I attended a protest against violence – then I was stabbed

In Afghanistan, reporting on the killing of a 27-year-old woman, I was a target (Picture: Bahaar Joya)

The day I was stabbed was always going to be a dark memory – but one reason made it even worse.   

I was living in Kabul in 2015 when I witnessed the brutal killing of Farkhunda Malikzada, who was stoned and burned to death by a mob after she was falsely accused of burning the Quran. She was only 27.  

As long as I live, I’ll deal with the trauma of what I witnessed that afternoon. I just never thought that I’d be attacked myself a year later. 

After Farkhunda’s death, footage of her killing went viral and shocked the world. As a journalist at the BBC in Afghanistan at the time, I made it my mission to report on every update on the case, which inadvertently made me a target. 

It didn’t help that I was a woman who refused to wear a hijab while I was reporting the news. As a result of this, I’d even been followed home and threatened to get me to leave my job. 

Within a year, I was frustrated with the justice system that had just released some of Farkhunda’s killers, pending an appeal. So I attended a meeting of women who wanted to protest in her memory. 

I made it my mission to report on every update on the case (Picture: Bahaar Joya)

After this meeting, I was caught in my thoughts and I didn’t realise a man had got close to me. His face was full of anger and hate, as he shouted at me.   

The next thing I knew, I felt something sharp in my back – I had been stabbed. I just remember grabbing on to him to keep him in place, so that he couldn’t escape. 

I was taken to hospital, while he was arrested by the police. 

In hospital, despite the pain, I wasn’t thinking about myself – only my family, and whether I would be able to keep my job. It was a helpless and lonely feeling.   

After I had been told by doctors I had been stabbed and stitched up, I asked work for sick leave and went to India for treatment. I couldn’t stay in Afghanistan, for my own safety, and the stabbing was the last straw. 

I was frustrated with the justice system (Picture: Bahaar Joya)

That break turned into months because I needed to focus on my physical recovery, but also my emotional one too. 

As for my attacker, I still don’t know his name, but he was released because I was too fearful about confronting him in court. I felt the justice system was only going to blame me for not wearing a hijab or take his side somehow. 

In 2016, the BBC told me that they could no longer protect me if I went back to Kabul. It felt like there was no hope anymore, so – supported by the BBC – I applied for asylum in the UK, which was granted.   

I arrived in the UK to do a course at Oxford, but before too long, post-traumatic stress disorder was interrupting my life. Even as I settled into the UK, I became too afraid to leave my home alone. 

My attacker was released because I was too fearful about confronting him in court (Picture: Bahaar Joya)

I tried to write about Afghan women for the BBC and Thomson Reuters – to be their voice from that region – but I couldn’t feel the same enthusiasm for my work after what happened to me.  

Perhaps the worst thing to deal with was the victim-blaming, with many people I spoke to – even in the UK – assuming I (or even Farkhunda) had been responsible for what happened.   

On top of that, I was tired of telling the story of war and death – I wanted to help people. So I resigned from my job and retrained as a nurse. 

Around this time, I received Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy, which helps process traumatic memories and emotions. This helped me to overcome what was haunting me. 

I was tired of telling the story of war and death (Picture: Bahaar Joya)

Today, when I work with patients as a nurse, I feel like I’m treating my own wounds as well as theirs. But at the same time, I’m trying to help heal the wounds of my country.   

While I work in the UK, I raise awareness of how difficult things are for women in Afghanistan. They were awful when I was attacked, but the situation is even worse under the revitalised Taliban.   

In Kabul, women are being erased from society. It feels like my homeland is a prison for half the population – I don’t know who the next victim will be. 

When I recall the memories of my stabbing, it feels like a horror movie to me. I cannot believe that I lived it and survived it. 

I’ll never get over it, but as I rebuild my life with a new vocation, I won’t ever forget my responsibility to the women back home.  

To fight for them, to tell their stories, to give them life. 

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