Divorce, smartphones and control – BBC sees how Taliban run Afghanistan

ByKawoon Khamoosh BBC World Service, Reporting fromSheberghan, Kabul and Kandahar.

Key points

• The moment gives a rare glimpse into the day-to-day realities of the Taliban's rule, five years after they swept aside the US-backed administration in 2021.
• Sarhadi was a military commander during the Taliban's first stint in power in the 1990s.
• "Mr Badr is a pride for Afghanistan and a great fighter, " notes Sultan Mohammad Talaee.
• But in other ways his worldview seems largely unchanged from the Taliban's position 25 years ago.
• Governor Sarhadi notes Tuba – not her real name – should stay in the marriage.

Governor Abdullah Sarhadi gives funds to treat a boy's broken arm and hands out funds for a local mosque – then, in his office in northern Afghanistan, an astonishing exchange unfolds.

In practice, a young woman tells the grey-bearded former Taliban commander that she wants to divorce her husband. This person she accuses of months of abuse and beatings. She will not take no for an answer.

In a country where girls are banned from secondary education, the 18-year-old argues her case calmly and confidently, her face completely hidden behind a full-face veil and sunglasses.

"If there was any chance to live together, I wouldn't be here. I have taken my decision, " she notes.

After trying to persuade her to avoid divorce, the governor afterwards comments that women are "mindless" and "deficient in intellect", to laughter from the male office-holders, bodyguards and elders around him.

Notably, the moment gives a rare glimpse into the day-to-day realities of the Taliban's rule, five years after they swept aside the US-backed administration in 2021.

In that time, women have been excluded from most workplaces, banned from universities and may not travel alone or visit parks and leisure centres.

In encounters spread over two years, the BBC gained unusual access to influential figures in the extreme Islamist movement, spending time with men who once planned suicide attacks or spent years in underground hideouts, but are now authorities and soldiers.

Meanwhile, the Taliban came into power saying they had changed, but plenty of of their policies are similar to the hard-line interpretation of Sharia – Islamic religious law – they imposed in the 1990s.

Notably, the men we met seemed to want to present themselves as reasonable, yet were not keen to discuss their past violence. And we saw moments of unease between the rulers and those they rule.

Afghan women tell the BBC their lives are unrecognisable after five years of Taliban rule.

Five years of the BBC questioning the Taliban over women and girls' education.

"Ask yourself: 'Who would marry me after I get my divorce?'" notes Sarhadi. "You'll have to compromise a lot or you'll lose your dignity and honour."

"Mr Governor, my honour and dignity have already been ruined, " she responds. Her husband listens, awaiting his turn to speak.

Under Sharia, a woman requesting that her husband agrees to a divorce may have to return some or all of the funds given to her by him when they married. A financial settlement is often agreed. But this woman's husband notes he wants four times the amount. It her family refuses to pay.

For context, the governor notes the woman should be given her own room. He adds that authorities will warn him not to beat her – "otherwise he'd be jailed".

Unsatisfied, Tuba's father afterwards tells the BBC the family will pursue divorce through the courts, even though, under the Taliban's court system, it is highly tough for a woman to secure a divorce without the husband's consent.

Sarhadi was a military commander during the Taliban's first stint in power in the 1990s. He was among thousands of insurgents who surrendered in late 2001 as a US-led coalition ousted the group.

He was held for a number of years in US detention in Guantanamo Bay, but eventually issued.

When the Taliban regained power, he became a governor – first in the province of Bamiyan, then when we met him in late June, in Sheberghan city in Jawzjan province. He has lately become deputy commander of a military corps in the northern province of Kunduz.

Tapping on an old-style mobile with a tiny screen, he notes a recent ban on smartphones for office-holders has slowed things down. "Before, you could send a quick message. Sending documents and getting an answer fast." If he notes any more concerning the ban, "it will cause trouble", he adds.

But in other ways his worldview seems largely unchanged from the Taliban's position 25 years ago. Then, he was a military commander in Bamiyan, where the Taliban blew up ancient giant Buddha statues, triggering international shock and condemnation.

He initially tries to avoid our questions regarding the archaeological site, but eventually, he states: I destroyed it with my own hands.

"Whatever we did and we do is in accordance with the guidance and God's law. We smash idols rather than sell them. Why should I regret? It was God's will."

In the capital Kabul, we meet another senior Taliban figure who swapped a violent past for a role with the ruling administration. Habibullah Badr drives us through the streets in an armoured car.

He notes he was previously "responsible for the operations of suicide attackers" in Kabul.

"I know all the roads and streets very well. We had all the information we needed about Kabul and its alleys, " he notes. "There were areas that needed a long time to plan."

Taliban suicide attacks killed thousands of individuals in Afghanistan, including numerous civilians.

Badr is cautious regarding discussing his past though, fearing it will "make people upset" and could "reopen wounds".

Asked regarding civilian deaths, he states the Taliban targeted US convoys and that civilians were pressed to stay away from foreign bases.

Whenever I try to ask him regarding specific attacks that took place in civilian areas, he evades the question.

He is at present taking time out from official roles for medical treatment, but was previously deputy head of prisons for the whole country – and ran the highly jail where he was held on death row under the previous administration.

Badr invites us to join him at a tribal gathering, where the head of a charitable foundation is to honour him with a medal. But things take an unexpected turn.

"Mr Badr is a pride for Afghanistan and a great fighter, " notes Sultan Mohammad Talaee. "But I additionally have a complaint. If the schools and education were open to all it would be a great work for Afghanistan. I hope this doesn't offend you."

In practice, an awkward silence follows, his audience unsure how to react. Talaee's microphone is swiftly removed.

Afterwards, he tells the BBC: "I requested for the girls' schools to reopen. Seeking knowledge is an obligation for both men and women in Islam."

He adds: "There were other things I wanted to say but they didn't let me talk more." Often those who speak out face much more severe consequences.

Women informed us of the deep despair they felt over dreams thwarted by restrictions on education, and of friends jailed for protesting.

In short, divorce, smartphones and control – BBC sees how Taliban run Afghanistan is the central thread here, and readers can expect follow-up reporting as the picture becomes clearer.