By A. Shadbeig
When the war between Iran and the United States began, I was in Iran. Since the onset of internal unrest, classes had been held online; however, on the second day of the war, the university was shut down, and the gate official ordered:« Evacuate the dormitories, and international students must leave the country.»
On the second day of the war, we were forced to head toward Afghanistan. A bus arranged by the university dropped us off in Mashhad, charged double the fare, and left. When we went to the terminal, police officers took our passports and demanded one million tomans per person to transport us to the border by car, even though the usual fare from Mashhad to Dogharoon was no more than 400,000 tomans.
They did not allow us to arrange our own transport, and they refused to return our passports until we paid. They told us:« It is a wartime situation, and we can treat you however we want.» With no other option, we complied with their demand and set off toward the border in small Pride cars.
At the border, we faced what felt like crossing the Seven Labors of Rostam. First was a police checkpoint, where we passed without difficulty after showing our passports and student IDs. Then we reached a checkpoint run by the IRGC intelligence unit, where we were subjected to body searches, our phones were inspected, and our backpacks and suitcases were opened, with all our belongings dumped onto the ground.
One officer, who was closely examining everything and tossing items aside, said:« Now that the country has become insecure, you thought it was no longer worth staying and decided to go back to your own country, right?»
The officers treated us as if we were responsible for the war or were leaving Iran of our own choosing, even though we had been instructed by the Ministry of Science to leave the country.
After getting through that stage, I felt a brief sense of relief and thought that, at last, we were done with it. But the border gate was like facing yet another of Rostam’s trials. Many students had overstayed their visas, and the university’s consular office had not extended their permits, telling them:« We have made arrangements—you will pass through the border without any problems and can return again.»
However, this turned out to be a clear falsehood, and no coordination had been made. We waited for hours, and in the end, those students without valid residency were issued final exit permits—meaning that if they return, they would have to pay significant costs and obtain a new visa in order to resume their studies.
After that, we reached yet another of the Taliban’s trials. There, everyone was lined up, phones were taken and sent to inspection booths. After ten to fifteen minutes, if nothing suspicious was found, the phones were returned. My phone was checked three times, and each time I was asked for my password. Fear overwhelmed me; time felt as if it had stopped.
Before my eyes, I saw a young man who had come to Iran on a work visa; two armed Taliban members took him away. His name was Ahmad. We had met just half an hour before his arrest. Ahmad was an Ismaili Hazara from Baghlan. He had worked in Iran for about nine months, but since his residency had not been extended, he was forced to return home. He was around thirty years old, had never attended school, but was tall and soft-spoken. What happened to him afterward, and what they found on his phone, we never knew.
At the border, I also met a university professor. He said he teaches at Khatam al-Nabieen University and holds a PhD in history. He was Hazara and was traveling with his three daughters, all of whom were university students.
When his phone was taken, moments later an armed Taliban member snatched it from him and took him away. We also never found out what happened to him. His three daughters were left confused and stranded. The Taliban told them they could not leave without a male companion, while drivers also said they were not allowed to take them without one. After much effort, we eventually managed to convince a driver. The wife of one of my friends went and told them that the girls were our relatives, and the Taliban allowed them to come with us. We then continued our journey toward Herat together.
On the way, we checked our phones to see what the Taliban had searched for. It was not clear how carefully they had gone through our galleries and files, but in WhatsApp they had searched for two keywords across all of us: “the Taliban” and “the Resistance.” Any article, note, or even casual chat containing these two words would appear, and the Taliban would read them and, presumably, arrest people based on them.
In the evening, after passing several Taliban checkpoints, we arrived in Herat. The city was quiet, empty, and calm. As I observed the movement around me, I saw only a few women wearing Arab-style hijab walking in the streets. I remembered that I had once taken this same route during the Republic era; at that time, Herat was more vibrant, and its people seemed more energetic and alive. Now, however, I found the city deserted and its people tired and depressed. Back then, seeing a police vehicle gave me a sense of security, but this time, the same police vehicles were a source of fear.
One thing, however, had not changed: in the past, I feared the Taliban might appear and open fire on us, and now I felt the same fear again. With every passing police vehicle and at every checkpoint we reached, that fear only intensified.
That same night, without delay, we went to the terminal and boarded a “580” bus heading toward Kabul. The Taliban have imposed a rule requiring passengers to remove their shoes inside the bus, place them in plastic bags, and keep them with them. The smell of feet inside the bus was so strong that it was hard to breathe. I had a headache and felt nauseous. I took two sleeping pills, and after that I remember nothing until I woke up in Kandahar the next day at noon.
We stopped in Kandahar for about an hour, and I did not see a single woman. I had expected to see women wearing burqas, but I had never imagined a city so empty of women. I kept asking myself: where are the women? Are they not allowed to go out, or is it unsafe for them to be outside?
Whatever the reason, women were absent from the city—perhaps confined within the hidden corners of their homes. The city had taken on a completely male-dominated appearance and, to me, felt dry, harsh, and oppressive. It was a city without color, joy, or liveliness; instead, it was filled with Taliban fighters, weapons, and military vehicles.
On our way to Kabul, we passed through numerous checkpoints. At times, a Taliban member would even get on the bus, glance at the passengers, and then get off again. There were no serious inspections until we reached Maidan Wardak. There, all of us were ordered off the bus. Our belongings were taken out and thoroughly searched.
One of my friends had brought a chess set with him. “What is this?” a Taliban soldier asked. Nervously, my friend replied, “It’s chess.” It was the first time the soldier had ever heard the word “chess.” He turned to another soldier standing behind him and asked in Pashto what chess was, but the other man also did not know and said nothing. The soldier then turned back to us and asked, “Is it for gambling?”
Several of us replied in unison, “No, no, no. It’s a game. It’s not for gambling.”
The Taliban soldier was holding a chess piece—the knight—and while lining us up and inspecting us one by one, he kept staring at the piece in his hand.
I don’t know about the others, but I was truly terrified. We had explained that we had come from Iran, yet they kept demanding electronic ID cards from us. We all had passports, but they refused to accept them, insisting:« Electronic ID cards!» Every book or booklet they saw, they would ask,« What is this?» Even when we explained, they did not listen. For the Taliban soldier, the chess knight seemed something strange and fascinating; he did not let it out of his hand. We were probably lucky that his attention was drawn to that chess piece, as he did not even ask about the three girls—where their guardian was.
After about half an hour of searching everything, they finally allowed us to get back on the bus.
We set off toward Kabul. Along the way, we encountered two more checkpoints, but we were allowed to pass without our belongings being inspected or undergoing body searches. In the evening, we arrived at the terminal in Company, Kabul.
As I made my way from Company toward Dasht-e Barchi, I felt a better sense of relief. The movement and liveliness in Barchi brought a pleasant feeling over me—something that perhaps can only be experienced there. Still, with every passing Taliban patrol vehicle, that pleasant feeling would fade, replaced by a deep and unsettling fear.
Here, under Taliban rule, only one thing remains constant: fear—fear of arrest, fear of torture, and fear of death. For the Taliban system, arrest, torture, and death have become a pattern of governance. Sometimes people are detained over a few strands of hair, sometimes over “inappropriate” clothing, and sometimes for not having a long beard. I am still walking through Dasht-e Barchi, living with this same fear.
Photo credited: Internet
