Afghanistan’s Unhappy Anniversary

Five years into their hard-line rule, the Taliban find themselves in crisis at home and abroad.

Afghanistan has a track record of defeating superpowers. The mujahedeen humbled the Soviet Union in the 1980s, and five years ago the Taliban pushed out the United States.

But can Afghanistan’s rulers overcome the discontent of their own people?

With the country on the verge of another all-out war, this time with Pakistan, that is less than certain. Today, my colleague Elian Peltier explains why all the ingredients for things to spiral out of control are there.

By Elian Peltier

On what could have been a triumphant anniversary for the group, the Taliban find themselves in crisis at home and abroad.

They face a conflict just short of open war with neighboring Pakistan. They’re dealing with fresh waves of attacks from armed groups who want to topple them. Add to that mass unemployment, near-total international isolation and growing domestic discontent, and it all amounts to the most serious threats the Taliban have encountered since their victory in 2021.

It’s too early to tell whether all this will escalate in a way that could threaten the regime’s survival. But it has cracked the thin veneer of security and stability that the Taliban herald as their primary achievement since taking over — and their primary selling point to the world.

The Taliban are holding Afghan society in a chokehold that spares no one. Girls and women face restrictions to a degree unseen anywhere else in the world. Religious minorities are witnessing the forced closure of their places of worship. Anyone who voices criticism is repressed.

That grip on power over a country of nearly 45 million people seems immovable. The Taliban collect taxes and are pretty good at it. They are building roads, dams and canals. European countries are desperate to work with them to deport Afghan migrants and asylum seekers. And when someone shuts the door on them, as Pakistan did when it closed its border last year, they open new ones: Afghanistan has increasingly relied on trade with Iran, India and Central Asian states like Uzbekistan.

And yet the signs of trouble that have appeared in recent months are impossible to ignore.

An underequipped Afghan Army waits nervously at the border with Pakistan. Once a sponsor of the Taliban, Pakistan has launched dozens of airstrikes on Afghanistan in recent months; killed 500 civilians since October, according to the United Nations; and threatened to go all in against the Taliban regime, which it accuses of harboring militants who are staging attacks on Pakistani territory.

The mistrust goes both ways: The Taliban have accused Pakistan of supporting the armed groups that have attacked Taliban outposts in Afghanistan’s northeastern province of Badakhshan and are gearing up for a sustained offensive.

Whether, or to what extent, Pakistan is actively supporting anti-Taliban groups is not clear, but suspicions are high enough that a senior Western diplomat with decades of experience working on Afghanistan told me this summer, “This region doesn’t need another proxy war.”

The picture on the domestic front is also grim. The Taliban are struggling to deal with a cascade of humanitarian and economic crises. Nearly four million Afghans have been forcibly returned from Iran and Pakistan since January 2025 — one of the world’s largest episodes of reverse migration in decades. Aid cuts have plunged millions into deeper food insecurity. And UNESCO says the Taliban have deprived 2.4 million Afghan girls of a secondary education — the equivalent of all school-age girls in New York, Mexico City and Moscow combined, forced to stay home indefinitely.

A society can withstand only so much, even under the tightest of grips. At a rare protest in June, demonstrators chanted “Work, education, freedom,” similar to what their Iranian neighbors chanted in 2022. And the leader of a large religious minority warned the Taliban in May: Don’t squeeze Afghan society too much, or it will explode.

The potential to spiral?

The Taliban know the world wants a stable Afghanistan — one that isn’t a source of refugees, opium or terrorism.

The Taliban claim the country no longer poses a security threat to the region or the West. They say that they have cracked down on the Islamic State, and that they want peaceful relations based on trade and diplomacy, including with the U.S.

All of this may have some truth to it. The Taliban don’t want their various crises to spiral. But it also might not be entirely up to them.

All the ingredients for things to get out of control in Afghanistan again are here, analysts say: Growing animosity toward Pakistan and a vast population of unemployed young Afghans are fertile ground for radicalization, especially as economic opportunities are nearly nonexistent. Under the Taliban, Afghanistan is, once again, a pariah state, with barely any allies.

As a foreign military official in Afghanistan put it, the country is no longer the hub for jihadism that it used to be — but it has everything it needs to become one again.

The past five years have brought some predictability and an end to almost two decades of fighting, which many Afghans have welcomed, despite the immense hardship and repression. But Afghanistan remains shattered, and what always looked like a fragile peace is already at risk.

Afghanistan’s Unhappy Anniversary
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UNAMA Says Two Afghan Staff Members Detained by Intelligence Officials in Herat

Two Afghan male staff members of the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA) were detained by officials of the de facto General Directorate of Intelligence in Herat, the U.N. mission said.

In a statement, UNAMA said the two staff members were detained on Sunday, August 9, but that the mission had not been informed of any charges against them or been allowed to meet with them.

“We confirm that two Afghan UNAMA male staff members were detained by officials of the de facto General Directorate of Intelligence on Sunday, 9 August in Herat,” the mission said.

“UNAMA has not been informed of the charges against them, nor have we been permitted to see them,” it added.

UNAMA called on the de facto authorities to respect the privileges and immunities granted to the United Nations and its officials under international law.

“We call on the de facto authorities to ensure compliance with the privileges and immunities of the United Nations and its officials,” UNAMA said.

The U.N. mission did not provide further details about the circumstances of the detentions, including where the two staff members were being held or whether they remained in custody.

The detentions come amid continuing concerns over the operating environment for international organizations and humanitarian personnel in Afghanistan. The United Nations has repeatedly stressed the need for its personnel to be able to carry out their work safely and independently.

UNAMA has maintained a presence in Afghanistan since 2002 and continues to support humanitarian, human rights and political efforts in the country. Its personnel operate under privileges and immunities intended to protect the independence of the United Nations and its officials.

This comes amid a sharp decline in international aid to Afghanistan, leaving millions facing growing difficulties in accessing adequate housing, food and essential healthcare services.

UNAMA Says Two Afghan Staff Members Detained by Intelligence Officials in Herat
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‘We are still here’: a day in the life of 12 Afghan women

The Guardian

Tuesday, 11 August 2026

In the five years since the Taliban’s return to power, the walls have been closing in on the women and girls of Afghanistan.

As the regime has tightened its grip, it has banned girls from education after the age of 12, ejected many women from the workplace and created legal frameworks for child marriage and husbands beating their wives. Taliban rule has ushered in a new era of women being whipped for minor infractions and constant inspections by ‘vice and morality’ officials, with men compelled to become enforcers in their own homes. Even the borders of the online world have been creeping inward, with a new spate of smartphone bans and internet restrictions.

Marking the grim anniversary, a dozen women and girls have, at great risk to their safety, documented their lives for the world to see

A composite of an Afghan woman in a blue veil

The soldier stripped of her uniform

Herat province
Every day, I wake up to the silence of dawn. I feel as though I am still holding my weapon. I lie on my bed for a few moments, taking deep breaths. With every awakening, I make a promise to myself: if my husband manages to return home safely today, I will thank God even more.

My name is Parasto*, and I live in Herat. For six years I served here as a soldier. Within a few days of taking the city, the first thing the Taliban did to me and my female colleagues was hold a meeting and demand that we hand over our uniforms. When they took that uniform, I felt as though I had lost something grand that belonged to me; it was a profound pain.

Because my husband and I served with the previous government, the Taliban have summoned him several times to question him about how many Taliban he killed, or how many I killed. We have been threatened with death many times, through phone calls and messages. In the early days, many of my colleagues fled. The Taliban arrested two women whose names I do not wish to mention, and nothing is known of their fate to this day. Where are they? Are they alive or not? We tried to smuggle ourselves over the border to Iran, but were turned back by border guards. Today, we still keep our bags packed and waiting, in case we have to flee.

Now, my morning begins with chores. I wake, light the fire, make breakfast, prepare my children for school and my husband so that he can search for a day’s work. I stand by the house gate until they leave. After the gate closes, the house sinks back into silence. I pull the curtains closed again so no one knows who lives here.

I spend the days alone in the heat of this house. Sometimes, to keep my mind off the past, I sit behind the sewing machine, thread the needle, stitch the fabric slowly. It is a way to pass long hours of loneliness. The weather is also getting hotter every day, as if fire is raining from the sky.

At night, before my eyes close, I think of the days when I would prepare myself for the next day’s shift.

I had so many dreams of serving this country more, but the times do not allow me to. I still dream that I am wearing my uniform and going to duty. When I wake up, it takes a few moments to realise that none of it exists any more.

As told to Goharshad

A collage featuring a cup of coffee and the cutout silhouette of a woman against a brick wall
The undercover journalist

Northern provinces
The fear of being exposed is constant. Every time someone knocks on our gate, I panic. Whenever I hear the sound, I immediately hide my laptop under my mattress because of what is held on its screen.

I am an undercover journalist in one of Afghanistan’s northern provinces, working under an alias. My writing days unfold in a 12-sq-metre room, with a small desk, a mobile phone and a laptop.

Coffee is my therapy. Every morning, as soon as I get out of bed, the first thing I reach for is a cup of coffee. I pick up my phone and check the latest news in Afghanistan. I open my pseudonymous email account to see what assignment my editor has left.

I have already lived through two house searches by Taliban officers. Since then, every knock at the gate fills me with dread. What if it is the Taliban? What if they enter the house while I am working on a report about a killing, interviewing a transgender person or writing the account of a survivor of violence? A thousand scenarios race through my mind and fear consumes me.

The job of a journalist is to meet people and record their stories – but every time I do so, it holds the risk that I could be betrayed. Last week, I went to interview a woman with a disability who had experienced domestic violence. She lived on the outskirts of the city, so a friend accompanied me. To reach her house, I had to change taxis twice. The trip was filled with anxiety because she lived in an area where restrictions are especially severe: women wear burqas, and it is unacceptable for a woman to move around without a male guardian.

We walked along dusty alleyways, winding through countless narrow turns. It was a small, impoverished house with barely any light. As I spoke to her, the entire time I was terrified. I had never met her before; she had only been introduced to me through someone I trusted. I did not know what kind of place I was walking into or whether I could trust the situation.

When I returned, I told my editor that we should not publish yet. I feared that, after publication, the Taliban could use the city’s expanding network of security cameras to trace my movements and identify her, or me. This is the reality of working under Taliban rule: reporting in a near-total suppression of press freedom is extraordinarily difficult.

By Sophia Malek

A woman preparing dough in a rudimentary hut

The neighbourhood baker

Kabul
Every day, when most people are still asleep, my sister Marzia and I wake at 4am. We light the oven. This is how our day begins.

My name is Fatema*. I am 32 years old and a mother of six: four sons and two daughters. Me and Marzia, who herself has eight children, run a small home bakery in a corner of Kabul.

Women from all over come to us with dough they have prepared the night before, asking us to bake their bread. This work has been our only stable source of income during these five difficult years.

My eyebrows and eyelashes have disappeared because of constant exposure to the heat of the fire. My eyes burn. My knees ache at night, and I no longer feel the burns on my hands. Work is good, but I never wanted such a hard life and such difficult work for my daughters.

I pray my morning prayer while the oven is heating up. After the prayer, women begin arriving one by one. Some come from distant neighbourhoods, carrying with them fear and worry. They say: “The Taliban were in such and such alley today.” Sometimes they arrive silently, hand over their dough and wait.

We bake the bread, and they return home with fresh loaves.

As I work, I always remember my mother. She taught my sister and me the art of breadmaking, and was a wise woman. She encouraged me to attend school so I could learn the Qur’an, and she taught me sewing, baking and caring for my children. All these skills have helped me survive. I still light the oven the way my mother taught me. But the wood, which used to cost 60 afghanis per bundle (70p), has risen to 110 afghanis (£1.25). Now, we use almond shells as fuel – they’re cheaper, but their bitter smell stays with me until the end of the day. We charge six afghanis for each batch of bread. On good days, we might earn about 1,000 afghanis (£11), but usually we earn half of that. My family of eight and Marzia’s family of 10 survive on this.

My eldest daughter is now 12, and my youngest is eight. Beyond how difficult the work itself is, my biggest worry is that I cannot do anything for their education. I don’t have enough income to send them abroad to study, and I have no hope that conditions inside Afghanistan will improve soon. I wanted my daughters to study and have a more informed and comfortable life. What if they end up like me? A difficult life with very limited choices.

By mid-morning, I can take a break, take off my work clothes, wash my hands and face, eat breakfast and rest a while. In the afternoon, I light the oven again, and the work continues until 7pm.

When women come and share stories about their lives, I realise that the lives of women and girls in Afghanistan have never been easy. With the arrival of the Taliban, they have become a living hell.

As told to Tarana Mohammadi

A young afghan woman writing in a notebook

The 12-year-old blogger

Undisclosed
I wake up to the sound of my parents’ laughter. In the living room, my mother spreads out her flower-patterned tablecloth and prepares breakfast. For me, she makes a boiled egg because she knows I love them. I am 12 years old, preparing for my sixth-grade exams – the last I will be allowed to take.

After breakfast, my sisters and I go to our room, where my older sister gets lost in old books and notebooks, studying and writing. She dreamed of becoming a writer whose books would be read around the world. But the Taliban buried that dream inside her. My other sister reached 10th grade before she had to leave. Now she sits for hours, searching social media for scholarships and journalism training programmes.

I know that soon the fate that came to my sisters will come for me. I will also remain trapped in this room, our forced refuge for years. Even at night we do not dare pull back the curtains for fresh air, fearing the Taliban or suspicious neighbours. What if someone says: “Three young girls live in this house and move around freely inside it”?

On the shelf where we keep our clothes, there is no colour left except black. I put on my black dress, scarf, mask and chador. I must wear my chador, even in this scorching heat – two classmates were arrested and expelled from school for failing to wear it correctly.

Finally, I reach the school gate, surrounded by girls. The teacher enters the classroom and places a preparatory exam paper in front of us. But I stare at the exam paper and ask myself: what should I write? What future am I studying for, when that path no longer exists?

Every day after school, I go straight to that same room and record my blog. I talk about life, recite poetry and speak about girls whose books have remained closed for years, women prevented from living an ordinary life. My mother brings her phone to record me. I receive encouraging messages from women and girls who relate to my words. But whenever I publish a video, relatives come to our home and fill my father’s ears with criticism. They say: “Your daughter has grown up. The honour and dignity of the family will be destroyed. Why is she blogging? Why is she speaking out against the Taliban?”

Every time I hear this, I feel like more walls are being built around my life. One greater fear stays with me: that someone might reveal my identity and location to the Taliban. Today, perhaps the Taliban see my videos and do not know who the voice behind them is. But what happens if they find me?

Sometimes I imagine that if one day I can return to seventh grade, if I can place my books on a desk again and hold my pen without fear, the first thing I will write will be the story of these days. I am a 12-year-old girl. Hear our voices, before our silent rooms become filled with buried dreams. We are still here.

As told to Awa Nikyar

A composite featuring a closeup of a sewing machine and fabric

The polio survivor who became a master tailor

Undisclosed
Twenty-five years ago, when I was 10, I contracted polio. Because we were a poor family living through war in a remote village, we had no access to doctors or vaccines. My legs bent at the knees, and walking was difficult. My body and height did not grow like those of average people.

As a child, struggling with the muscle pain and paralysis, I realised my life would be different from other people’s. I saw my pace in this world was slow, and that I was viewed as a burden. The pain I saw in my mother’s eyes made me realise how difficult my life was going to be. She never said it out loud, but I read it in her gaze.

To escape the pain in my mind and body, I would take a needle and plastic scraps to make clothes for dolls. Gradually, I won my mother’s trust and she let me hand-sew a dress for her. Her faint smile was a stamp of approval. I still remember the first proper garment I ever sewed: a white cotton shirt and trousers for my father. He made my heart swell with joy, saying: “Bravo, my daughter!”

This talent was a gift from the creator: I had never had a teacher, but I found I could look at anything, replicate its pattern and sew it. One day, one of my sisters showed me a dress by a skilled tailor and asked if I could make one like it. When it was done, seeing I could work like a master tailor, she promised to buy me a sewing machine – and she kept her promise.

From that day on, my reputation spread by word of mouth, and clients began coming from more and more distant villages.

When clients arrive, their first look is often searching and sceptical. They ask: “Is the tailor here?” I know exactly what they are thinking. When I tell them it is me, they place their orders with looks of disbelief and curiosity. When they see me using a pen and paper to write down measurements, they ask: “How are you literate?” They have no idea how hard I worked to teach myself to read. I became a student of my own students; in exchange for teaching them tailoring, I had them teach me writing.

I sometimes have so many orders that I can earn 6-7,000 afghani (£68-80) a month, helping to support the family. Since my mother died and my father lost his sight due to old age, I run the household myself. I keep thanking God for giving me the strength to do so. Despite my legs and skeleton being ravaged by polio, I have never looked down on myself. My art has ensured that people do not look at me with pity or condescension; instead, they look at me as their trusted tailor.

As told to Hura Omar

A composite of cut-out shapes of people and an unidentified woman wearing a hijab

The aspiring novelist

Balkh province
If you want to know me, do not start with my name, but with my room’s window. Every morning, before the city fully wakes up, I sit in front of it. The road in front of me is just an ordinary street, but to me it is filled with people, and each has a story that no one has yet written. An old man who slowly drags his cane across the asphalt; a girl who clutches her bag tightly to her chest and walks briskly; a child chasing his ball … Sometimes, before I write the first sentence, I just watch them for a few minutes.

I am Mahtab*. I am 23 years old and from Balkh province, and I am writing a novel.

I began writing on my own, but now I take online classes as well. One by one, students appear onscreen. Some could be my older sister or even my mother. Every time I see their faces, I think how remarkable it is: here, where the paths to learning grow narrower every day, there are still people who have not given up. Sometimes, the internet disconnects, sometimes the power goes out, but none of this stops the class.

Let me tell you about last week: I was missing going to the bookshop, so I adjusted my shawl and set off. The little bell above the door chimed as it opened, and the smell of paper and new books filled the shop. The bookseller smiled and said: “I haven’t seen you in a long time.” I went straight to the fiction shelf. My fingers slid over the spines of the books, and I was holding one in my hand when, through the glass, a few men in official attire passed by. Instinctively, I held my breath.

Through the glass, I saw girls passing the shop: one holding her little sister’s hand; one with a book hidden beneath her shawl; another walking so fast, as if she wanted to get away from the street’s gaze. When I stepped out, I held the book tight against my chest. In a time when so much can be taken from a person, the dream of reading, writing and creating cannot be stolen unless one gives it up. For me, writing is not just putting words together; it is a way to preserve what is being lost: dreams, memories, the voices of people who are still hopeful. Perhaps, one day, someone will read these writings and know there were people who, despite all the walls, still kept a window open to the future.

When night falls, I sit behind the same window again. I may not be able to change the pain of this city, but I can remember it, write it down and not let it be lost in silence.

As told to Sofia Malik

a composite of bricks being made by a woman and a cow being fed

The cleaner and brickmaker

Jawzjan province
My husband used to be the breadwinner in our family. But in 2021, he was in injured in a traffic accident, leaving him unable to stand on his feet or work. From that moment, the responsibility of providing for the family fell on my shoulders.

My name is Leilma*. I am 33 years old. I am originally from Faryab province, but I now live in Jawzjan. I am the mother of four children – three daughters and one son.

Every day, I wake up before sunrise, pray and begin my household chores. I prepare breakfast for my children and husband, send my children to school, prepare food for our cow and goats and feed them, then tie them under the shade of trees so they can be protected from the scorching sun.

Then, I head to the hotel where I work as a waitress and cleaner. From 6.30am until 8 or 9pm, I work continuously.

On days when there are wedding ceremonies at the hotel, I arrive early, arrange tables and chairs, and serve guests food. Then I clean every part of the hotel with brushes, mops and brooms, and arrange the tables and chairs again. I wash the tablecloths, chair covers and dining sheets, and dry them on the hotel roof. Once they are dry, I collect them, spread them back on the tables and chairs and return home.

For all this work, I earn only 200 afghanis (£2) a day. Although this income is very little and does not cover all our needs, I have no choice but to continue. My children’s hopes are tied to my tired hands.

I live with my husband and four children in a very small house with only one room. To be able to build at least one more room, I make raw bricks whenever I have free time.

My brother used to do this work so I know how bricks are made: preparing the soil, mixing it with water to make mud. I spend hours pressing and kneading the mud with my feet until it is ready. After that, using a brick-making mould, I shape the raw bricks from the mud and leave them under the sun to dry.

Sometimes, there is a wedding ceremony at the hotel while the mud for making bricks is also ready at home, so I cover the mud with plastic and go to the hotel. When I return home at night, I start making bricks again.

My neighbours tell me that if I continue putting so much pressure on myself, I will collapse. But I do not know any other way. My children are all still young, and I cannot bring myself to send them to work.

I tell myself: I did not have the chance to study and became a cleaner; let them study and become educated.

As told to Simin Daneshjo

The teacher at a girls’ school

Day Kundi province
My day begins at four in the morning. After waking, I pray and read the Qur’an until the sky begins to brighten. Then I pick up empty water containers and walk to the nearby spring to collect fresh water.

I have breakfast with my son – tea, sugar and tandoori bread. We live in a remote village in Day Kundi province, but unlike many other villagers, our table is not filled with eggs or cheeses. My name is Sediqa*. I am 41 years old, and I have been teaching at my village’s girls’ school for 18 years. I studied at this same school. After the fall of the previous Taliban regime, when Hamid Karzai came to power in 2002 and girls’ schools reopened, I was among the first to return – although I was over 20 years old at the time, I started my education from first grade. Eventually, I became a teacher.

I married a man who promised to support my work and education, because I hoped to build an independent life. But after my son was born, he failed to support me, did not allow me to study at university and opposed my going to work. Then, when the government collapsed and the Taliban took power, my husband left Afghanistan. My son and I were displaced, moving from one person’s home to another. The house I built through years of hardship and with the money I earned from teaching was taken away from me by his family. We eventually settled in a mud house near the school.

In the morning, I prepare dough and go to an area among the trees near my house to gather firewood. I light the clay oven and bake our bread, then leave for school with my son. We each take separate mountain paths and walk to our schools alone. My son walks an hour on foot while my journey takes 45 minutes.

Eighteen years ago, many girls and I gathered at this school under a single tent. There were no professional teachers, our school had no building and the tent was unbearable in the heat and cold – yet we gathered beneath that roof with great enthusiasm and a deep desire to learn.

Today, our school has a building, and classrooms with desks and chairs. But our girls can no longer study beyond sixth grade. The school uniform has been replaced with large black prayer garments, chador namaz, which education officials come to inspect. The youngest girls are just six years old. Despite their age and the long distances they travel, they must carry these heavy garments through the difficult journey, enduring the heat and cold.

I teach first grade, and my day ends with the happy laughter of these young girls. Girls who are starting school for the first time are happy, energetic and full of dreams. Being around them gives me a sense of joy.

As told to Nahid Naji

Cutout of an afghan woman, with notebooks and tuk-tuks

The student locked inside and losing hope

Nangarhar province
Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror during the day and see the colour of my face and my hair, I fall silent. I see how much I have truly changed over these past few years. My skin has become pale and lifeless, as if I am fading away; the dark circles under my eyes look frightening. Sometimes, I think the girl I see in the mirror is not me.

My name is Leima*. I am 24 years old, and I was studying computer science at a private university in Nangarhar when the Taliban announced the closure of universities. I was in my room, working on a course project. It was 9pm when I finished studying and saw the news on my phone.

I fell into a state of shock. When my mother and sisters saw me they became silent. They had wanted to hide the news from me, but I already knew. For days, my family and relatives tried to reassure me that the universities would reopen.

When the universities stayed shut, I was left hopeless. My father – who has always supported our education – told me not to worry, that he would find every possible way for me to continue my studies. Eventually, he decided that we should leave Afghanistan and go to Pakistan or Turkey so I could resume my education. But because my younger brother has a physical disability and is paralysed, we were unable to leave.

Now, life has reached a point where no ordinary day is truly ordinary. My mind is so filled with thoughts and worries that even when I’m cooking, tears fall from my eyes without me realising.

This morning I woke up at 2am, recited prayers and sat on my prayer mat, crying. Every night, I ask God to make everything right. In the darkness, I go into the courtyard and look at the silent sky, the moon and the stars. It gives me a sense of comfort. I tell myself that everything will change one day.

There was a time when I would dress up every day. I would lovingly dye and style my hair, apply my favourite bright lipstick, listen to my favourite music at full volume and dance happily in my room. This morning, after brushing my teeth, I wanted to comb my hair. But my worries are making it fall out: so much hair gathered on the brush that I felt as if every strand had died.

As I sat there, my eyes fell on my old perfumes sitting beside the mirror. I picked one up and sprayed it on myself; for a moment, my mood changed. I felt like the person I used to be years ago.

As told to Hosai Ismail Khan

Composite of prosthetic legs and medical apparatus for people with broken or injured legs

The prosthetist helping women to walk

Faryab province
My workday revolves around plaster, moulds, plastic prosthetics, scissors, screws, rubber, glue and other tools.

My name is Nazanin*. I am 42 years old and the mother of four children – two daughters and two sons. For the past 21 years, I have worked as a technician in a hospital, making orthopaedic assistive devices, casts and plastic prosthetic limbs for women and children with physical disabilities.

I begin each day with prayer, then wake my two sons, who leave for their classes at 6am. My younger daughter is in second grade, so I take her to school in my rickshaw. My older daughter, however, is 13 and no longer allowed to attend school.

Now, she stays home alone. She does all the housework, prepares meals for her father and siblings. She has been at home for two years, and it breaks my heart. No one truly understands a mother’s fear. Every time I close the gate behind me, it feels as though my soul remains on the other side with my daughter.

I arrive at work at 8am and check how many orders we have. I produce several casts or artificial limbs most days.

I think about my daughter as I work and wonder what she is doing. How long can she keep herself busy with housework? How much television can she watch? I worry that she might harm herself. I worry that she might lose hope.

Then I tell myself that there are women who need me – who dream of walking independently and doing everyday tasks on their own. One young woman I worked with was the mother of seven children. Her husband was a farmer and they lived in a remote mountainous district. Before receiving the prosthesis, she had to crawl to do her daily tasks.

Now, she can walk powerfully on those uneven fields. Later, when she visited us to have her prosthetic leg repaired, she told us with great happiness: “I went to the market – I saw the market up close. I work on my land now, and I no longer think about the fact that I once did not have a leg.”

In the evening, when my husband returns from work, he comforts me about our daughter. He says: “Are you anxious? Well, this is something that has happened to all girls.” He takes our daughters out for a walk and buys them ice-cream or something small. He says: “At least let their faces light up a little.”

As told to Tomiris Tamga

A closeup of dental equipment against the cutout shape of an afghan woman

The dental assistant who dreamed of being a surgeon

Jawzjan province
Getting to my place of work is never easy. On my way, I pass several mosques and a Taliban-run religious school. When the young men come out, the way they look at me sometimes makes me fearful. Every time I walk that route, I wonder whether I could end up like Farkhunda – a young woman killed by a mob for no reason. The men’s stares reveal how deeply they resent women leaving their homes.

My name is Marwa*. I am 23 years old, and once I dreamed of being a brain surgeon. When women were banned from universities, I found I could study an online course in dental prosthetics. Today, I work as a dental assistant in a small private clinic run by a friend of my father’s.

When I arrive at the clinic, I push fear aside and focus on my work. Taliban officials and soldiers all come to the clinic. One commander came to have a tooth extracted and asked the dentist about the anaesthetic injection. The soldier with him laughed and said: “Doctor, don’t numb the commander. Our commander has spilled so much blood – let him lose a little blood from his tooth as well.”

Hearing that, I wondered how many innocent people this man had helped kill, how many families he had left without loved ones, how many women and children had suffered because of him. Every moment, I worried that he might suddenly become angry.

Officials from the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice visit the clinic to carry out inspections. They always ask: “Who is this young woman’s guardian and why is she working alone?” Every time, I worry they might shut down the clinic or create problems for us. Whenever they arrive, I hide so they do not see me.

This is not the future I imagined for myself. When I was 17 and began preparing for Afghanistan’s national university entrance exam, I told myself I would earn the highest score in my province. I had dreamed of becoming a doctor, but by the time exam results were announced, the political system had changed and I wasn’t able to pursue that. Once, a man who had been my teacher came in for treatment. When he saw me, he said: “You are capable of much more than being a nurse or an assistant. If circumstances had been different, you could have become a better doctor than many practising today.” His kind words meant a great deal.

There are months when I feel hopeless. But then, a small sense of hope returns. Maybe the circumstances are not right today, but no one knows what tomorrow will bring. Some girls have lost hope and are searching for a refuge in life – they think if they get married, they can find that refuge in their husbands. But I want to be my own refuge.

As told to Atousa Azar

A composite of an unidentified afghan woman hugging a child along images of rural life in afghanistan

The teacher who fears her students will be married off

Samangan province
People often say that the beginning of the week starts with motivation and energy, but since the day Afghanistan fell to the Taliban and my studies were left unfinished, I have had no motivation to live. Morning and evening, day and night, every day of the week feels the same: dark and heavy.

My name is Fatana*. I am 25 years old and live in one of Afghanistan’s northern provinces. When the Taliban seized control of Afghanistan, I was a third-year student of law and political science, living in a government-run dormitory. Since then, I have been prevented from continuing my education. My six-year-old sister and I get into a rickshaw and go to school – a private school where I have worked as a teacher for nearly two years and earn a monthly salary of 4,000 afghanis (£45). Alongside teaching, I try to encourage my students. I tell them that to achieve success, they often have to work several times harder than boys.

One of my students lost her father to cancer last year, and her family is struggling financially. She is a quiet and sorrowful girl who often keeps to herself. In addition to her regular lessons, I teach her English for one hour every day through WhatsApp. Sometimes, I cannot escape worrying about her future. I fear that poverty and family pressure could force her into child marriage – a fate that still shapes the lives of many children.

The most painful part of my work at the school is seeing my students graduate from sixth grade. Their sad and hopeless faces on their final days are unbearable for me. Every time I think about those girls, and wonder what conditions they are living in today, my heart aches. I ask myself: how many of them are still holding on to their dreams of education? How many have been forced into marriages they did not choose?

As told to Raha Malik

* Names have been changed

 This report is a collaboration with Zan Times, a collective of journalists inside Afghanistan who write under pen names for their own safety

‘We are still here’: a day in the life of 12 Afghan women
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Afghanistan: UN tells Taliban to open up on abuses committed by security forces

UN staff in Afghanistan observe a minute of silence as the UN flag is lowered to half-mast at the Mission Headquarters.
UN Photo/Tilak Pokharel Headquarters of the UN Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA) in Kabul.

Five years into Taliban rule, Afghans still have almost no way of knowing whether soldiers, police and morality officers who abuse their power ever face consequences – and that secrecy is corroding trust in the State, the UN said Monday.

Key points

  • The Taliban have taken steps to promote discipline and oversight according to a new report by the UN mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA)
  • However, these steps have lack sufficient transparency on oversight and accountability measures, for such institutions as the Supreme Court
  • UNAMA recommendations include strengthening accountability by clarifying the rules governing the use of force, arrest, detention, searches and crowd policing

Five years after the Taliban seized power, such grave concerns as human rights violations, detention and discrimination against women and girls continue to be consistently raised by UN agencies and partners, from UN Women to the Security Council.

Since the takeover, UNAMA has monitored the situation of governance, rule of law, security and human rights across Afghanistan, including developments in domestic law, the criminal justice system and respect for victims’ rights.

UNAMA reports have already highlighted a significant lack of public information on the status of investigations or actions to hold perpetrators of human rights violations to account.

Insufficient transparency

While de facto authorities have taken some positive steps, there has not been enough transparency on oversight and accountability measures, the report highlights.

The findings examined bodies such as the so-called Security and Filtration Commission and the Ministry of Propagation of Virtue and Prevention of Vice, which were set up according to the Taliban’s strict interpretation of Sharia Law, replacing the former democratic constitution.

The limited amount of public information on complaints received, investigations conducted and disciplinary or judicial actions taken by relevant de facto bodies undermine confidence and weaken deterrence,” said Georgette Gagnon, Deputy Special Representative of the Secretary-General and head of UNAMA.

She said the suspension of the constitution had resulted in “a blanket annulment of all former [existing] laws”.

Unresolved complaints

In the report, UNAMA documented instances where the de facto authorities conducted arrests and investigations of reported misconduct of security personnel – some of which were referred to Taliban military courts.

At the same time, many complaints reportedly remain unresolved, the report found.

Elements which are discouraging people from coming forward include fear of reprisals, lack of trust in institutions and barriers, particularly for women who are subjected to multiple restrictions in their daily lives, the report found.

Accountability

Ms. Gagnon said visible and consistent accountability measures should ensure that rules are applied equally and to every person, including those in positions of authority.

Improving accountability is a legal obligation of the de facto authorities and a necessary step towards improving governance and respect for human rights, which support Afghanistan’s stability and its compliance with international obligations as a basis for the country’s reintegration into the international community,” she said.

UNAMA recommended de facto authorities strengthen accountability across all security institutions by ensuring that clear rules, procedures and codes of conduct are in place, consistent with international standards.

This includes clarifying the rules governing the use of force, arrest, detention, searches and crowd policing, establishing clear standards of professional conduct and requiring all personnel to report misconduct, with commanders responsible for enforcing discipline.

Read the full report here.

 

Afghanistan: UN tells Taliban to open up on abuses committed by security forces
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Central Asia Has Learned to Live With the Taliban

When the Taliban reclaimed control of Afghanistan in 2021, none of its Central Asian neighbors welcomed the group’s return to power, and none have formally recognized it since then. Nevertheless, geographic proximity made ignoring Kabul impractical, leaving pragmatic engagement as the only option.

As a result, over the past five years, all five Central Asian states have to varying degrees adapted to Taliban rule in Afghanistan and advanced their national interests through relations with the Islamic Emirate that are normalized in all but name. Of them, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, which share borders with Afghanistan, have gone the farthest toward normalization of diplomatic and economic ties. Tajikistan—also an immediate neighbor—has remained the most skeptical, though it has still joined the regional trend of establishing working relations with the Taliban.

But for all the states in the region, the militant group’s return to power in Afghanistan has created complex realities that they are now forced to navigate.

Through a sustained political dialogue and functional cooperation with Kabul, Uzbekistan has become Central Asia’s leading interlocutor with the Taliban. Due to its prioritization of counterterrorism, border security and counternarcotics cooperation, Uzbekistan treats such engagement as a practical necessity.

But in addition to approaching Afghanistan as a security challenge, President Shavkat Mirziyoyev also sees it as an economic opportunity. Tashkent has expanded bilateral trade, transport and energy cooperation through the Termez free trade zone, as well as through new investments and bilateral agreements, with the aim of increasing annual trade to a target of $5 billion from $1.7 billion in 2025. This strategy has been bolstered through high-level visits, including that of Prime Minister Abdulla Aripov to Kabul in August 2024, underscoring Tashkent’s commitment to engagement. In serving as a bridge between Afghanistan and the wider international community, Uzbekistan seeks to promote stability and connectivity despite the risks associated with Taliban governance, with the goal of integrating Afghanistan into broader regional economic networks.

For neighboring Turkmenistan, meanwhile, Afghanistan’s importance is defined by connectivity and energy cooperation. Underscoring this regional vision is the Turkmenistan-Afghanistan-Pakistan-India gas pipeline (TAPI), which, when completed, will connect Turkmenistan’s Galkynysh gas fields with South Asian markets through Afghan territory. Former President Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow visited Afghanistan in October 2025 to review construction progress, underscoring the project’s continued importance. However, with Afghanistan and Pakistan at war since October 2025, and the Pakistan-India war having revived tensions between Islamabad and New Delhi, TAPI’s prospects appear increasingly uncertain. Beyond gas, however, Afghanistan remains a major importer of Turkmen electricity, highlighting significant energy interdependence.

Turkmenistan’s doctrine of non-interference and “positive neutrality,” which emphasizes dialogue and practical cooperation, guides its foreign policy toward Taliban-ruled Afghanistan. Turkmenistan also stood out among Central Asian states for having not evacuated its diplomatic staff from Afghanistan amid the withdrawal of U.S. forces in 2021, nor did it release negative statements about the Taliban at the time. To the contrary, it quickly established contacts with Kabul, embracing a business-oriented approach. Similarly, Turkmenistan’s government kept key border crossings open for trade and transport.

For neighboring Kazakhstan, the region’s largest economy, security is the dominant concern along with economic and geopolitical interests. President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev has described the Taliban as a “long-term factor” in the region that Kazakhstan “must work with.” Reflecting this approach, Tokayev’s government transferred control of the Afghan Embassy to Taliban-appointed representatives in 2023. The following year, it accepted a Taliban-appointed chargé d’affaires and removed the Taliban from its list of designated terrorist organizations.

Kazakhstan has also sought to expand trade with Afghanistan from between $500 million and $1 billion annually to a target of $3 billion. To do so, the government has promoted business forums, established a trade house in the northwestern Afghan city of Herat and supported projects such as the Turgundi-Herat railway. Its policy has evolved from cautious engagement to active economic and diplomatic cooperation, even as it continues to avoid formal recognition of the Taliban government.

The Central Asian states hope that expanded trade with Afghanistan will enable greater economic and political influence over the Islamic Emirate in the years ahead.


Kyrgyzstan’s policy toward Taliban-ruled Afghanistan has similarly shifted from careful, security-focused overtures toward more open political and economic cooperation. Initially, the country limited contacts to security discussions and humanitarian assistance. Over time, however, concerns over regional security, extremist threats and economic initiatives such as CASA-1000—a regional infrastructure project for renewable energy—have encouraged deeper engagement with the Islamic Emirate.

A turning point came in September 2024, when Kyrgyzstan removed the Taliban from its list of banned terrorist organizations, signaling a willingness to establish stronger relations. By 2025, this approach had expanded into economic diplomacy, including ministerial visits, the opening of a Kyrgyz Trade House in Kabul and the signing of $156 million in trade agreements covering energy, mining, telecommunications, agriculture and logistics.

Finally, Tajikistan’s foreign policy toward the Taliban can also be characterized as a gradual evolution, in this case from outright hostility toward cautious engagement. Initially, President Emomali Rahmon’s government adopted the strongest anti-Taliban position among the Central Asian republics, refusing recognition, criticizing the Taliban’s lack of inclusivity, supporting Afghan Tajik opposition figures and portraying the Taliban regime as both lacking in legitimacy and constituting a major security threat.

Tajikistan’s concerns centered on militant groups such as Jamaat Ansarullah and the Islamic State-Khorasan Province (ISKP), as well as narcotics trafficking, with its major fear being the possibility of instability spreading across the Tajik-Afghan border. This hardline position reinforced Tajikistan’s image as a frontline state against extremism.

By 2024, however, the country began to move toward limited cooperation with Kabul without recognizing the Taliban. Since then, security concerns, electricity exports, and trade and connectivity projects have pushed Dushanbe further toward engagement. Over the past two years, cross-border markets have reopened, Tajik officials have held meetings with their Taliban counterparts and diplomatic contacts have become more visible. In sum, Tajikistan currently engages with the Taliban to manage security threats and protect national interests, even if it has maintained its reservations about the group.

Five years after the Taliban’s return to power, the Central Asian states have largely adapted to the new reality in Afghanistan. Although they vary in the extent of their de facto engagement with the Islamic Emirate, all five recognize that Afghanistan’s stability and economic interests are closely tied to their own. With regional infrastructure projects dependent on a stable Afghanistan and cooperation with Kabul essential to countering ISKP, Central Asian governments desire a regime in Kabul capable of acting as a stabilizing force both within Afghanistan and across the region.

The Central Asian states hope that expanded trade with Afghanistan will enable greater economic and, by extension, political influence over the Islamic Emirate in the years ahead. For their part, the Taliban have become increasingly oriented toward Afghanistan’s northern neighbors since the outbreak of the Afghanistan-Pakistan war in October 2025 and the subsequent closure of the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.

But while the Central Asian republics have compelling reasons to deepen their de facto ties with the Taliban, whether they will join Russia in formally recognizing the regime remains an open question. Recognition will probably depend on broader international developments. If China and perhaps the United Arab Emirates formally recognize the Taliban government, the Central Asian republics may well follow suit, aligning themselves with an emerging Eurasian consensus. Yet, these countries’ growing ties with the West mean they will remain mindful of the risks of moving too quickly to “legitimize” the Taliban, particularly given the potential for tensions with Western powers.

Although formal recognition would be symbolically significant, the more important trend is the continued deepening of practical ties between the Central Asian republics and the Taliban, reflecting a growing regional acceptance that engagement with the Islamic Emirate is not only possible but necessary.

Giorgio Cafiero is the CEO and founder of Gulf State Analytics, a Washington-based geopolitical risk consultancy that focuses on the Middle East, and an adjunct assistant professor at Georgetown University.

Central Asia Has Learned to Live With the Taliban
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What America Owes to Afghan Women

By Mursal Rahim

Ms. Rahim, who fled Afghanistan in 2021, provides support to migrants and refuges with Catholic Charities of the Diocese of Arlington, in Virginia.

The New York Times

Aug. 10, 2026

My hands shook as I crossed the stage to receive my master’s diploma from Cornell University last year. Wearing a graduation stole on which I had sewn an Afghan flag, I was filled with a jumble of pride and disbelief at how far I had come.

Four years before, I was among thousands of people evacuated from Afghanistan as its government collapsed and the Taliban seized Kabul, and I had since made the dizzying transition to a new life in America.

But as I teetered across the stage in high heels, the sad, hopeless faces of my girlfriends who never made it out of Afghanistan flashed through my mind. This is the whiplash I live with now — highs of freedom and newfound opportunity, punctured by lows of intense guilt.

The fall of Kabul, five years ago this week, marked the bitter end to the long, painful 20-year U.S. involvement in Afghanistan. But for Afghan women, the pain was only beginning. The Taliban have turned my home into what a senior U.N. official has called the most repressive country in the world for women, who are barred from school and most types of work and face restrictions on simply appearing in public.

I escaped all that. In America I’ve been able to further my education and get a job. I’ve discovered the joys of cycling, jogging, ice skating, kayaking, weight lifting and many other pursuits unavailable to women back home. I even learned to swim. I have the freedom to go out each day, unafraid of being punished for what I’m wearing, for whom I am.

But every freedom I enjoy reminds me of women in Afghanistan who lost theirs.

In July, I bought myself an inflatable paddle board for my 30th birthday. Propelling myself down the Potomac River, I reveled in a sense of power and independence. But my chest suddenly tightened as the face of a young girl came back to me.

She’s a family friend in Afghanistan, a bright, curious and promising girl who devoured books that my mom gave her. But I had just learned from friends in Kabul that, just 16, she is to be married off to a much older man. No school, or even leaving home without a close male relative at her side.

Afghan women were perhaps the biggest beneficiaries of the U.S. intervention in Afghanistan. The Americans arrived in 2001, driving the previous Taliban regime from power. Soon after, I was able to start primary school, something that had been unimaginable under the Taliban. The expansion of opportunities for women allowed me to graduate from law school in Afghanistan in 2020. I planned to start a career advocating for women who still faced challenges such as domestic violence but had few female lawyers to represent them.

The U.S. withdrawal ended those dreams.

I got out of Afghanistan only because my brother, Najim Rahim, had worked as a reporter for The New York Times. Anyone who was employed by Western news organizations or the U.S. military was at risk of Taliban reprisals, so The Times evacuated those who had worked for its Kabul bureau — journalists, drivers, gardeners and translators, along with their direct family members.

My family was having lunch at home on the day Kabul fell, contemplating what would happen to us under the Taliban, when my brother called: We were leaving Afghanistan. We had 30 minutes to pack one small bag per person before rushing to the airport. I stared into my closet, suddenly forced to decide how to fit my life into a backpack. I grabbed some clothes, my school diploma and a few head scarves.

We waited for hours with other evacuees under a baking sun as thousands thronged the airport. We watched, horrified, as desperate people clung to the exteriors of planes, falling as the aircraft took flight. That night, Taliban militants attacked our group with clubs and we had to run from the chaotic airport for our lives.

Two tense days later, we made it on board a military transport. As we finally lifted off, I sat on the plane’s cold metal floor, staring numbly at its windowless walls and the blank, fearful faces of people who were leaving behind everything they knew. Eventually, we landed in Houston and began the process of applying for asylum.

As new possibilities opened up for us in America, Taliban decrees barred women and girls from receiving education after the sixth grade, required women to cover themselves head to toe in public and even forbade them from speaking loudly enough that non-family members can hear them. In January, the Taliban approved a new criminal decree that the U.N. High Commissioner for Human Rights says legitimizes violence against women and children at home.

Despite the ever-tightening restrictions, I keep in touch with friends back home through calls and video chats. One friend in Kabul told me how she and other women were working out in a secret gym last year when Taliban morality enforcers arrived. The women managed to escape out the back before the Talibs burst in, sniffing at what they said was the telltale scent of perfume in the air.

Most of the 35 young women who were in my all-female law school class are still in Afghanistan. During calls, they pour out their frustrations about their new lives as wives and mothers, spent almost entirely at home, their dreams of becoming lawyers now out of reach.

That’s where my guilt comes in. Afghan women in America often return to the same haunting question: “What if that was me?” I was no smarter or more ambitious than many of my classmates, yet I got out, purely through luck. I am determined to make the most of my freedom here and to make it my life’s work to help the women left behind.

Since leaving Afghanistan, the United States has closed its embassy, withdrawn its diplomats, sharply reduced assistance and made it harder for Afghans to find refuge in America. It has increasingly disengaged from the country and its people.

I am grateful for the new life I have in the United States, and the kindness of the American people. I realize that Afghanistan no longer commands America’s attention as it once did, and I won’t pretend that there are easy solutions for helping Afghan women.

But America has a moral responsibility to not simply look away and accept that the systematic erasure of Afghan women is no longer its concern.

What America Owes to Afghan Women
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Afghans are starving

The Washington Post

Editorial

August 7, 2026

Americans understandably want to forget about Afghanistan five years after President Joe Biden’s disastrous withdrawal. But nearly 14 million Afghans are facing acute hunger, and child malnutrition is at critical levels in a third of the country.

Mostly that’s due to the inept and barbaric Taliban government’s mismanagement, worsened by severe drought. But funding cuts have also played a role.

In 2024, the United States was the single largest donor to the United Nations’ World Food Program, providing more than $4 billion, which covered nearly half its global operating budget. After President Donald Trump took office, America’s contribution was cut in half. In June, the State Department announced a contribution of $800 million to WFP, but Afghanistan is specifically excluded from the list of eligible countries.

The situation there is dire: Aid agencies say 3.7 million children and 1.2 million pregnant and breastfeeding women are suffering from malnutrition. Children are experiencing “wasting” — slowly dying from hunger — because of a lack of therapeutic feeding.

It’s not just Afghanistan. The U.N. warned in June that hunger is worsening in 13 global hot spots, mostly areas beset by conflict or prolonged refugee crises. A tragedy is unfolding in Uganda, which has taken in nearly 2 million refugees fleeing violence in neighboring countries.

Earlier this year, the U.N. said a lack of funds forced it to stop assisting more than half the refugees in Uganda, and malnutrition among children under age 5 has increased by 50 percent.

U.S. cuts are not solely responsible. Other rich countries, including Britain and the European Union, have also scaled back foreign assistance. In most cases, their economies are stagnant; the cost of their welfare state is crushing; they need to meet their promised commitments to increase defense spending; and they are strained by their own migration crises, including refugees from Ukraine.

Donor fatigue with seemingly endless conflicts is undeniable. The U.N. badly needs reforms to streamline burdensome bureaucracy and wasteful spending.

Americans don’t want their tax dollars feeding terrorists. Careful controls must be imposed to ensure that food aid goes to women and children, not military-age males. But Americans are generous, and the crisis calls for compassion.

The world’s richest nation should not let the poorest people on earth die of hunger.

Afghans are starving
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How private schools could help Afghan girls – and justify their charitable status

Here is another plan for Gordon Brown (After five brutal years of Taliban rule, Afghan women and girls need our help – and I have a plan, 4 August). In a very few years Afghanistan will have no female doctors, nurses or midwives. For the Taliban have not only stopped girls’ education and codified child marriage, but have banned contraception and forbidden women and girls to access male health providers. Inevitably, there will be a huge increase in maternal and neonatal mortality.

One way the UK could help is by its well endowed independent girls schools offering A-level science bursaries to those Afghan girls who wish to study medicine, have learned English online and can show that they have the ability to follow such a course.

I have been corresponding with such a girl, now 15, who longs to become a doctor so she can care for her sisters. Even if passports, visas, travel, etc may be problematic, just offering such bursaries would be a way of keeping this gender apartheid in Afghanistan in the spotlight. Independent schools enjoy questionable charitable status. Here is a way of justifying it.

Margaret Owen
President, Widows for Peace Through Democracy

How private schools could help Afghan girls – and justify their charitable status
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They gave me to someone who could not read or write … it would be better if you buried me alive

Shabnam

The Guardian

Wed 5 Aug 2026 01.00 EDT

On my last day of school it seemed years of effort were now contained in one small piece of paper. Everyone was happy at graduation, holding our certificates, each of us had a different road ahead. Friends wanted to study medicine, civil engineering or economics. For me, I wanted aviation – to be a pilot.

We worked hard, preparing for Kankor – the university entry exam – then came the first delay. Coronavirus reached Afghanistan. Everywhere went into quarantine, our exams were postponed.

Eventually, I got into university. On my first day I told myself, “Shabnam, finally, your efforts were not wasted.” The smile would not leave my face.

I worked hard. At the end of the first year, I was the top student in my class of 120 from all 34 provinces of Afghanistan. My father was so proud of me. But my mother said, “My daughter, do not be so happy, someone may cast an evil eye on your happiness.” I wish I had listened.

My mother used to tell stories about the Taliban and say we were left behind from education. Then, in my second year, the Taliban took Afghanistan again. It was goodbye to the university and to our books. A university that would never open again for us. I wished that they had taken our lives instead.

With a thousand miseries, we returned home. I told my mother, “You were right. I wish I had not been so happy.” I did not know that worse lay ahead.

The Taliban said no girl over the age of 15 should remain unmarried. Girls were being forced into engagement. Either the Taliban would marry the girls themselves or the father had to find someone for his daughter.

They gave me to someone who had no education and could not read or write. Crying became all I did day and night.

I told my mother, “It would be better if you buried me alive.” The groom’s family wanted to take me to their home. If I did not accept, the Taliban would detain my father.

One day, my husband said: “If you love studying and education this much, we will get passports and go to Iran. I will work and you can study.”

After getting the passports, my husband asked me to walk to get the visas. I went out and saw a taxi so I got in. I took the risk and travelled alone because it was only about 10 minutes away and no one could come with me.

At the Taliban checkpoint, they asked, “Where is your mahram?” I said my husband had gone to work. They took me to prison.

When my husband came, they questioned him and asked where his wife was going alone. My husband explained. Then they asked what we would do in Iran. When he said “For education”, they replied “Death to education. Who has allowed women to study?”

They insulted me and said to my husband: “You are unfortunate and you have made this poor woman unfortunate, too.”

There were 84 women kept in 10 windowless small rooms around a courtyard. Even though the rooms were small, seven or eight women were kept in each with only two beds. Most slept on the floor. The toilet smelled very bad. Those who could afford pills took them to sleep; some became addicted.

I asked whether there was a phone to use and was shown a room. I phoned my husband and he told me he had been thrown out of the house. “My brothers have put me out and now I am on the streets. They tell me to choose either you or them. But I will never leave you, even if the whole world is against you.”

When I returned the phone, the guard said, “Now you must pay for it.” I was shocked.

The women explained that, without money, you can’t use the phone. The Taliban collect money from them every day. Then I understood why the Taliban use anything as an excuse to imprison people.

They kept people away from family and work and imprisoned innocent people for their own benefit. Each of the women, like me, had been imprisoned without any real reason. I saw a young girl imprisoned because her father had raped her.

Called, like me, bad women, lives were ruined. Some had no family to receive them after release. Women whose families will not take them back often kill themselves. Some have to marry elderly men just to have a roof over their heads. Others do whatever they can to survive. Some sell drugs, some sell their bodies.

Two women killed themselves inside the prison while I was there. After others had gone to sleep, they hanged themselves. I also knew another girl who threw herself in front of a car and died because she was homeless after release.

My husband’s brothers labelled me a bad woman. None of them spoke to my husband except to taunt him. The poor man endured all of it. After three months, I was released from prison. My husband had found a place to rent with great difficulty. The rent was expensive, but I was pregnant.

After my child was born, the landlord threw us out. When my son was two months old, there was a ruined house near my parent’s house and we moved in there. All kinds of insects had made their place inside it. We had no other choice. We could not rent a house in the city because the rent was too high.

Every day I worried over what our future would be. I told my husband, I will also help you and work.

I was following an online cooking channel and taught myself how to make sweets. I began with low-cost sweets and soon I mastered it. I took my sweets to shops to sell. But I had no budget and needed help.

Some foreign organisations support women who want to become self-sufficient. But the Taliban created a chamber of commerce through which they sell that support. If I had 2,000 afghani, they would loan me cash to buy the materials I needed for baking. But I needed to pay back 2,000 afghani (£22.50) each month and I didn’t have this.

So, for now, my dream to have a coffee shop and sell sweets remains just that. One day I will do it: it will be work for myself and girls like me, because I have promised my dreams that I will reach them.

They gave me to someone who could not read or write … it would be better if you buried me alive
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A Son of Jaghori: Remembering Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz, 1930-2026

For centuries, a steady stream of Afghan students have gone to the great Shia Islamic seminaries of Iran and Iraq in search of religious learning. Few rose as high as Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz, who died in June 2026 at the age of 96. AAN’s Rohullah Suroush and Roxanna Shapour trace Fayyaz’s journey from a village madrassa in Ghazni province to the renowned Najaf seminary in Iraq, where he became one of the most influential Shia jurists of the modern era. They examine how he developed Islamic legal opinions on women’s place in government that broke established precedent and remained, for most of his life, little known in the country of his birth. Only in his final decades did Afghanistan begin to recognise one of its greatest religious scholars.

Grand Ayatollah Fayyaz Photo: The Iraq Studies Center, 9 June 2023

The loss of Sheikh al-Fayyad is a severe tragedy and the void he leaves behind is vast and difficult to fill. 

(Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani)

When Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz (also spelled al-Fayadh or Fayyad) died in Iraq on 4 June 2026,[1] Iraq declared three days of national mourning (BBC Dari). Tributes came pouring in from across the Muslim world – from his fellow grand ayatollahs in Najaf and Iran to the governments of Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan – honouring one of the world’s foremost Twelver Shia)[2] jurists and one of the four most senior maraji al-taqlid (sources of emulation).[3] Yet outside specialist circles, relatively few people knew that one of the most influential Shia scholars of the twenty-first century had been born in Afghanistan’s remote central highlands, in the Jaghori district of Ghazni province.

Fayyaz’s life was remarkable not only because he rose to the highest ranks of the Shia religious establishment, but also because it is the story of the long and largely forgotten tradition of Afghan Islamic scholars who, over the centuries, have travelled to the great Shia seminaries of Iran and Iraq in search of religious learning. Among the many Afghans who travelled those routes, none attained greater international standing than Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz. His story is therefore not only the biography of a distinguished jurist but also that of an Afghan intellectual whose influence reached far beyond his homeland.

From Jaghori to Najaf

Born in 1930 in Suba village in Jaghori district, Ghazni province, Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz was the second son of a Hazara farming family of modest means. His father, Mohammad Reza, enrolled him in the village madrassa before he was five years old and, according to his official biography written by the late Sayyed Abdul Majid al-Khoei, “during the winter his father would wrap him up in blankets against Jaghori’s bitter cold and carry him to and from the madrassa on his shoulders.”[4]

After completing his primary religious education in Suba, Fayyaz spent four years studying at a religious school in the neighbouring village of Hutqol. He left Afghanistan at 17, after the death of his mother in 1947, to continue his religious education in the Iranian city of Mashhad (Afghan Bios). According to Majid al-Khoei, the move was intended as the first stage of a longer journey to Najaf, Iraq, the principal centre of Shia religious scholarship. Indeed, Fayyaz did later go to Iraq to continue his studies, first at the Salimiyah School and finally at the Hawza-ye Elmiya-ye Najaf (Najaf Seminary), one of the leading centres of Shia learning, which had, for centuries, attracted students from across the Shia world (Majid al-Khoei). He would call Najaf home until the end of his life. It was in this city that he entered one of the most demanding intellectual traditions in Islamic scholarship, devoting himself to the study of jurisprudence (fiqh) and legal theory (usul al-fiqh). At the Salimiyah School, one of his teachers was Ayatollah Modarres Afghani, himself an Afghan (BBC Dari; Shafaqna). At the age of twenty, he entered the advanced seminary of Grand Ayatollah Abu al-Qasim al-Khoei, one of the most influential Shia scholars of the twentieth century (Majid al-Khoei).

Among his fellow students in al-Khoei’s class was another future grand ayatollah, Ali al-Sistani. Over the next three decades, Fayyaz progressed from student to protege to trusted colleague. He spent fifteen years attending al-Khoei’s lectures before joining his office and becoming a member of the Majlis al-Istifta, the body responsible for preparing legal opinions (fatwas) and responding to religious questions submitted to the marja. There, he worked alongside Sistani and other senior scholars, helping to prepare responses to questions of jurisprudence for al-Khoei’s followers in Iraq and abroad (Grand Ayatollah Fayyaz’s official websiteWorld Federation).

Fayyaz emerged as one of the most accomplished of al-Khoei’s students. His most important contribution during this period was the preparation of al-Khoei’s taqrirat (lecture notes) on legal theory (, which were later published as Al-Muḥadarat fi Usul al-Fiqh (Lectures on the Principles of Islamic Jurisprudence), a work that al-Khoei himself endorsed. In a commendation written for the book’s publication on 4 November 1966, al-Khoei thanked God for granting him “the honour of educating distinguished students, among them the learned Sheikh Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz,” describing the work as “a valuable service” (Majid al-KhoeiShafaqna). The work eventually expanded to ten volumes and remains the most significant published record of al-Khoei’s methodology in legal theory (official websiteWorld Federation).

One of the ‘Big Four’

The death of Grand Ayatollah al-Khoei in August 1992 ushered in a new era for the Najaf Seminary. As the most influential Shia jurist of his generation, al-Khoei had attracted millions of followers and trained many of the leading scholars who would go on to shape Shia jurisprudence in the decades that followed. His death raised the question of who would emerge as the most senior religious authorities in the next generation (Majid al-Khoei).

By that time, Fayyaz had already established himself as one of Najaf’s leading scholars. More than three decades of study, teaching, writing and service in al-Khoei’s office had earned him considerable recognition among his peers. His reputation, together with the publication of Al-Muḥadarat and his work in the Majlis al-Istifta, placed him among the jurists regarded as qualified to exercise independent legal reasoning (ijtihad) and to issue their own legal opinions (Majid al-KhoeiWorld Federation). By the late 1990s, he came to be recognised alongside Grand Ayatollahs Ali al-Sistani, Mohammad Saeed al-Hakim (d 2021) and Bashir al-Najafi as one of Najaf’s four leading marjas. Although each maintained an independent office and following, together, they represented the continuity of the Najaf school after al-Khoei’s death (Afghan BiosMajid al-Khoei).

While Ali al-Sistani emerged as the most influential Shia religious authority globally, particularly after Saddam Hussein’s downfall in 2003 (Majid al-KhoeiWorld Federation), some believe that Fayyaz, rather than Sistani, was the most senior of the four. However, according to the Encyclopaedia of Modern Middle East Wars, “he did not seek to chair the council because scholars who are not Iraqi or Iranian have little chance to gain followers among Arabs and Iranians, who make up the majority of the world’s Shi‘is,” instead, Fayyaz and his fellow grand ayatollahs backed Sistani for the role.[5]

Six decades in Najaf

For six decades, Fayyaz was an important member of the generation of scholars in Najaf who preserved the seminary through Saddam Hussein’s dictatorship, two wars and an occupation. Fayyaz understood his role as a marja not merely as issuing opinions and publishing treatises, but as the lifelong transmission of religious knowledge and service to the Shia community. His influence spread through the students he taught, the scholars he trained and the institutions he helped sustain. Over the decades, he taught successive generations of students. His lectures attracted students from Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, India, the Gulf states and elsewhere, many of whom later became teachers, judges and religious scholars in their own communities (Majid al-Khoei).

Alongside his teaching, Fayyaz produced an extensive body of scholarship spanning jurisprudence, legal theory (usul al-fiqh), commentary on the Quran, theology and contemporary social questions. Among his best-known works are his multi-volume studies of jurisprudence and legal theory, Risalat al-Amaliyy (Practical Treatise),[6] and specialised works on Islamic governance,[7] medical ethics, banking and the position of women in Islam. His body of work reveals, wrote Majid al-Khoei, “a careful, methodical approach that drew on established principles of ijtihad to address questions relevant to the contemporary world.” His fatwas extended to questions with little precedent in classical jurisprudence: he held that organ transplants should be permitted where they could save a life and the donor had consented and he called for the unblocking of internet services in Iran, where access to the internet was, and continues to be, heavily restricted (see Qayoom Suroush’s 2014 AAN report, A new Afghan Shia Leader: Return to quietism versus political Islam?).

Unlike many other religious leaders in Afghanistan, Fayyaz never founded a political party or sought public prominence, Suroush noted, nor was he “involved in the violence of the civil war” that engulfed many other senior religious figures in Afghanistan. That distance from the violence and politics of the war years gave him a moral standing that some other religious leaders in Afghanistan could not claim, and it was this, together with his decades of teaching, extensive body of jurisprudence and the generations of Shia scholars he trained, that would be his making in Afghanistan’s Shia community.

The case for women’s equality

Among the many works during his long tenure, none attracted greater attention than Fayyaz’s writings on women. The mainstream position within Sunni and Shia jurisprudence alike holds that men and women are equal in their essential humanity and religious and spiritual obligations, but differ in certain legal matters such as testimony, divorce rights, inheritance and blood money and, crucially, that women cannot be heads of state, serve as judges, or become a marja (BBC Persian).[8][9] In Shi’a Islam, women can attain high levels of religious scholarship, including the rank of mujtahid – a jurist qualified to exercise independent legal reasoning, or ijtihad – but Fayyaz’s ruling that they could become a marja was radical. His Jayegah-e Zan dar Nizam-e Siyasi-e Islam (The Position of Women in the Islamic Political System), published in Arabic in 2014 and later translated into Persian, addressed one of the most debated questions in contemporary Islamic jurisprudence. It is a response to 25 questions posed by a doctoral researcher, covering women’s roles in politics, government, the judiciary, religious authority, ministerial office, parliament and military and police command, among other areas, according to former vice-president, Sarwar Danish, who translated the book. He described Fayyaz’s conclusions as “entirely without precedent,” and said:

I was not merely surprised but astounded by the fatwas and views regarding women presented in this book; never before had I heard such views [articulated] with such boldness, depth and candour about women’s rights and status from any of the known Sunni or Shia scholars. Had anyone other than Ayatollah Fayyaz expressed these views, they would have been branded an apostate by traditional society and the traditional clergy. Yet, who would dare – then or now – accuse a religious and scholarly figure of Ayatollah Fayyaz’s stature of apostasy or of opposing the tenets of the faith and sharia?

Danish measured Fayyaz’s position against three other positions: 1) a full-equality view that he associated with liberal and Western human-rights framing; 2) denying women political, social and economic rights altogether, a position he associated with the Taliban; and 3) the mainstream position as described above, including that they cannot rule countries, serve as judges or become marjas. Fayyaz believed that women could serve in all 18 of the offices addressed in the book and underscored this position with scholarly rigour (see also BBC Dari).

The significance of his opinion was not merely that they echoed contemporary political debates, but that he approached each question by asking what conclusions could legitimately be reached within established Shia jurisprudence. In other words, rather than seeking to influence Islamic law from the outside, he set out to show how contemporary questions concerning women’s participation in public life could be addressed through the canon of Shia Islam itself, finding that, for example, the traditions that deem women being “deficient in intellect and religion” were “not reliable and attributing them to the Prophet is not correct. In addition, these traditions cannot be supported or verified as they go against what has been observed and is essentially true” (see Sayed Hadi Tabatabaei’s analysis for Mobahesat in Persian and an English translation on Iqra).

Fayyaz argued that clear and convincing religious proof was required to assert any differences in how Islamic law treats men and women, and in the absence of such evidence, the default position has to be equality. In his analysis of Fayyaz’s reasoning, Seyed Hadi Tabatabaie explains that Fayyaz based his reasoning on two established principles of Shia jurisprudence: the Principle of Permissibility (Asalat al-Ibaḩa), under which actions are considered permissible unless expressly prohibited, and the concept of Mantiqat al-Faragh, the sphere in which no definitive legal ruling exists and where jurisprudence may respond to changing circumstances (MobahesatIqra).

In his examination of Fayyaz’s The Position of Women in the Islamic Political SystemDanish points out that Fayyaz drew on several further supporting principles: that men and women share equal religious obligations unless an authoritative text specifies otherwise, that the Quran addresses “the people” and not a particular gender, that family law and public or civil law occupy distinct legal domains and that an Islamic government may legislate on family matters within the sphere where no definitive legal ruling exists in women’s favour, according to the needs of the time.

In other words, instead of beginning from assumptions about gender roles, Fayyaz began with a jurisprudential principle: legal restrictions require clear textual evidence. Where neither the Quran nor reliable traditions established a prohibition, he argued, there was no legal basis for barring women’s participation in public life. He concluded that there was no conclusive religious evidence preventing women from serving as members of parliament, ministers or even heads of government. He also argued that women could serve as judges in many areas of law, provided they possessed the necessary qualifications. These conclusions, as Tabatabaie highlights, were a departure from the views of many contemporary jurists and generated considerable discussion within Shia scholarly circles (MobahesatIqra).

Equally notable was the way Fayyaz viewed the textual evidence traditionally cited in support of those restrictions. Discussing the Quran’s Surat An-Nisa 4:34, which states: “Men are in charge of women,”[10] he argued that the verse concerns responsibilities within family life and should not be extended to public or political authority. Similarly, responding to a question about whether women could serve as judges, he said:

The majority of fuqaha [jurists] have taken the position that judging is the prerogative of Muslim men and does not extend beyond that [to women], but [I hold that] it does extend beyond that [to women], provided that the necessary requirements are met by a Muslim woman. However, when it comes to general judgement by a layman [in a customary or informal justice mechanism], where the authority of the judge does not rest on proof of religious authority [but rather it is a civil matter], there is no difference between a man and a woman.

On the question of women becoming marjas – religious authorities for other Shia Muslims – he said:

The majority of jurists are of the opinion that a woman cannot assume the position of issuing fatwas and becoming a marja … in my opinion, it is permissible; provided that all the conditions for issuing fatwas and being a marja are met by a woman.”

In his view, neither the Quran nor authentic prophetic tradition established a general principle of female inferiority that would justify excluding women from positions of responsibility or deeming them inferior to men (Majid al-Khoei).[11]

Fayyaz also challenged the weight traditionally attached to ijma (consensus among the jurists) on these issues. He argued that while many earlier jurists had regarded these roles as the purview of men, in the absence of evidence, consensus alone was not enough:[12]

Consensus in itself is not evidence and has no validity; unless it is proven that it was also the case during the time of the al-Ma’sumun (Infallibles) and has reached us [in an unbroken chain] and generation after generation, but there is no way to prove [such claims].

It was precisely because he remained firmly within the framework of Shia jurisprudence, even as he challenged established interpretations, that distinguished him from his more conservative peers. As Sheikh Mousa Rezaie, who was in charge of Fayyaz’s office in Herat, noted at a memorial gathering in Mashhad, “Few mujtahids would dare to break the traditions prevalent among the religious authorities of the past,” but Fayyaz had reached “such a level of ijtihad and intellectual credibility,” that he was able to offer new legal reasoning (see SNA’s coverage of the memorial on Instagram).

Fayyaz’s arguments about women were significant not only for his conclusions but also for the methods he used to reach them. Rather than appealing to modern concepts of equality or human rights, he grounded his reasoning in the established principles of Shia jurisprudence. By distinguishing between immutable religious principles and historically entrenched interpretations, he argued that Islamic law possessed the intellectual resources to respond to changing social circumstances.

His thinking was welcomed by a number of Afghan scholars and public figures. Ali Amiri, a Philosophy professor at Ibn Sina Private University in Kabul, lamented the fact that Fayyaz’s scholarship had not been more widely available to Afghans in the early years of Afghanistan’s Islamic Republic, saying: “If we had had access to his opinion at the time of tensions regarding the Shia family law, the law would look different today” (Afghan Bios).[13] Former Vice-President Sarwar Danish described the book as a significant contribution to contemporary Islamic thought, noting that it challenged long-held assumptions about women’s participation in public life while remaining firmly rooted in Shia jurisprudence:

The book addresses an important subject – the status of women in the Islamic political system, which is a current and important issue from a jurisprudential, legal and political perspective. … It views women’s rights from an inside-the-religion perspective by relying on ijtihad sources, and [by] grounding [his argument] in Islamic law and its theological, historical and political contexts.

Although the book was written primarily for an audience of Islamic scholars, its implications reach well beyond the seminaries. At a time when debates over women’s education, employment and political participation were increasingly contested in Afghanistan and elsewhere, his arguments offered an alternative reading of Islamic law from one of the world’s most senior Shia jurists. Rather than framing the discussion as a conflict between religion and modernity, Fayyaz sought to show that well-considered reasoning could itself be a vehicle for reform. Perhaps it was this approach that led the Financial Times Magazine, in 2004, to describe him as the “reformer’s reformer.”

An Afghan marja, recognised at last

Despite becoming one of the world’s leading Shia jurists, Fayyaz remained, for much of his career, a relatively little-known figure in Afghanistan. While Afghan seminarians and religious scholars recognised his standing in Najaf, his scholarship reached only a limited audience in his homeland. He had spent almost his entire adult life in Iraq and, thus, he remained outside Afghanistan’s political and religious networks. Unlike other Shia leaders, such as Ayatollah Qurban Ali Muhaqiq Kabuli, whose prominence was bolstered by close ties to Abdul Ali Mazari’s mujahedin faction Hezb-e Wahdat, Fayyaz avoided party politics. As a result, while his authority was firmly established in the seminary, it was less visible among the wider Afghan public (Majid al-Khoei).

This began to change after 2001. The collapse of the first Taliban emirate created new opportunities for higher education, publishing and intellectual debate within Afghanistan’s Shia community. As Qayoom Suroush observed in his report for AAN, a new generation of Afghans were increasingly looking beyond Afghanistan’s established political and religious networks towards the seminaries of Najaf for religious scholarship. The translation of Fayyaz’s books into Dari, from 2011 onwards, together with efforts by Afghan academics and intellectuals to introduce his work to a broader audience, brought his scholarship to the attention of readers in Afghanistan, particularly the book on women discussed above. It found precisely the broader Afghan readership that his earlier, more technical writings had not.

Recognition came in August 2014, when Kabul hosted the first national congress dedicated to Fayyaz’s scholarship, entitled ‘A Tribute to Ayatollah Fayyaz’s Scholarly Achievements’, in the Loya Jirga Tent, one of Afghanistan’s principal state venues for major national gatherings. Several thousand guests attended, filling the tent to its last chair, according to  Suroush. Danish, then Higher Education Minister, described Fayyaz as “the best of all the marjas currently out there.” Organised by Afghan academics, rather than by Fayyaz’s own office, it attracted a broad audience of political leaders, religious scholars, academics and civil society representatives from both the Shia and Sunni communities, including then Vice-President Karim Khalili and soon-to-be Chief Executive, Dr Abdullah. Mohammad Mohaqeq, deputy to Abdullah, also attended and used the occasion to press the case for Islam to modernise. President Hamid Karzai, along with the prominent Sunni mujahedin leaders Abdul Rabb Rassul Sayyaf and Sebghatullah Mojaddedi, did not attend, but sent messages of tribute (Bokhdi NewsAva Press). The gathering established Fayyaz not merely as a leading Shia marja but also as one of Afghanistan’s foremost contemporary scholars.

Although Fayyaz himself did not attend and sent his son instead to represent him, Suroush argued that the conference reflected growing interest in a model of religious leadership rooted in scholarship rather than political mobilisation – “a return to quietism versus political Islam” (Suroush). At the same time, Suroush cautioned against overstating Fayyaz’s influence. Within the Shia tradition, a marja’s authority depends not only on scholarly standing but also on institutional networks of representatives, seminaries, charitable foundations and religious offices.

In 2014, according to Suroush, Fayyaz’s Afghan operation remained modest by comparison: a small office in Kabul, with three further offices in Herat, Balkh and Ghazni, no madrassa-owned land and no newspaper or broadcaster of his own. His stipends to Afghan madrassa students were a fraction of those paid by followers to other marjas, such as Ayatollah Sistani or Ayatollah Muhaqiq Kabuli. “It was a modest operation,” wrote Suroush, set against a wider Afghan landscape awash in foreign aid and rent-seeking. His influence, therefore, rested primarily on intellectual prestige rather than on institutional or political power.”

By the time Fayyaz died in June 2026, he was supporting religious students, seminaries, charitable institutions and welfare projects across the Shia world, including Afghanistan. The activities were funded largely by sahm-e imam (the imam’s share, or the religious tax and payment sent to a marja by his followers), particularly khums.[14] In Afghanistan, this work was carried out chiefly through the Afghanistan Charity Foundation, which he established in 2012. In 2026, according to Dehmazang.org, the foundation delivered Eid gift packages to more than 27,000 orphans in 21 provinces, winter assistance to another more than 25,000 orphans and supported families affected by the 2022 suicide bombing at the Kaaj educational centre in Kabul.

By the time of his death, he had become one of Afghanistan’s most respected religious scholars and, for many Afghan Shia Muslims, an alternative model of religious leadership grounded in jurisprudence, learning and intellectual independence.

A hard-to-fill void

Following his death, memorial services were held in several Muslim-majority countries. In Najaf on 4 June 2026, Fayyaz’s funeral unfolded over three days in the shrine cities of Kadhimiya, Karbala and Najaf. Large crowds of mourners joined the processions as Iraq declared three days of national mourning (see photos on Reuters). The procession began in Kadhimiya, where Abbas al-Bayati, a senior figure in the Dawa Party, one of Iraq’s oldest Shia parties, paid tribute to him, saying: “We have lost one of the pillars of knowledge and wisdom. Someone who generously helped the Islamic ummah, was an agent of moderation and unity, and consistently called for coexistence and civil peace among Iraqis” (Hawzah News Agency). The final procession began from his office and residence in New Najaf and made its way to the Shrine of Imam Ali, near which he was laid to rest. For a scholar who had devoted almost eight decades to the Najaf seminary, burial beside the shrine of the First Imam represented the culmination of a lifetime spent in the service of Shia scholarship.

In Kabul, a memorial held on 8 June 2026 drew representatives from across Afghanistan’s religious and political spectrum. The Islamic Emirate sent an official delegation led by senior Ministry of Interior officials. Its spokesman, Mufti Abdul Mateen Qani, read a message from Interior Minister Sirajuddin Haqqani describing Fayyaz as “one of the great scientific and intellectual authorities in the Shia world” and praising his lifelong commitment to Islamic unity (Atlas News). In Iran, commemorations took place at the Imam Reza Shrine in Mashhad, in Isfahan and at the Shrine of Fatima Masumeh in Qom, where a major memorial organised on behalf of the Supreme Leader brought together leading clerics, representatives of the senior marjas, seminary scholars and public officials (ABNAAva Press). Ayatollah Sistani’s office in Qom also held a separate memorial (Shafaqna), while Afghanistan’s Shia community in Iran organised its own ceremony in recognition of one of their most distinguished religious scholars (see for example Sarie News posts on Instagram here and here).

The tributes that followed reflected the breadth of Fayyaz’s influence and the different worlds he had inhabited throughout his life. Ayatollah Bashir al-Najafi, one of Fayyaz’s fellow senior marjas in Najaf, wrote: “Today the sheikh of Najaf al-Ashraf and patron of the hawza has left us” (Shafaqna). Afghanistan’s former vice-president Sarwar Danish remembered him as “a unique and radiant jewel, the peerless pearl of Najaf,” and observed that the name Fayyaz means “a vessel filled overflowing with water,” an apt name, he said, for a scholar from whom “knowledge and wisdom flowed like a gushing spring … [benefiting] thousands, indeed millions” (Facebook). Iraq’s prime minister Ali al-Zaidi as well as Afghanistan’s former presidents Hamid Karzai and Ashraf Ghani were among senior political figures who also sent condolences, alongside religious and political leaders across Iran and Iraq.[15]

For students of Islamic jurisprudence, Fayyaz left behind a substantial body of scholarship that continues to shape contemporary Shia thought, from his ten-volume record of al-Khoei’s teaching to his own rulings on women’s place in public life. For many Afghans, he represented something equally significant: a boy from the remote highlands of Jaghori who rose, through scholarship alone, to become one of the world’s foremost marjas. His life demonstrated that Afghanistan’s contribution to Islamic learning extended far beyond its borders, and that patient scholarship could, in the end, reshape how a tradition reads its own texts.

Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz, modest, generous, a quiet rule-breaker who challenged longstanding assumptions, born in Afghanistan in 1930, died in Iraq on 4 June 2026, a son of Jaghori, whose legacy belongs as much to Afghanistan as it does to the wider Shia world.

Edited by Kate Clark 

References

References
1 Most sources report that Fayyaz died at a hospital in Baghdad (see for example ABNA), though the Iraqi News Agency reported that he died in Najaf.
2 Twelver Shia (Ithna Ashari) are the largest branch of Shia Islam. They recognise a line of twelve imams, beginning with Ali ibn Abi Talib, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, and ending with Muhammad al-Mahdi, the Twelfth Imam, who they believe to be in occultation and will return at the end of time.
3 In Twelver Shia Islam, a marja is a jurist whose legal opinions are followed by those who choose to emulate him in matters of religious practice. Unlike many religious traditions, there is no formal process of appointment or succession. Instead, authority emerges through recognised scholarship, the esteem of fellow jurists and the willingness of believers to follow a particular marja.
4 Much of the biographical information in this article is drawn from the authorised biography of Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz, written by Sayyed Abdul Majid al-Khoei, Grand Ayatollah Abu al-Qasim al-Khoei’s son, and published by the Office of Grand Ayatollah Fayyaz in Najaf. This report will refer to the biography in shorthand as Majid al-Khoei.
5 Encyclopaedia of Modern Middle East Wars is not available online, but a prepublication copy of the entry was posted online by View From the Occident and retrieved from the Internet Archive.
6 See the Persian translation here.
7 In al-Anmudhaj fi Manhaj al-Hukuma al-Islamiyya (The Model of Islamic Government), written in 1426 AH (2005), Fayyaz argued that neither the sayings of the Prophet nor those of the Imams provided strong evidence for welayat-e faqih – the doctrine, developed by Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini, under which the most qualified jurist rules the state by divine right. He agreed that a state should be run by the most just, honest and educated jurist available, but held that this was because such a person was best suited to the task, not because religious leadership was itself God-given (see Qayoom Suroush, A new Afghan Shia Leader: Return to quietism versus political Islam?, Afghanistan Analysts Network, 2014 and the Financial Times Magazine).
8 For more detail on the mainstream view of the role of women in Sunni and Shia jurisprudence, see Explore Islam and Akif Tahiiev, Female Leadership in Shia Islam: Women on the Way from Mujtahid to MarjaʿSocieties 14, No 1, 2024.
9 For example, Iran’s former ruler, Grand Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini ruled in 1978 that a woman could become a mujtahid, but could not serve as a marja (The Status and Rights of Women in the Islamic System). Akif Tahliev also discussed this in his 2024 paper, Female Leadership in Shia Islam: Women on the Way from Mujtahid to Marja’. Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani stated: “A woman can also lead the prayer for other women,” although his rulings require the leader of Juma (Friday) prayer to be a man (Jurisprudence Made Easy).
10 The full surah reads:

Men are in charge of women by [right of] what Allah has given one over the other and what they spend [for maintenance] from their wealth. So righteous women are devoutly obedient, guarding in [the husband’s] absence what Allah would have them guard. But those [wives] from whom you fear arrogance – [first] advise them; [then if they persist], forsake them in bed; and [finally], strike them. But if they obey you [once more], seek no means against them. Indeed, Allah is ever Exalted and Grand (Sahil International translation).

11 See also Robert Gleave, ‘She should not raise her voice when among men’: Imami arguments against (and for) women judges, in Mirjam Künkler and  Devin J Stewart, Female Religious Authority in Shi’i Islam: Past and Present, Chapter 6, pp 121–37, Edinburgh University Press, 2021.
12 In Twelver Shia Islam, the Fourteen Infallibles (al-Ma’sumun) are the prophet Muhammad, his daughter Fatima Zahra, and the Twelve Imams. They are believed to possess ismah (divinely ordained freedom from sin and error).
13 This is in reference to the Shia Personal Status Law, adopted in 2009 under Article 131 of Afghanistan’s Constitution, which codified Jafari jurisprudence on matters such as marriage, divorce, inheritance and child custody for the country’s Shia community.
14 Khums (literally one-fifth) is an obligatory tax in Shia jurisprudence, levied on annual surplus wealth, spoils of war, and specific items such as minerals or treasure. It is owed by every sane adult Muslim who, after covering a year’s living expenses, has surplus income or savings.
15 Iraq’s prime minister, Ali al-Zaidi, who called Fayyaz’s death “a painful loss to the fields of scholarship, ijtihad and Islamic scholarship”; Afghanistan’s former president Hamid Karzai, who described him as “a dedicated son of Afghanistan” (ABNA); and former president Ashraf Ghani, who called him “one of Afghanistan’s greatest intellectual treasures” (Memar Press). Also sending condolences were Iran’s president, Masoud Pezeshkian; its foreign minister, Abbas Araghchi; parliament speaker Mohammad Baqer Qalibaf; and first vice-president Mohammad Reza Aref; former Iranian president Mohammad Khatami; senior marjas, including Ayatollahs Javadi Amoli, Jafar Sobhani and Hossein Nouri Hamedani; Iraqi political leaders Muqtada al-Sadr and Ammar al-Hakim; Iraq’s parliament speaker Mohammed al-Halbousi; former prime minister Nouri al-Maliki; the head of Iraq’s Supreme Judicial Council, Faiq Zaidan; and the president of the Kurdistan Region, Nechirvan Barzani (Shafaqna).

 

A Son of Jaghori: Remembering Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Ishaq Fayyaz, 1930-2026
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