83, vol 1, 27/4/1443 AH, 2 December 2021, see AAN’s unofficial translation of the Decrees, Orders and Instructions of His Excellency, Amir Al-Mu’minin, as published in the Official Gazette on 22 May 2023, p31; and Decree of the Esteemed Amir-ul-Momineen (may Allah protect him) Regarding prevention of improper customs during weddings, calamities, and upon return from Hajj and Umrah (official translation).

The decree from 19 March 2025 (see FN8) said: “If a guardian forcibly marries off a woman without her consent, she has the right to file a complaint with the courts and relevant authorities. In such cases, the decree on women’s rights issued by the esteemed Amir al-Momineen (May Allah Protect Him) on 27/4/1443 Hijri (No. 83J1) must be observed.”

↑13 This is not the only pressing need for women to get a divorce in Afghanistan: the report could also have looked into what happens to women whose husbands beat them or are addicted to drugs or subject them to other abuse or neglect.
↑14 Women have not been allowed to register as defence lawyers since the re-establishment of the Emirate, but as Hamed Pakteen reported for AAN in Practising Law Under the Emirate: Afghan defence lawyers fight for space in a transformed justice system, 2 May 2026, “some have found creative ways to continue practicing.”
↑15 Namzad refers to someone who is betrothed. The couple may or may not have signed the nikah (marriage contract), but the wedding party (arusi) will not have been held. The man may have been present and then left the country, or there may have been a virtual nikah ceremony.

Different communities have different expectations and customs to do with a couple becoming betrothed: if the nikah has also been signed, some communities now consider the man to be mahram to the woman. In others, as the lawyer, Matin, put it, even if the nikah has been signed, the father of the bride will issue a warning that “until the rice is cooked,” ie the wedding ceremony is held … if I see you in my village, I will kill you.”

In some places, breaking off a namzadi, even without a nikah, is seen as a dishonour and could result in a feud. Elsewhere, unless there is a nikah, it would be far easier for either of the couple to break the engagement off with neither party owing anything to the other.

 

Afghan Women Left in Limbo: Decree 18 and the struggle to end a marriage
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