When a Woman Has No Identity

Written by Atifa Annabi

On August 15, 2021, Kabul didn’t fall; it collapsed in on itself.

The air still carried the smell of my mother’s half-cooked rice when the TV announced the surrender of Afghanistan.

Hearing the news about the Taliban, I just froze in place. The only thing that instantly crossed my mind was:

There would be no more education. Not even going outside.

And it wasn’t just me or my family, the entire city fell into a silence filled with screams. Every street, every home overflowed with fear and panic, echoing the same unanswered question:

“What happens now?”

At the Kabul Passport Office, the heat shimmered above the pavement like rising smoke. People surged toward the gates like swarming bees around a hive, desperate, confused, terrified, trying to escape a homeland that no longer felt like home. The building had become a beehive under siege.

I stood in that endless line under the burning sun. Sweat soaked into my clothes. Around me were people with dreams in their hands, pressed into faded folders and ID cards.

In front of me was a woman in a black burqa. I couldn’t see her face, but I saw her hands trembling like a wounded bird. They told me this was her first time wearing it, not as a symbol of faith, but as a symbol of forced silence. Three children clung to her: two girls and a boy. The youngest, a boy no older than five, held their passport folder tightly and asked her softly,

“Mama, will we leave when they give us our passports?”

Inside, the biometric officer’s harsh voice shattered the heavy silence:

“Your husband’s brother isn’t here? He’s in Iran? Your father-in-law is dead? Go, auntie! Please don’t waste my time. Look how many people are waiting!”

Then, coldly said: “Next!”

She stepped back, defeated. Her silence screamed louder than words.

Then it was my turn. The officer, a man in his 40s with a faded henna-dyed beard, didn't even look at me.

“What year were you born, Atifa?”

“2006.”

He waved me off.

“We can’t register you. Come back with a male relative.”

Then shouted again,

“Next!”

A storm rose inside me.

Why? Am I not human? Can I not decide my own future?

I stepped aside and called my brother. As I waited, I sat near the woman and gently asked,

“Khala (Aunty), why didn’t they let you move forward with your work?”

She adjusted her daughter’s collar and sighed.

“My husband is gone. They say my children’s uncle must come. I’m their mother, but they say a mother isn’t a legal guardian.”

Then, speaking more to herself than to me, she whispered,

“That’s the cruel truth in these men’s minds… ‘What’s your father’s name? Your husband’s name? We need a male guardian.’

Mother? No, a mother has no identity.”

That moment cracked something in me.

A mother who has carried life, who has stayed up at night, who has raised her children alone, can’t get them passports because she’s a woman?

I asked gently, not wanting to disturb her,

“Where is your husband?”

She answered quietly,

“He was a soldier in the national army. He disappeared in the war with the Taliban. We never found him. I’m alone now. I must raise my children alone.”

Her eyes held back tears, but her voice carried strength.

That day I was there to get a passport, but I felt the worst feeling for me, my mother, my sister and all women in my country. I walked away with more than rejection. I walked away with a deeper understanding of what it means to be a woman in Afghanistan.

I realized with the depth of my heart that it’s not just about hijabs and laws. It’s about being questioned for every breath you take.

If you laugh, "It's inappropriate.”

If you cry, “You’re weak.”

If you speak, “You’re rude.”

If you don't obey, “How dare you?”

While thinking to myself, I saw another woman there with her children, with a heavy heart, saying

“Now I must pull a stranger off the street to sign a piece of paper saying these children are mine. I carried them, birthed them, raised them and still, that’s not enough.”

Finding myself alone there waiting for my brother with a burden of bitter feelings, I felt I needed to write all my thoughts down. Or it will make me cry.

I pulled out a white sheet of paper and a pen from my bag, a bag that had carried these items with me since the 10th grade. As I held them in my hands, a thought crossed my mind, one that I would later feel ashamed of:

What if the Taliban sees me writing? What would they do to me?

Then, I scolded myself.

Don't be ridiculous. You want to write about women’s rights, and here you are, afraid to even write about it.

I start my writing with these sentences:

But being a woman isn’t just about being someone’s daughter or wife.

It’s about fire, strength, and life.

It means rising again, no matter how many times the world pushes you down.

It means turning your pain into a battle cry.

If you dream, “You’re shameless.”

If you want more, “You’re ungrateful.”

If you choose your path, “Who gave you permission?”

But being a woman means building yourself, even without anyone’s permission.

A woman’s body is watched, judged, and silenced.

If she wears a headscarf, “She’s dangerous.”

If she doesn’t, “She’s immoral.”

If she’s tired, “She’s acting like a victim.”

If she wants freedom, “Who do you think you are?”

But to be a woman means standing tall despite it all.

To rise with fire in your eyes and scars on your soul.

To keep fighting even when the world pretends you don’t exist.

In a world that tries to erase them, every woman who resists becomes a revolution.

That woman in the burqa, her children, and thousands like them might never be mentioned in history books. But their silence, their pain, their resistance, they shake the conscience of the world.

If we don’t write, we’ll be forgotten.

If we stay silent, injustice will echo.

I write so that women in Afghanistan, and across the globe, know: their identity, their worth, and their fight can never be erased...

Lost in my writing, I didn’t notice my brother had returned. Seeing him made me feel unexpectedly happy. I wasn’t sure why, but the moment he arrived, I felt safe, as if I had stepped into a shelter after standing in the storm.

Smiling, I walked toward him and greeted him.

Tired but hopeful, he asked, “What did they say?”

I replied, “They said I can’t get a passport. It has to be my father or my brother who signs for it.”

He shook his head and said, “Fools. I swear, you’re wiser and more capable than I am. If anyone can take responsibility for herself, it’s you.”

Together, we moved forward and completed what we had come for.