We are helping him
London UK – XX Feb 2025
When I was a kid, life felt different for me, both within my family and in our society. I always felt like an outcast, a solitary figure in a world where no one else seemed like me. By the time I turned 15, I began to understand the harsh realities of our society — a place where any deviation from tradition was seen as a sin. My “sin”? Being gay.
In our deeply Islamic community, any deviation from the norm invited relentless attacks. The elders, including my family, were harsh and often violent.
During the Republican era, before the Taliban regained control, life was slightly more bearable. I found brief moments of refuge with friends in the police force who offered me some protection. Those days gave me a fragile sense of safety, but it didn’t last. When the Taliban took over, I lost everything — my few friends, my little safety, and that fleeting sense of peace.
I found myself stranded outside my district for three long months. When Kabul fell, I returned home to a place that felt foreign and hostile. Everyone I knew seemed aligned with the Taliban. I didn’t know where to go. I hid at home for months, relying on others to bring me food and supplies because I was too afraid to step outside. I feared I would be picked on, harassed, or even beaten. I knew I could expect no pity from the Taliban.
Eventually, staying inside began to drive me mad. Reluctantly, I gathered every bit of courage I had and ventured out. But when people saw me, they hurled insults, calling me “LIWATI,” a derogatory Islamic term for gay people. I feared that at any moment, I might be beaten, attacked by a mob, or dragged away by armed men to face torture. There would be no one, absolutely no one, to defend or protect me. Simply existing felt like a crime. Even the suspicion of being gay carried disastrous consequences. How could anyone live like that?
Day after day, I lived in fear, barely leaving the house. The one person who protected me and showed me love was my mother. In our conservative, patriarchal society, she had little power, especially under the Taliban’s rule. Yet she stood by me, shielding me from my family’s anger and interceding when they blamed me for bringing shame upon us. She was my pillar, my source of strength, and the only person who truly cared for me.
One day, I reunited with Timur, my best friend and a fellow gay man. He shared his own harrowing experiences of near-death encounters and relentless abuse. We cried together, clinging to each other like lifelines. Together, we dreamt of escaping to a place where we could exist without fear of persecution. We didn’t want luxury or extravagance; we just wanted to live, work, and exist without being beaten or persecuted.
But every week brought fresh horrors. Public lashings, beatings, disappearances, and executions became the new normal. The community lived in fear, silenced by the brutal regime. No one dared to speak out, and no one dared to question the Taliban.
My situation grew worse. My family — except for my mother — treated me like a burden. Insults and beatings became routine. They blamed me for the danger our family faced and urged me to leave. Outside the house, neighbours whispered about imprisoning, lashing, or even stoning me. It felt like there was no escape. Life itself had become a prison.
A few months ago, my world shattered completely. My mother, my protector, passed away. Her death left me utterly alone. Soon after, Timur’s father handed him over to the Taliban. I later heard that he had been tortured and killed. Before his death, Timur must have revealed my name because the Taliban began searching for me again.
This time, even my brothers told me to leave. With my mother gone, I had no one left to shield me. I fled and had absolutely nowhere to go. The few people I knew were afraid to provide shelter for fear of the Taliban’s actions. The only place I found temporary shelter was in a small room near a mosque — a place meant for washing the dead. Every night, I lay awake, questioning why I was born this way and why my existence was met with such cruelty. Many nights, I thought about ending it all, but something deep inside kept me holding on.
Eventually, I found work in a woodworking shop. The tasks were gruelling, and the pay was barely enough to survive. Still, I endured. Desperation pushed me to social media, where I found the courage to speak out for Afghan LGBTQ+ rights. I begged for help, but my pleas went unanswered.
Recently, I contacted the Peter Tatchell Foundation and spoke with Mr. Pliny, who offered some hope. But I am still here, trapped in this hostile land with no resources to escape. I know some people have fled to Iran or Pakistan in desperation, but I cannot even afford this.
I long for the day I can leave this nightmare behind and live freely. Until then, I remain stuck, hoping that someone, somewhere, will hear my story and help me find the freedom I so desperately need. I am stuck in Afghanistan.