My Dear Kabul: A Year in the Life of an Afghan Women’s Writing Group is one of the most powerful accounts of contemporary Afghanistan because it tells history through the voices of women living through political catastrophe. Created by twenty-one Afghan women brought together by the organisation Untold Narratives, the book documents the year following the Taliban’s return to power in August 2021. Written largely through WhatsApp messages exchanged between members of a women’s writing group, the memoir becomes simultaneously a diary, a historical record, and an act of resistance.
The contributors come from remarkably diverse backgrounds. They are teachers, doctors, lawyers, students, aid workers, professors, engineers and office managers. Some grew up in Afghanistan, while others were born in Iran, Pakistan, or Tajikistan after their families fled the Soviet and Taliban violence of previous decades. Some care for elderly parents; some live with disabilities; others are newly married or raising young children. This diversity allows the book to present not a single Afghan experience but a chorus of voices that reveal how women of different generations experienced the same historical events.
Understanding the significance of the book requires understanding the historical experiences that shaped these women’s lives. The oldest member of the group, Najla, was born in 1962 and lived through the overthrow of the Afghan monarchy, the rise of the republic under Daoud Khan, the communist government, the Soviet invasion, the civil wars of the 1990s, the first Taliban regime, and the American intervention after 2001 that led to fall of the first Taliban regime. Many younger contributors were born during exile in neighbouring countries because their families had fled either the Soviet war or the brutal Taliban rule of the 1990s.
The women repeatedly remind readers that the twenty years between 2001 and 2021 represented not perfection but a period of genuine possibility. As the writers themselves explain, readers must understand “the reprieve they experienced in the twenty years from 2001 to 2021.” During these years many women gained access to education, healthcare, and employment. Women became doctors, engineers, professors, pilots, and journalists. Girls attended school. Universities expanded opportunities. Shelters protected victims of domestic violence, and many women gained greater autonomy over their own lives.
In retrospect, despite corruption, insecurity, and political instability, the years between 2001 and 2021 increasingly appear as a lost period of possibility. Many women had planned to pursue master’s degrees, learn languages, read books, undertake professional courses, and build careers. Within only a few months after the Taliban takeover in 2021, many contributors found themselves concerned not with education or ambition but with obtaining money for food or finding work to support their families.
The return of the Taliban in August 2021 therefore represents not merely political change but the destruction of futures that women had spent decades building. The WhatsApp group, initially intended simply to keep members connected, quickly becomes an emergency lifeline. The group serves as a support network, a news source, a writing workshop, and a space for grief.
The fall of Kabul is experienced through confusion, disbelief, and fear. Fatima writes, “Beautiful Kabul has fallen into the hands of these wild animals…. I cannot breathe.” Maryam simply states, “Kabul has fallen fully. I can’t believe it.” Fakhta describes her uncertainty after leaving her hostel: “One of the girls asked me where I wanted to go. The question hit me hard. I didn’t know. My only place in Kabul was the hostel.”
One of the memoir’s greatest strengths is its ability to capture the emotional atmosphere of the city. Nora describes the silence that follows the Taliban takeover:
“There is a strange silence that surrounds us. There is no sound of children crying. I miss the city of Kabul: that sound of life and survival. I live in the crowded part of Kabul but today it has the dreadful silence of a grave. This is a silence that does not bring calm but madness. It has swallowed the entire city, it will slowly swallow me too.”
The silence becomes one of the book’s central symbols. Streets empty, schools close, workplaces disappear, and the sounds of ordinary life vanish. Najla writes on 16 August 2021:
“No one comes out of their homes; the whole city is quiet. Even those dogs are silent now.”
Maryam later describes the transformation of Kabul:
“For the first time since the fall of Kabul, I went into town. The whole city was sad and quiet. Men have stopped shaving their beards, they stare blankly. (…) I did not see anyone laughing, I didn’t even see anybody smile, except a Talib in a yellow car. (…) My people have been wandering for too long. Why can’t another country be my land?”
Her observations suggest that despair extends beyond women alone. Many men who had studied, worked, and hoped to determine their own futures also experience depression and disillusionment. The city itself appears emotionally exhausted.
The memoir demonstrates that oppression often arrives gradually rather than through a single event. Although the fall of Kabul is dramatic, many of the most painful passages describe the slow erosion of rights. Restrictions emerge incrementally. Women lose access to work, education, travel, and public space. Women are increasingly prohibited from travelling without a mahram, or male guardian. New employment opportunities require the presence of a male relative. Public parks become accessible only on certain days, and women who fail to follow dress regulations risk severe beatings or punishment.
Some contributors are forced to wear the burqa for the first time in twenty years. The absence of women from the streets becomes one of the most visible signs of the new regime. Yet the memoir also emphasizes that these women are not the women of 1996. Many continue to resist through small acts of civic disobedience, refusing complete compliance with Taliban demands.
Marie describes the transformation of the city:
“Yesterday’s city had disappeared (…). Even the sun did not feel like yesterday. Everywhere felt dark and full of fright. It was as though the people of this city had died before the Taliban entered Kabul.”
Women begin hiding diplomas, burning books, and destroying documents that testify to their professional identities. One writer burns books related to politics, observing that “with each page a piece of my soul burnt too.” Zainab, who had always saved small amounts of money in order to buy books, destroys her own short stories because she fears the Taliban may discover her writing.
The destruction of books, certificates, and records symbolises the attempted erasure of women’s accomplishments.
The memoir repeatedly returns to education as a symbol of freedom. For these women, education represents far more than schooling. It embodies independence, economic opportunity, self-development, and participation in society. The exclusion of girls and women from schools and universities therefore becomes an attack on identity itself. Secondary schools close to girls, and many contributors who had spent years obtaining degrees and qualifications discover that their achievements have become useless or even dangerous.
The book also illustrates the particular vulnerabilities of women under Taliban rule. Women without male relatives face severe restrictions. Elderly parents who depend upon daughters for care suddenly lose access to medical treatment because women cannot accompany them freely. Disabled women become especially vulnerable. Families connected to the former government or military live in fear of reprisals.
Ethnic minorities such as the Hazaras face additional dangers. Contributors describe growing fears of violence and discrimination. News circulates through the WhatsApp group of murders, arrests, disappearances, and attacks. Reports of the murder of a female police officer and the increasing enforcement of the burqa and abaya contribute to a climate of fear.
The memoir also records the practical difficulties of escape. Many contributors desperately seek evacuation opportunities but discover that names cannot simply be added to official lists. Some women avoid telling their relatives that they have little chance of leaving because they do not wish to destroy their families’ hopes. Others search for trusted drivers who might help sons who worked for the government leave Afghanistan, yet trust itself becomes dangerous.
Many women lack the financial means to leave the country at all. Some wait for visas that never arrive, while others decide to enter Iran illegally because they see no other possibility. Families often face impossible decisions, leaving elderly parents behind because they cannot travel safely.
Many contributors were born during exile in Iran or Pakistan at a time when official records were incomplete. Following the Taliban takeover, they must establish their identities for the first time in order to obtain passports or travel documents while dealing with bureaucracies increasingly hostile to women.
The memoir also explores the difficult realities of exile. Some contributors eventually leave Afghanistan, while others remain. Those who leave often experience guilt, grief, and uncertainty about belonging elsewhere. Leaving may provide physical safety, but it cannot erase loss.
Women who flee to Iran frequently discover that they remain second-class residents despite having been born there. Afghan refugees encounter severe discrimination. Some are unable to open bank accounts, despite bank accounts being necessary for medical care or legal employment. Residence permits restrict movement between cities, and many refugees live with the constant fear of deportation. Some women are instructed by Iranian authorities to return to Afghanistan in order to renew their visas, despite the obvious dangers.
Those who reach Tajikistan frequently find only low-paid or dangerous work. Others remain trapped in refugee camps in the United Arab Emirates with little assistance from international organisations. Many reach the safety of Western Europe or USA or Canada but feel emotionally numb, unable to communicate safely with their parents in Afghanistan.
Mehrsa, who reaches the United States, describes the emotional burden of separation:
“One part of my life lies in darkness, while in the other I struggle to try and bring my loved ones to join in safety. Even as I want to advocate for them to everyone, I’m tired.”
The memoir therefore rejects simple narratives of escape. Physical safety often brings guilt, loneliness, and uncertainty.
Particularly moving is Freshta’s account of her mother’s death while she is living in Tajikistan. Her mother had been forced into marriage at the age of thirteen, bore ten children, and remained illiterate throughout her life. Yet she ensured that her daughters received an education. Freshta cannot attend her mother’s funeral and reflects that she wished she could have brought her mother out of Afghanistan, “to release her out of the dark prison of culture and tradition.” Her story illustrates the connections between generations of Afghan women and the continuing struggle for education and autonomy.
Yet My Dear Kabul is not solely a narrative of victimhood. The contributors consistently resist passive portrayals of Afghan women. Some participate in protests despite being beaten by Taliban whips. Others continue teaching, writing, caring for family members, or supporting their communities. Some refuse to wear the burqa. The women repeatedly emphasize that they desire a peaceful and free country without the Taliban, a country built upon kindness, dignity, and education. The memoir suggests that resistance takes many forms.
Writing itself becomes one of the most important acts of resistance. The contributors understand that if they do not record their experiences, these experiences may disappear from history. The book therefore functions as an alternative archive of Afghanistan, centred not on military campaigns or diplomatic negotiations but on women’s daily lives.
The WhatsApp group becomes a form of safe house. Members exchange information about visas, employment, education, and safety. They comfort one another after losses and celebrate moments of happiness. A woman in Kabul discovers that another woman in Herat shares her fears and emotions. Through writing, they bear witness to one another’s suffering.
Yet the group itself begins to fragment. Some women disappear from conversations for months or years. Those who remain do not know whether they have escaped, been arrested, fallen into depression, or simply become too frightened to write. Silence becomes another form of testimony.
Despite the overwhelming circumstances, ordinary life continues. Birthdays are celebrated. Children grow up. Families share meals. Women discuss love, marriage, and changing seasons. These moments remind readers that life under oppression remains life itself, not simply political crisis.
One of the most striking aspects of the memoir is its honesty. The contributors do not offer false optimism. They describe fear, exhaustion, anger, and despair. Marie confesses: “Since yesterday I have not eaten anything.” Another writer says, “I hide in my room like a moving corpse thinking about a future that never existed. Another contributor writes: “These days we are alive but we don’t live any more.”
Yet even within despair, the women continue writing. The book repeatedly demonstrates that memory itself can become resistance. As public freedoms disappear, storytelling becomes a means of preserving identity and dignity.
At its heart, My Dear Kabul is about the struggle against erasure. The contributors fight not only for rights and opportunities but also for the right to be seen, heard, and remembered. The private WhatsApp conversation becomes a collective historical document that preserves experiences that might otherwise disappear.
The power of the memoir lies in its immediacy. Readers experience the Taliban takeover not through official statements or historical analysis but through women hearing rumours, searching for relatives, hiding documents, comforting children, and wondering what their futures will become.
By the end of 2021 only seven members of the original writing group remain in Afghanistan, while the others are scattered across twelve different countries. The group itself becomes a symbol of displacement and survival.
My Dear Kabul ultimately demonstrates that resistance is not always public protest. Sometimes it is friendship. Sometimes it is memory. Sometimes it is the simple act of writing down what happened so that the world cannot say it did not know.
In preserving these voices, the women of My Dear Kabul refuse silence. Their testimony transforms private messages into a lasting record of courage, solidarity, and survival in one of the darkest periods of modern Afghan history. By documenting lives that political narratives often ignore, the memoir ensures that Afghan women remain not objects of history but its authors, witnesses, and guardians of memory.
