Hamida Barmaki, with surrounding text in Persian.” width=”960″ height=”720″ data-caption=’An ArtLords mural in Kabul honoring the martyred human rights activist, Hamida Barmaki, who died in an explosion claimed by Hezb-i-Islami Afghanistan. <span class=”lazyload media-credit”>Image courtesy of Omaid Sharifi</span>’>
February will mark five years since the first Trump administration signed the Doha Agreement, paving the way for the Taliban’s return to power under Biden in 2021. When Fatimah Hossaini fled Kabul in the chaotic days after the terrorist group seized control of the government, she left behind not only her home but also her photography. The Tehran-born photographer had previously taught as part of the art faculty at Kabul University and was an award-winning figure in the country’s small but thriving art scene. Her work captured candid yet empowering depictions of Afghan women in traditional dress—exuding an air of resilience and femininity despite the societal challenges beyond the frame. That same work also made her a target.
The world was taken by surprise when, following the withdrawal of U.S. troops, the Taliban regained control of the country within days. For Afghan artists, photographers and filmmakers, the effects were devastating: freedom of expression was one of the first casualties. Some feared the outright ban on images of living things between 1996 and 2001 would soon be reinstated.
After bearing witness to the early horrors of the returning regime, passing Taliban checkpoints where civilians were beaten and arrested, Hossaini narrowly escaped on a flight to Paris—and has never returned. She sometimes wonders about what came of her work.
“I couldn’t finish the last five photos, so I just left them behind with the hopes that I had,” she told Observer. “I had my printed photos in some of the embassies and institutions. I don’t know what the Taliban did with them.”
Artists in Afghanistan faced difficulties producing art even outside of the previous Taliban control, but the regime’s return made the risks even bigger. Most are unable to work and are forced to navigate Taliban oppression, financial difficulties and general societal hostilities. “Many feel completely useless and stripped of their purpose,” Yama Rahimi, case manager for the Artistic Freedom Initiative (AFI), said.
The regime initially stopped short of a formal ban on art, but threats, intimidation and efforts to stifle creative expression painted a clear message. The Ministry of Vice and Virtue levied strict interpretations of Sharia Law to shutter art centers, criminalize artists and remove noncompliant art from public view. Those artists who didn’t leave were forced underground—many more stopped producing art altogether.
The Taliban unveiled a sweeping 114-page outline of its ‘vice and virtue’ laws in August of 2024, further codifying a legacy of censorship. Among the provisions was Article 17, which bans the publication of images depicting living things—anything with a “soul.” Though aimed primarily at media outlets and vague at best, the repercussions of this ruling, which is being gradually rolled out across provinces, could be far-reaching. Critics suggest the law is less about religious doctrine and more about control—one more way to maintain an uneducated and dependent society.
For artists like Hossaini, the law was no surprise. “It was quite expected from the Taliban,” she said. “Since they took over in 2021, everybody knew what they were going to do.” But the ruling could further legitimize repression, with vague wording stoking more fear and harsh penalties left to the discretion of individual prosecutors. In other words, not exactly the total reinstatement of the outright ban on images of living things, but close enough.
According to Sanjay Sethi, co-executive director of the AFI, such formalization could pose challenges to artists as well as organizations that want to support the nation’s creatives. “There were lots of actions, but they didn’t take the form of a pronouncement,” he said about governance before Article 17. “When this law came out, it was like they’re just saying the quiet part out loud.”
It’s unclear what long-term impact the vice and virtue laws will have, and paradoxically, there are reports that Taliban officials are flouting morality laws. “The Taliban appear on talk shows, take photographs, run YouTube channels and even carry cameras when patrolling the cities,” Rahimi said.
Still, the situation continues to deteriorate for those on the ground. Omaid Sharifi, the co-founder and president of ArtLords, echoed a similar sentiment: “Things are getting bad every day. This is exactly how the Taliban were in 1996-2001, and it’s even getting worse.”
Since 2014, the art collective ArtLords has facilitated the creation of over 2,200 murals across twenty-four provinces in Afghanistan. The group’s striking, colorful work, often created on grey concrete blast walls, featured political messages and artistic depictions encouraging expression and dialogue among local Afghans. “These murals were created by the community and were owned by the community,” Sharifi explained. When the Taliban returned, the walls were repainted or destroyed—and like most other prominent activists, Sharifi was forced to flee. Yet despite his living in exile, his organization’s global advocacy continues.
ArtLords staff and officers in Kabul have been picked up and tortured, Sharifi said. “They face the Taliban visiting their studios every single day, and the indignity of all of that.”
Despite the Taliban’s attempts to erase Afghanistan’s cultural identity, Afghan artists, both within and outside the country, seem hopeful that art can outlive even the most oppressive regimes. Some have found different ways to share their work with international community support. In 2023, a project called Hidden Statement launched Afghanistan’s first digital contemporary art archive, allowing artists to preserve and share their work online. Over thirty-six exhibitions have so far been made public, and 300 more are planned.
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“There are artists still creating,” Sethi said. “Graffiti artists will come out at night and create a work. And there are organizations that have an interest in trying to encourage the arts or continue it, even if it’s surreptitiously.”
The AFI serves as a vital lifeline for persecuted and censored artists worldwide and continues to advocate and support Afghan artists. Since 2022, it has provided legal or resettlement assistance to 1,554 Afghan artists and their family members, and it continues to receive applications from artists in the country.
Despite ongoing challenges, artistic expression in Afghanistan may evolve. “We will never censor the work, but we will go underground; it will become more sacred,” Sharifi explained. “When there is oppression like this… when there’s apartheid like this, artists and creatives become more creative and more courageous. We will continue painting. People will paint in their homes and basements, people will make movies, they will make pictures, they will do exhibitions and we will find ways to get those works out of Afghanistan and show the world what’s happening.”
Hossaini, meanwhile, has found ways to showcase her photography worldwide. Though the online classes she used to hold for students have ended, she remains deeply moved by the women of Afghanistan she’s still in contact with. “I think the next revolution, if it’s going to happen in Afghanistan, is going to be led by women,” she said, adding that she’s inspired by women who continue to protest through their work.
Despite Taliban attempts to erase Afghanistan’s cultural identity, artists continue to play a crucial role in adding to the record—proving that culture simply can’t be controlled. Art continues to be smuggled out of Afghanistan as organizations do what they can to keep the nation’s powerful artistic representations alive under the regime’s tightening grip. Sharifi explained that artists, photographers, cultural workers and journalists are “doing everything to make sure we record the atrocities of the Taliban and protect the cultural heritage of Afghanistan.”
“The work has to continue; it’s a form of resistance against the Taliban,” he said. “When they’re gone, we’ll go back—and we will not start from zero. We’ll have something to take back to Afghanistan.”
