Imagine a world where the very act of bringing life into the world becomes a death sentence. This is the grim reality for countless women in Afghanistan since the Taliban’s unspoken yet devastating ban on birth control began to take hold in 2023. Women are being shattered—physically, mentally, and emotionally—by a system that denies them control over their own bodies.
Take Parwana*, a once-vibrant 36-year-old from Kandahar province, now reduced to a shadow of herself. After enduring nine pregnancies and six miscarriages, many coerced by her husband and in-laws, she sits in silent confusion on the floor of her mother’s home. “She is lost,” her mother, Sharifa, laments. “They broke her with fear, pregnancies, and violence.”
But here’s where it gets even more alarming: Parwana’s story is not an isolated tragedy. Since the Taliban’s informal ban on contraception spread across Afghanistan, the country’s reproductive health system has collapsed. Contraceptives have vanished, clinics have shuttered, and life-threatening complications go untreated. This isn’t just a policy change—it’s a humanitarian crisis.
The ban was never officially declared, but by early 2023, healthcare workers across multiple provinces reported a chilling pattern: supplies arriving late, then in smaller quantities, and eventually disappearing entirely. In interviews with The Guardian and Zan Times, women from seven provinces shared eerily similar stories: unwanted pregnancies they couldn’t prevent, miscarriages they couldn’t treat, and violence they couldn’t escape.
Shakiba, a 42-year-old mother of 12 from Kandahar, describes her daily struggle. “I can’t stand without feeling faint. My hair falls out in clumps, and my bones ache constantly,” she says. Now pregnant again, her local clinic no longer offers contraceptives, and her husband forbids her from seeking them elsewhere. *Is this the price of motherhood under Taliban rule?**
In rural Jawzjan, a northern province, a doctor who has run a clinic for three decades witnessed the rapid disappearance of contraceptives. “After the Taliban arrived, the supplies dwindled. Within months, they were gone,” she recalls. “Before, at least 30 out of 70 women who visited needed birth control. Now, we have nothing to offer.”
And this is the part most people miss: In Badghis, another northern province, a private clinic was ordered by Taliban fighters to destroy all contraceptives. “If we see you give this to women again, we will close your clinic,” they threatened. The staff complied immediately.
Consider Zarghona, a 29-year-old who nearly died from a life-threatening intestinal blockage after an earthquake left her family homeless. Surgeons warned her husband that another pregnancy could kill her. Yet, a year later, with no contraception available and her husband’s insistence on having a daughter, Zarghona became pregnant again. She spent nine months in terror, attempted to end the pregnancy with herbs, and managed just one antenatal visit. During labor, doctors in Herat warned her that both a caesarean and natural delivery could be fatal. She survived, but weeks later, she still bleeds and lives in constant pain. *How many more Zarghonas must there be before the world takes notice?**
According to the United Nations and the World Health Organization, over 440 hospitals and clinics have closed or reduced services since international funding was cut last year. For women in rural areas, this means hours-long walks to reach care—or giving birth at home, often alone. In isolated villages, midwives report women bleeding for days before they can reach a clinic.
The reproductive crisis is deeply intertwined with Afghanistan’s economic collapse. A doctor in Jawzjan estimates that 80% of pregnant and breastfeeding women she sees are malnourished. “They have anemia, vitamin deficiencies, low blood pressure. Their bodies are too weak to carry pregnancies safely,” she explains.
Domestic violence compounds this crisis, emerging repeatedly in women’s testimonies as a cause of miscarriage and a tool of control. In Kandahar, Reyhana* recounts how her sister Sakina, a young widow, was forced by her in-laws to marry her brother-in-law. When she resisted, they beat her repeatedly, causing her to miscarry. *Is this the future we accept for Afghan women?**
Hamida*, a midwife in Kandahar, says violence is a leading cause of the miscarriages she sees. “Every day, we handle over 100 deliveries. About six miscarriages occur daily, many from beatings or women carrying heavy loads.”
Humaira*, 38, shares a harrowing tale of taking abortion pills when she discovered she was pregnant with a girl. “My husband wanted a son. If I had another daughter, he would beat me or divorce me. So I bought the medicine secretly,” she confesses. Her story is echoed by others in Kandahar and Jawzjan, where miscarriages are often forced, self-induced, or the result of abuse after ultrasounds reveal a female fetus.
In Ghor province, a 15-year-old girl miscarried after carrying two heavy jerrycans of water up a steep hill. “I was too ashamed to tell anyone,” she says. “By the time my mother saw me, it was too late.”
Shamsia*, 38, from a remote part of Herat, worked in construction and brickmaking throughout her pregnancies. “My mother-in-law forced me to breastfeed her baby too. I grew weaker every day,” she recalls. When a doctor recommended a blood transfusion, her family refused, calling it “haram.”
Before the ban, rural clinics offered regular sessions on birth spacing. Now, those programs have vanished. “There’s no point in raising awareness when there’s no medicine,” one doctor explains. “The Taliban haven’t given written orders, but the fear is real. If we speak openly, they may shut us down.”
This isn’t just a policy—it’s a war on women’s bodies. And the question remains: How long will the world stand by and watch?
Names have been changed to protect identities.
