24 Feb 2026 | Afghanistan, Asia and Pacific, Campaigns, Features, Letters from Afghan Women
Farah, 25, based in Parwan province, supported her family as a civil servant and for UN agencies before the Taliban took over. Then, like so many other women, she lost her job. She did not take that sitting down and instead became involved in a centre to directly help women. But it was soon shut. Today she has no job and an increasingly unwell mother. She writes poignantly here about her life and how she continues to foster hope for herself, her family and all Afghan women despite the many challenges.
I am an Afghan woman, born in the spring of 2000 into a family where education was not merely a choice – it was the cornerstone of life itself. In our home, books were sacred, and the pen symbolised a future brighter than circumstance. My father was a doctor, a man who believed profoundly that knowledge could reshape not only an individual’s life but the destiny of an entire nation. My mother, patient, resilient, and steadfast, was a homemaker whose serene presence masked a boundless inner strength. We were eleven children, a large family with even larger dreams.
My childhood was still imbued with innocence and play when tragedy struck. I lost my father to a heart attack. The warmth and security of our home evaporated overnight. The man who had been our protector, guide, and provider was suddenly gone. From that moment, my mother assumed every role – mother, father, guardian, and pillar of strength. She began sewing clothes by hand late into the night under dim light, her hands moving tirelessly so that we could study by day. Poverty never deterred her. She would say, “Your true wealth is your knowledge. No one can ever take that from you.”
In the spring of 2019, a life-changing opportunity emerged. Dunya University, one of the most reputable institutions in central Afghanistan, announced 600 full scholarships. Its curriculum was entirely in English and aligned with international academic standards. Professors from its main branch in Switzerland taught both online and in person. For a girl from a large, resource-constrained family like mine, this was more than a chance – it was a beacon of hope.
My mother saw the announcement on television. Despite financial hardships, she borrowed money from my aunt to cover the registration fee and brought me to the entrance exam the very next day. Candidates from all 34 provinces of Afghanistan competed. When I received the call informing me that I had been accepted into the Faculty of Economics, it was as if a light had pierced through years of uncertainty. For the first time, I saw pride and relief illuminate my mother’s eyes.
University life was far from easy. In the first two years, I neither owned a smartphone nor had stable internet access. There were times when I walked long distances merely to find a spot with brief connectivity to submit my assignments. Simultaneously, I worked six hours a day at a private school as an administrative assistant. The salary was modest, yet it contributed to our household needs. Exhausted yet determined, I would return home each night to continue studying, convinced that education was the only path to secure both my future and my family’s well-being.
In late December 2020, I took the competitive examination for a governmental post at the National Statistics and Information Authority (NSIA) and was appointed to the civil service position responsible for ID distribution. My proficiency in computer skills and English enabled me to receive promotions relatively quickly. The salary I earned provided me with my first true taste of financial independence, and I remember handing the first paycheck to my mother with tears of joy in my eyes. It was a moment of triumph—proof that perseverance and education could transform one’s life.
Yet, following the political upheaval in Afghanistan, everything changed. Work conditions, regulations, and security were drastically altered. My office was relocated to the remote district of Estalf, two hours away from the city centre. New restrictions on women travelling without a male guardian rendered commuting nearly impossible. Hours were spent waiting for transportation that often refused to carry unaccompanied women. Many times, I walked long distances to reach my workplace. My feet would ache, yet the deepest pain was in my heart – knowing that I was penalised merely for being a woman.
For two months, I persisted despite immense pressure. One day, when my mother was ill, I had to traverse the two-hour journey alone on foot. Upon reaching the office, I received a message requesting that I nominate a male family member to assume my responsibilities. At that moment, my identity, competence, and hard work were dismissed. My father had passed years ago, and my brothers were still children. Reluctantly, I had to relinquish my post.
Refusing to succumb to despair, I dedicated myself to humanitarian projects. I became a community outreach officer in Parwan province, volunteering in remote villages where women had never had access to education. I encountered girls who had been forced into child marriages as early as thirteen or fourteen, and many had no basic knowledge of menstrual hygiene. I distributed sanitary pads to adolescent girls and women, often explaining proper usage, as some had never seen such resources. Witnessing their lack of awareness and vulnerability was profoundly heart-wrenching. These were lives that should have been nurtured with opportunities, not constrained by societal neglect.
During a visit to the village of Ustama, women looked at us in disbelief. They confessed that they had long been told that women should not speak, should not study, and should remain silent. Seeing us, providing education and guidance, was nearly incomprehensible for them. That moment underscored the reality that deprivation in Afghanistan is not solely economic; it is the denial of knowledge, awareness, and self-agency – a far more insidious form of oppression.
Later, I joined a project under UN Women as a Safe Space Officer. The centre became a sanctuary for women and girls. Hundreds attended daily, participating in digital literacy classes, life skills training, sewing, embroidery, painting, and small business workshops. We provided the necessary materials to enable participants to create products and link them to markets, thereby earning their own income. Witnessing the first earnings of these women – their proud smiles and newfound confidence – was profoundly inspiring. I documented their successes, recording the moments of triumph with my camera. Every snapshot was a testament to resilience and hope. The centre was not just a place of learning; it was a beacon of empowerment.
However, in late August 2024, the centre was abruptly closed by government authorities. We were expelled under accusations of teaching a “foreign language” and allegedly encouraging women to oppose the government. The office was sealed and locked. Once again, I found myself unemployed, silenced, and stripped of the opportunity to teach.
Days later, a young participant called me, eager to know when classes would resume. I had to convey the bitter truth: the programme had been terminated. I could hear her sobs through the phone. A few days later, her mother informed me that the girl had taken her own life. The news shattered me. I wrestled with guilt and depression for months, haunted by nightmares of those I could not protect.
Although I understood that systemic oppression, not personal failure, was the cause, the grief was almost unbearable.
Today, my mother lives with chronic heart disease and diabetes, with three stents in her heart. At times, being unable to procure her essential medication brings me to the brink of despair. Yet, despite all hardships, my hope persists.
I share this story not to elicit pity, but because the voices of Afghan women deserve to be heard. My goal is to reclaim the right to education, to work with dignity, and to empower other women to realize their potential. Wherever I am, I strive to contribute to a future in which no girl must bury her dreams because opportunities were denied to her.
Though doors may be closed today, hope remains alive. As long as hope endures, the struggle for dignity, justice, and equality will persist.
Farah
18 Feb 2026
MUBI and Index on Censorship present IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT. After the screening, join us for a panel discussion exploring the role of cinema in challenging authoritarianism in Iran. Our speakers will examine how film becomes an act of resistance and the harsh realities faced by citizens living under state repression.
Winner of the prestigious Palme d’Or at this year’s Cannes festival, the latest film from Iranian auteur Jafar Panahi (Taxi, No Bears) – his first work following his most recent prison sentence – is both a muscular thriller and an engaging morality tale, following a group of citizens considering revenge against a man they believe was their torturer.
Nominated for two Oscars and five Golden Globes, including Best International Feature Film, Best Original Screenplay and Best Director.
About the speakers
Tara Aghdashloo is an award-winning writer, director, multidisciplinary artist and poet born in Iran. Her background spans journalism, political philosophy, and visual arts. She holds a BA in Journalism from Toronto Metropolitan University and an MA in Global Media and Postnational Communication from SOAS, University of London. Her essays have been published in London Review of Books, The Guardian, and Financial Times, and her early documentary and broadcast work aired on Channel 4 and the BBC among others.
Malu Halasa is a writer and editor. She is the editor of Woman Life Freedom: Voices and Art from the Women’s Protests in Iran (2023) and has coedited two anthologies on the country’s photography, art and culture, with Maziar Bahari and Hengameh Golestan.
Negin Shiraghaei is a feminist journalist, activist, and community organizer with over two decades of experience in media and international human rights. She is the founder and director of Azadi Network, a grassroots initiative committed to centering and elevating the voices of Iran’s most marginalized through bold storytelling, movement-building, and advocacy. Since the eruption of the Women, Life, Freedom uprising, Negin has been a force in mobilizing transnational solidarity, leveraging media, international policy forums, and grassroots organizing to demand global accountability and amplify the resistance of women and marginalized communities in Iran. Her interventions—from the UN to the streets of London—have helped carve out space for Iranian feminist voices in public discourse and policy debates. Negin’s work continues to focus on protecting civic space, uplifting frontline defenders, and challenging systems of gendered oppression.
Chair: Jemimah Steinfeld is CEO of Index on Censorship. She has lived and worked in both Shanghai and Beijing where she has written on a wide range of topics, with a particular focus on youth culture, gender and censorship. She is the author of the book Little Emperors and Material Girls: Sex and Youth in Modern China, which was described by the FT as “meticulously researched and highly readable”. Jemimah has freelanced for a variety of publications, including The Guardian, The Telegraph, The Independent, Vice, CNN, Time Out and the Huffington Post.
13 Feb 2026 | Africa, Asia and Pacific, Europe and Central Asia, Features, France, Kenya, Madagascar, Nepal, United Kingdom
This article first appeared in the Winter 2025 issue of Index on Censorship, Gen Z is revolting: Why the world’s youth will not be silenced, published on 18 December 2025.
Gen Z are in revolt. In Kenya, in Madagascar, in Nepal, young people are exercising their freedom of expression, taking to the streets and demanding change. They are at times being silenced with force, at other times with subtlety.
As a team of predominantly non-Gen Z people, we spoke with young people from across the world to better understand how they see themselves. How free are their voices? Do they have hope for the future? Are we all doomed?
We talked to a young man from France, who described the hate and division he sees online, particularly targeted at men, with far-right politicians using memes and AI-generated videos to spread or soften hateful rhetoric. Marine Le Pen petting cats, for instance.
He believes social collapse is coming. In a country like France, with its strong record of demonstrations, it is shocking to hear him say that protests make no difference. They are dangerous places to be, where police use weapons against those raising their voices. People are fed up, and politicians are out of touch. In his words, “the Boomer generation is fucking us up”. What is most striking is that he doesn’t feel he can say any of this in public. Politics has become too divisive.
He described a landscape where young people are struggling to even pay grocery bills, and politicians aren’t listening. At the same time, he and his peers are trying to find meaning, a reason for being on the planet. Their issues are existential. In the UK too, people struggle to get jobs, to meet rising costs, and to afford a home.
The same is true in Finland, where a woman in her mid-twenties told us about her experiences. She said she is scared for the future.
While her social media algorithm is full of lifestyle influencers and calming content, she has witnessed a growing conservatism among the lower age bracket of Gen Z on TikTok. Her peers are cautious about saying anything that might get them cancelled, while she sees a slew of right-wing views from those in their mid-teens.
Here in the UK, our editorial assistant (and resident Gen Zer) Connor O’Brien has seen “young men being pumped with manosphere content”. He approached a number of Reform UK voters, keen to hear their perspectives, but none of them were willing to talk to Index.
Students from Ukraine, Palestine, Afghanistan and Malaysia joined us for a round table discussion about why Gen Z is in revolt. They talked about the bravery of Gen Z, growing up in the wake of the Arab Spring, and the feeling of having nothing left to lose. That, they said, is how revolutions start. They too agreed – the older generations have failed them, and the world is going to burn. Why wouldn’t they revolt?
They described what makes Gen Z distinct. The huge step change in their access to information, the way they consume media and how they share their opinions. Through the power of the internet, their generation has been shaped by global connection.
They also discussed how it’s impossible to generalise for a whole generation. They’re right, and even the views we heard were only a small sample. The Frenchman does not represent all of France, nor the Finnish woman all of Finland.
A recent report for Demos by Shuab Gamote and Peter Hyman, who interviewed hundreds of British 16-18 year olds, demonstrated just that. For starters, the 15-28 age bracket (as of 2025) is simply too wide. They focused their research on 15-18 year olds as the future change-makers. They also designed five archetypes, which the young people they spoke with felt represented them well. They are the activist (left-wing, cares about climate change, deeply principled), the entrepreneur (believes in meritocracy), the critical realist (apathetic or anti-establishment, questioning of everything), the traditionalist (right-leaning, patriotic) and the connector (disengaged from political discussions and interested in pop culture).
The media and, if we’re honest, those of us outside the Gen Z age bracket, have made some quick assumptions about who is influencing young people today. It must be Andrew Tate. The news tells us this, television dramas tell us this, and we probably tell it to each other. But, according to Gamote and Hyman’s research, “Tate is dead.” Figuratively.
When they mentioned Tate in their sessions, students rolled their eyes. Instead, young people in the UK are being influenced by five key types of social media star: entertainers, adult content creators, news explainers, right-wing thinkers and left-wing voices. Gender is a huge dividing line, shaping young people’s views.
“Young people today are immersed in a constant stream of content,” they said. “Young people are not following one person’s ‘ideology’. They follow and are ‘influenced’ by tens if not hundreds of creators. Their feeds are shaped by algorithms, not loyalty.”
The students at our round table echoed this, describing an ever-spinning carousel of influencers, who hold their attention for a week or so. One spoke about the gentle path of breadcrumbs – first a funny video, and then a bait and switch to far-right ideology, or videos of angry people shouting at hotels in Epping which they are being pushed because they live in Essex. For the women, “trad wives” content had made its way onto their feeds.
All this is about a fight for the future; for the youth protesters, for the young men demanding patriotic values and for the powerful seeking to gain influence on the young. From the Millennial, Gen X and Boomer sidelines, it might look like that future is hopeless. But Gen Z have a binary choice. It’s all or nothing.
3 Feb 2026 | Iran, Middle East and North Africa, News
Just when you think Iranian authorities couldn’t get crueller, you hear this: they’re extorting families out of huge sums of money in exchange for the bodies of murdered loved ones. Under the so-called “bullet price” – a practice dating back to the 1980s – the authorities have not only exacted money from grieving relatives they have ordered them to hold subdued funerals and even denounce the dead. The family of Ali Taherkhani, a 31-year-old first shot and then clubbed by security forces, was made to pay the equivalent of $21,000 for his body. At his burial, condolence banners were prohibited and only four family members were allowed to attend against an entourage of armed security forces. Arina Moradi, who works for rights group Hengaw, said her family had to pay to retrieve her cousin’s body. Authorities also demanded Siavash Shirzad was buried in a remote ancestral village and that the burial took place in silence. In another case, the family of brothers Hamid and Vahid Arzanlou, two well-known entrepreneurs in Iran’s furniture industry, was made to pay more than one billion tomans (about $6,670).
This isn’t just cruelty for cruelty’s sake. The authorities want to make sure that the funerals don’t turn into protests, as has already happened at the funerals of well-known figures who’ve been killed, such as 21-year-old basketball player Ahmad Khosravani. Hundreds shouted protest slogans at the Behesht Zahra Cemetery in central Tehran when Khosravani was laid to rest.
But calls against the Ayatollah aren’t the only way people are voicing dissent. Once the extortion was paid for the bodies of the Arzanlou brothers, a third brother asked mourners to applaud if they believed the pair had been right in protesting. The mourners did just that. This more celebratory response has occurred elsewhere. Instead of sombre music and Islamic verse, as is typical at most Iranian funerals today, some are choosing upbeat music and dancing. The relatives and close friends of Mohammad-Hossein Jamshidi and Ali Faraji threw confetti and clapped. Women danced as participants re-enacted tabaq-keshi, a traditional ceremony performed at weddings, at the burial of 18-year-old student Sourena Golgoon.
It’s hard to hold onto hope right now given the bloodbath that has just occurred. But if the slaughter of protesters is done to serve two purposes – silence the actual protesters and scare off would-be ones – these defiant funerals suggest Iranian authorities have not entirely succeeded in the latter.
Another protester, Mojtaba Shahpari, who was taken to hospital with a leg wound, to later be found shot in the head, had requested to be wrapped in a lion and sun flag if he was killed. That’s the former state flag of Iran from 1907 to 1979, which is banned in the country today. Shahpari was buried in it.
