By Omar Sadr

Mass deprivation and transgression of women’s rights and the establishment of gender apartheid are often presented as a reflection of cultural and ideological norms and assumptions. This does not suggest that certain cultures are more prone to gender apartheid than others; rather, a state or actor opts to neglect the universality of the regime of rights and appropriates a cultural justification for its policies.

Viewing such a situation through the lens of cultural relativism counters the universality of human rights and presents culture, religion, and customs as bases for the entitlement of rights. In other words, cultural relativism restricts women’s rights as they apply to “their” ascriptive cultures or religions. This contribution considers the cases of the Taliban in Afghanistan and the Islamic Republic of Iran and argues that relativism denies human rights by demarcating a false line between the universal and the local.

The Taliban, Iran, and Cultural Relativism

While practices of mainstream Muslims across the world defy the limitation of fundamental rights, authoritarian and in certain cases sultanistic regimes in the Muslim world have enforced a conservative form of Sharia law in an idiosyncratic manner. Of all of them, the Islamic Emirate of the Taliban in Afghanistan and the Islamic Republic of Ayatollahs in Iran share a common policy of subjugating and segregating women, to the extent that it constitutes what scholars such as Abdelfatah Amor, Ann Mayer, and Karima Bennoune have termed “gender apartheid.”[1]

Moreover, Juan Cole has argued with respect to the first Taliban rule (1996-2001) and the Ayatollahs of Iran (1980s) that both regimes privatize women by redrawing the line between public and private and bringing medieval motifs to “the modern re-creation of power as representation” and exercising “power as spectacle.”[2] The same logic prevails in the second, current phase of the Taliban, whose project of political Islam emphasizes the privatization of women.

As the Taliban regime is an ethno-religious group that relies both on Afghan ethno-nationalism and Islamic fundamentalism, cultural relativists justify gender apartheid with reference to both Pashtun culture and Islam. Cultural relativism, in this case, is based both on local culture and transnational Islamic fundamentalism. Similarly, narrators and defenders of cultural relativism are both local and international.

For instance, Pakistan’s Permanent Representative in the United Nations, Munir Akram, said in a UN meeting in February 2023 that the Taliban’s restriction on women’s rights is rooted in Pashtun culture. He argued, “[T]he restrictions that have been put by the Afghan interim government flow not so much from a religious perspective as from a peculiar cultural perspective of the Pashtun culture, which requires women to be kept at home.”

A few months beforehand, in December 2022, Prime Minister of Pakistan Imran Khan made a similar argument in an OIC meeting: “[E]very society’s idea of human rights and women’s rights are different…If we are not sensitive to cultural norms of these people, even with stipends people in Afghanistan won’t send their girls to school.”

Such remarks by a neighboring country that has been accused of having a vested interest in supporting and preserving Taliban rule can be considered colonialism in that the use of cultural relativism by a foreign actor to justify the deprivation of a group’s rights is a mark of such a system. In other words, colonialism deprived the colonized of their right to self-determination based on relativist assumptions. As Maryam Namazie has argued, cultural relativism is a “racist phenomenon” as it legitimizes the deprivation of rights by segregating people in the same country based on religion. This can be observed in a few cases in Western democracies where Muslim asylum seekers and refugees are treated based on Sharia law. In some of these cases, this has led to ghettoization.

Though many secular nationalists in Afghanistan denounced the remarks from Pakistan, their narrative is also reductionist in that it portrays the Taliban exclusively as Pakistan’s proxy. Such an approach prevents a holistic perspective that considers the domestic sources of the Taliban’s conservative communalism. For instance, on 11 September 2022, the Taliban Minister of Education, Noorullah Munir, framed Taliban practices and beliefs as cultural during a visit to the southern province of Urozgan, arguing that residents do not want their daughters to attend school: “The culture is clear to everyone,” he said. Similarly, on 4 December 2022, Taliban Minister of Higher Education Nida Mohammad Nadim claimed that “education for women clash[es] with Islam and Afghan values.” One should not be surprised by the resemblance between the Taliban phrase “Afghan and Islamic values” and the Saudi Arabia Basic Law of Governance’s phrase “Arab-Islamic values,”[3] as both regimes implement a patriarchal system of segregation and the subjugation of women.

Despite these domestic cultural arguments, it is clear that the Taliban’s gender apartheid is not simply due to culture. Rather, it stems from specific political forms and decisions. First, the Taliban constitute a heightened authoritarian regime that manifests features of sultanism. According to Weber, a sultanistic regime is a government in which domination “operates primarily on the basis of discretion.” Totalitarianism is distinguished from a sultanistic regime through the level of autonomy of its state institutions. A totalitarian regime rules through its institutions, but in a sultanistic regime state institutions cannot veto the leader’s decisions; they must simply obey. While certain Taliban figures disagree with some of the gender policies of the regime, they cannot challenge the discretion of the decision of Habitullah Akhunzada.

Alfred Stepan and Juan Linz argue the transition from a sultanistic regime to democracy is less likely to happen peacefully compared to other types of authoritarian regimes as the soft liners would be suppressed by the Sultan.[4] If peaceful transfer to democracy is not an easy process, definitely addressing apartheid in a sultanist regime would also not be easy.

Second, Taliban apartheid is based on denial. For instance, in 1998 Said Shahidkhayl, the Taliban deputy minister of education, claimed that the Taliban have not only “recognized personhood and private autonomy of women” but also “improved women’s conditions.”[5] Zabiullah Mujahid, the Taliban’s current spokesperson, claims the same. The group also obscures reality by justifying their policies as short-term measures to be reversed. Suhail Shaheen, the Taliban representative in Qatar, for instance, stated that provisions with respect to women are temporary and will be removed as soon as appropriate conditions are developed. As Ann Mayer has written, the authoritarian Muslim state resorts to “equivocations, obfuscations, and hypocrisy”[6] with respect to women’s rights.

When in 2007 Saudi Arabia was challenged on its denial of the ban on women driving at the Convention on the Elimination of all Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) committee, the Saudi delegate claimed that “[t]here is no legal provision banning women from driving cars.”[7] Many restrictions on women in Afghanistan and Iran are also not stipulated in statutory laws. This lack of formal provisions can be understood in two ways. First, some restrictions originate from customary provisions such as Mullahs’ and Ayatollahs’ fatwas that are not regularly documented. Second, the Taliban does not have bureaucratic capacity and is still unaccustomed to running the state through formal regulations and bureaucracy. Hence, it at times rules by its leader’s verbal decrees. For the same reason, their policies are not implemented in a consistent manner. Therefore, one should be conscious of not falling into the trap of Taliban equivocations. Instead, their denials should be exposed.

The public execution of violence against women is also a political exercise of power as a spectacle through which the Taliban affirm their authority. Like their first era in the 1990s, the second phase of the Taliban is engaging in public whippings and amputations, as well as the public display of corpses.

Scholars’ analyses of cultural relativism reveal the tensions in coming to terms with communal values versus individual autonomy and human rights, and ultimately demonstrate the danger in using culture and religion to justify gender apartheid. 

Cultural Relativism and the Academy

Relativist scholars such as Alison Renteln advocate for ethical relativism, arguing that no truth assertion is acceptable if it is based on an abstract universal principle ignoring specific culture. Accordingly, she believes that a cross-cultural base for human rights increases the likelihood of its acceptability.[8] On the contrary, refuting the relativist argument, Reza Afshari believes that relativism overemphasizes the cultural significance of state administration of societies in the Muslim world, while Islamist rule such as that of Khomeini is driven by political interest. According to Afshari, “[T]he unrealized Islamic expectations in Iran indicate the problems of a discourse that assumes cultural primacy for a legal foundation for human rights in the modern state.”[9] Afshari argues that drawing a cultural foundation for human rights in a context where the state redefines culture and “subjects it to its modus operandi” is highly unlikely to ensure rights.

For Afshari, the Muslim cultural relativists who aim to amend the universal human rights scheme fall into two groups. The first includes those who want to Islamize modernity and human rights. They reject the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), labeling it as a Western value and instead offer a human rights scheme in accordance with Sharia. The second includes those interested in presenting an Islamic base for a modern human rights scheme. In other words, their project is the “modernization” of Islam.

The Islamic Emirate of the Taliban and the Islamic Republic of Iran belong to the first group as they reject the regime of human rights by calling it Western. As Mayer has noted, the Taliban label Afghanistan’s women activists as “servile imitators of the West” and “agents of Western cultural imperialism”[10] Conservative opponents of the Taliban who tend to draw from Islam for a rationale of women’s rights belong to the second group. However, the inability of the Muslim world to amend the gender apartheid policies of the Taliban and Iranian theocratic regimes’ persistent gender apartheid demonstrates that neither the Islamization of modernity nor the modernization of Islam has been able to address this problem.

This failure stems from a multiplicity of human rights schemes that are inherently paradoxical and at times contradictory. According to Mayer, “The relevant textual authorities are conflicting and scant.”[11] For instance, the reconciliation of women’s Islamic rights to enjoy legal rights, to own property, and to do business while avoiding contact with men has not been resolved. Mayer’s research highlights that each Muslim country has developed its own scheme of human rights at the national level that it claims as Islamic though there is no consistency among the various schemes. What unifies them, according to Mayer, is their provision with respect to the regulation of women. Comparing the 1979 Iranian constitution, the 1978 Al-Azhar Drafted Constitution, the 1990 Cairo Declaration on Human Rights in Islam (CDHRI), and the 1992 Saudi Basic Law of Governance, Mayer finds that none firmly acknowledge gender equality and instead contain provisions that confine women to the domestic sphere. A stark commonality between these laws and Taliban rhetoric is the use of the vague phrases, “within the framework of Sharia” or “principles of Sharia.”

Rejecting Cultural Relativism and Advocating for Women’s Rights 

To end the gender apartheid regime, global human rights defenders and the international community must not only reject cultural relativism but should also use all available tools to end the Taliban’s exercise of power as spectacle. Working with the current campaigns for women’s rights in Afghanistan is critical.

In Afghanistan, the women’s movement has three forms: social movements, transnational networks, and professional organizations. The women’s social movement is a grassroots movement inside the country of students and women who previously worked as civil servants, teachers, librarians, and journalists; this group continuously organizes non-violent protests. Transnational networks are composed of former female politicians, parliamentarians, and civil society activists, as well as women human rights defenders, who are mainly in exile in the West. Finally, professional organizations are a small set of the remnants of republican Afghanistan enterprises, civic organizations, and educational institutions that are now partially underground. They support women by providing humanitarian support, access to the legal system, domestic violence shelters, and skill development.  

These campaigns transcend the Muslim relativism stance and attempt to follow the universal human rights scheme. This is necessary, as advocating for the recognition of gender apartheid is based on international law and universal norms of human rights. In the words of the feminist scholar and sociologist Valentine Moghadam, “The women’s rights movement is not ‘identity movements’ but rather democratic and democratizing movements.”[12]

At the same time, the Afghanistan women’s movement and other peaceful resistance show that human rights do not need a common moral foundation as the universalists call for. The mere fact that people claim their rights against Taliban oppression and subjugation proves the appeal of a human rights claim. In this regard, Michael Goodhart’s argument, which suggests that contestation over human rights should not be considered contestation over moral truth, rings true. The global appeal of human rights does not require a common moral foundation, and the fact that modern human rights norms are not incompatible with local values and cultures does not make them irrelevant to society. Rather, Goodhart argues that “human rights may appeal to people enduring subjection because of their transformative potential, both of which depend on compatibility with oppressive social arrangements and the conceptions of dignity that suffuse and legitimate them.”[13]

Read at Jadaliyya

By Omar Sadr

Nonviolent resistance must mobilize the people and create synergies between different strata within the democratic constituency.

It is a dark age for Afghanistan. The reemergence of the Taliban twenty years after its initial defeat has brought back a totalitarian regime, leaving the country with an unsuccessful peace process, failed state, humanitarian catastrophe, the deprivation of rights, and an unprecedented rise in ethno-cultural injustice. Despite the twenty-seven years of lived experience with the Taliban, there are many misunderstandings about the group. It is important to note that the Taliban is not just like any other authoritarian government. It is neither a single-party system, a traditional monarchy, nor a military dictatorship. Instead, it is an absolute religio-tribal totalitarian regime.

Immediately after it seized Kabul in August 2021, the Taliban received a proactive, nonviolent pushback from women, civil servants, and human rights activists. I have described this elsewhere as steady, sporadic, and spontaneous. Another common pattern of passive, nonviolent resistance in Afghanistan has been the mass exodus of the country’s non-Taliban citizens, which first took place in 1996 during the Taliban’s initial period of rule. It is now happening again. During the last seven months of Taliban rule, millions have left the country, and many more will escape as the Taliban’s rule becomes harsher. But unlike in the 1990s, resistance to the Taliban has not remained limited to a passive exodus of the non-Taliban from Afghanistan.

A successful long-term, nonviolent movement, however, should neither be submissive, sporadic, nor spontaneous. Indeed, those carrying out nonviolent resistance to the Taliban should abandon a simplistic understanding of passive resistance and instead adopt political defiance as an approach.

To begin with, nonviolent resistance is not a call for obedience and passivity. It is constant activism, which requires the mobilization of the masses. Unlike passive, nonviolent action, nonviolent resistance is defiance, and it leaves no room for submission. This is what Robert Helvey called “political defiance.” Nonviolent action, therefore, will help discourage obedience to the Taliban.

Second, while nonviolent resistance entails noncooperation with the autocratic or totalitarian regime, the secular ideologues of the Taliban consistently suggest cooperating with the regime. Nonviolent resistance does not allow even the acceptance of the regime; it instead aims to overthrow and disintegrate it. Unlike political defiance, cooperation with a totalitarian regime like the Taliban creates obedience. Obedience in turn facilitates the sustainability of totalitarian rule, helping convert the citizens into submissive, atomized individuals who lose their self-confidence and do not dare protest. Historically—be it colonialism, apartheid, or racism—nonviolent resistance has aimed to overthrow the hegemonic and discursive order under these regimes. The same shall go for the nonviolent resistance against the Taliban regime. Beyond being organized, nonviolent resistance must present a plausible alternative to the ideology and institutional infrastructure of Talibanism. In other words, to borrow from Gramsci, it must produce and articulate counter-hegemonic discourse based on the cultural pluralism and rich history of the land.

Third, nonviolent resistance should now move beyond its initial stage of sporadic and spontaneous resistance. Instead, it should adopt a more strategic approach that addresses key questions such as the issues at stake with the Taliban, the effectiveness of various tools of nonviolent resistance, and whether and when to negotiate with the Taliban. Gene Sharp, a political scientist who had extensive influence over the nonviolent movements, has given a conscious warning to democrats on the prospects of negotiations with dictators. He argues that when the stakes of the issues are very high or there is a power asymmetry between the democrats and the dictators, negotiations can be a trap that the democrats must be cautious of. He argues that a “halt to resistance rarely brings reduced repression. … Resistance, not negotiations, is essential for change in conflicts where fundamental issues are at stake.” The issue at stake with the Taliban is both cultural and political. Hence, both the cultural and political forms of nonviolence are crucial. On the other hand, as the people of Afghanistan are suffering from the economic crisis, nonviolent economic actions—such as strikes, boycotts, and hunger strikes—may not be effective. Similarly, government strikes and boycotts of the civil service may not work, as the Taliban could easily replace protesters with its loyalists in the bureaucracy. With this in mind, the effective approach to resistance is the one that targets the weakness of the totalitarian regime and identifies the strengths of the people.

Fourth, the mandate of a political defiance movement does not end with disintegrating the totalitarian regime. Rather, the policy of political defiance shall be aimed at reestablishing a democratic order. This cannot be done by elevating the corrupt political elite to leadership or moving toward an elite-centric agenda. As a totalitarian regime directly assaults the autonomous institutions of the society, political defiance in Afghanistan must revive and establish civic institutions, which strengthen society to stand up against the regime. This will increase the capacity of people to resist the regime for longer.

Fifth, nonviolent resistance is a breath-taking exercise. While the aim is to reduce suffering, resistance itself has great costs. Fighting for liberation and the disintegration of a totalitarian state involves pain, suffering, and risks. However, resistance should avoid any form of hatred; nonviolence is fighting hatred without detestation. Hence, the ultimate end of nonviolence is not avoiding suffering but prohibiting hate, especially ethnic or racial hate. Therefore, nonviolent resistance against the Taliban cannot be sentimental, and any belittling or personal attacks cannot be allowed.

For Afghanistan, resistance in general, and nonviolent resistance in particular, should function as praxis to maintain fundamental freedoms, democratic aspirations, and the recognition of diversity in Afghanistan. It should not hesitate to articulate its ideas and struggle to convert them into norms. Simultaneously, the resistance must step forward to actively practice them. The political defiance of the last few months has had payoffs. Many pro-Taliban apologists have shifted their positions and now criticize the Taliban. This has been caused by consistent protests, both on the ground and on social media, which have increased the cost of supporting the Taliban.

Nonetheless, the Taliban and its secular ideologues present a complicated challenge. This challenge precludes any easy and ready-made solutions. Rather, it requires a strategic approach to mobilize the people and create synergies between different strata from within the democratic constituency.

Omar Sadr is a Research Scholar at the Center for Governance and Markets, University of Pittsburgh.

Read at The National Interest

By Sayed Madadi

When Ambassador Zalmay Khalilzad embarked on his mission in September 2018 to end the American military engagement in Afghanistan, few people placed much hope in his efforts. Almost three years later, even fewer people could believe the staggering failure of the peace process he spearheaded as the Taliban entered Kabul uncontested. There was a fundamentally flawed process design at the core of that failure which not only upended the opportunities for reaching a political settlement but also contributed to the disastrous unraveling of the republican government. Three aspects of that process design were particularly consequential: A two-stage process that reduced the republic of Afghanistan to a subsidiary party; Ghani’s backchannel contacts with the Taliban; a lack of mediators and a lack of institutional framework for civil society engagement in the peace process.

Two-stage process

Delinking the withdrawal of foreign forces from a political settlement disrupted the balance of leverages and incentives required for any meaningful negotiations to progress. The Taliban insurgency had two key demands, which were the withdrawal of international forces and a Sharia-based governance structure replacing the Islamic republican system. Those demands were interrelated as the post-2004 constitutional order was a direct byproduct of the US-led international military intervention. The Taliban wanted not only the foreign troops to leave, but to erase any sign and legacy of their presence in the country. That was the logic behind their insistence on negotiating directly with the United States instead of a more direct adversary, the Kabul-based government. For them, the country Afghanistan had metamorphosed into after they were ousted from power in 2001 neither had the legitimacy to exist nor the merit to be sustained.

In that context, a process in which the US negotiated its withdrawal and left the Taliban and the Republic of Afghanistan to hammer out the details of a shared political future was fundamentally flawed and destined to fail. That arrangement redacted the entire peace process to the US-Taliban talks and made the other component of the process secondary to, dependent on, and an extension of those negotiations. The negative implications of such a design became more obvious during the so-called “intra-Afghanistan talks.” The Taliban often reminded the Republic’s negotiating team that they were at the table only to fulfill their commitment to the Americans rather than out of a genuine will to work towards a comprehensive peace agreement. Even on the Republic’s side, many thought that the fate of the negotiations had already been decided between the US and the Taliban.
The American commitment to a complete pullout before and regardless of a political settlement effectively left the Taliban with maximum leverage but minimum interest. The Taliban believed that it had resolved all points of difference in its talks with the US and had no need to see the direct negotiations through. The agenda of direct talks with the republic made that clear. In the republic’s calculus, it had more than 7000 Taliban members in custody—even after the release of 5000 prisoners in August 2020. The government was also the only authority to initiate the process of delisting the Taliban members from the UN sanctions lists. The Taliban, on the other hand, had not even included those issues in their agenda. It instead considered prisoner release and delisting as American commitments, and preconditions for their presence at the intra-Afghanistan table rather than an outcome of it. That left the republican team empty-handed, unable to offer anything the Taliban wanted in return for a ceasefire, a concession of extreme value to the republican constituency.

The two-stage process did not just give away the republic’s leverage against the Taliban. It also undermined the government in the country’s domestic political scene. Once the US committed to a full withdrawal, the authority and legitimacy of the government were challenged by political factions long before the Taliban arrived on the outskirts of the capital. Building the much-needed political consensus became incredibly difficult for Ashraf Ghani Administration as political actors bandwagoned on the American appeasement of the Taliban, trying to negotiate their mini-deals with the insurgency to protect their wealth and interest. The President’s divisive politics and stubbornly autocratic management further complicated that task and weakened the republic’s position at the table. This was clearly at play within the negotiating team where the political standing of the members’ patrons vis-à-vis the presidential palace in Kabul steered their relationship with the team’s leadership loyal to President Ghani.

Ghani’s backchannel contacts with the Taliban

The intra-Afghanistan negotiations could not produce a political settlement because of the limitations of a linear, single-track, and static negotiation table that suffered from a high trust deficit and a structural ineptness to address it. Personal relationships between negotiators of the two sides were utilized only towards personal objectives because the rigid process design could not harness them for the benefit of the official talks. At least on the republican side, most hid their communication with the Taliban. On several occasions, members had come under harsh criticism from their teammates for meeting with the Taliban ‘without authorization.’ As external events and stakeholders continuously derailed the formal talks, the entire process came to a halt for weeks simply because one of the parties did not show up at a scheduled meeting.

The process also lacked credible and defined safety nets and backchannels to break deadlocks and salvage the talks when the two negotiating parties could not make headways. Multiple actors either tried to offer backchannels or were approached by the parties to do so. However, without their explicit incorporation into the process design, such attempts remained ad hoc and ineffective. In September 2019, months after the State Ministry for Peace was formed, a senior British diplomat conveyed General Nick Carter, British Chief of the Defense Staff’s interest in operating a backchannel with the Pakistani Chief of Army, General Qamar Bajwa. Although Carter remained involved in Afghanistan affairs through his relationships with Ghani and Bajwa, his efforts, disconnected from the official negotiation process, left no positive impact.

Unlike the Taliban who seemed to listen to their advisors, the republican side dismissed most analysis and advice. Instead, it was steered by President Ghani’s political interests and his chief negotiator’s intellectual capacity, none of whom proved capable enough for the complex task at hand. 

Later, there were efforts by the American, German and Qatari special envoys to function as backchannels between the negotiating parties. However, they were often considered untrustworthy and partisan by both or at least one of the sides—Ghani government thought of the U.S. and Qatar as too sympathetic to the Taliban. Instead, his chief negotiator was in contact with a group of businessmen from Afghanistan in the Gulf that he thought had credibility with and influence over the Taliban. That also did not materialize in any positive impact. The only potentially effective backchannel, according to its participants, was established by Abdul Salam Rahimi, Ghani’s special envoy for peace and deputy chief negotiator. Mediated by a Doha-based think-tanker who claimed to have built some trust with the Taliban, Rahimi leveraged his family’s political ties to the Haqqanis in initiating a side conversation. As early as May 2021, Rahimi tabled the idea of a “peaceful transfer of power,” something that became center stage in discussions immediately preceding the fall of Kabul. Of course, the departure of Ghani and the Taliban’s uncontested takeover made it impossible to gauge whether those conversations were actually successful in forging an agreement even if sub-optimal.

Lack of institutional role for civil society

The overly simplified process could not incorporate constant demands for inclusivity and representation. The direct impact of that inability was the dissatisfaction of many constituencies who felt left out, and unheard, their interests and gains compromised by the talks. This also hindered the public legitimacy and buy-in of the process. This deficiency uniquely undermined the republican team as the process came under constant criticism from civil society, minorities, veteran groups, and other vulnerable constituencies.

In the absence of multiple and broad-based platforms of engagement and debate, there was little space for the public to pressure the negotiating parties, especially the Taliban, to negotiate more seriously and discuss pressing issues that could near the process to an eventual outcome. The stagnated table in Doha was incapable of fostering broader dialogues away from the interest-driven and confrontational negotiations. Although the government tried to mobilize its constituency, without formal linkages to the actual track-I talks, those efforts failed to bear fruits. For example, the High Council for National Reconciliation sent teams to several provinces to engage with communities, and the State Ministry for Peace established a Civil Society Coordination Board and a Women Advisory Board. Additionally, some NGOs and donor-sponsored initiatives such as the EU-funded Afghanistan Mechanism for Inclusive Peace (AMIP) also tried, all to no avail as they lacked institutional linkage to the actual negotiations, to create bridges between the formal negotiations and a much broader and diverse constituency.

Negotiation without mediation

The fourth important design deficiency that considerably contributed to the process’ failure in producing a political settlement was the absence of a third-party mediator. Rarely have peace negotiations succeeded without an impartial mutual interlocutor bridging the distrust between the parties. With suspicions in Kabul around the mostly secretive US-Taliban negotiations, President Ghani and his inner circle struggled to minimize Ambassador Khalilzad’s role in the then-upcoming intra-Afghanistan talks. However, as the talks neared, Qatar emerged as a more plausible and interested mediator or at least a facilitator. But Ghani considered Qatar only a stretched arm of the US, especially as the Gulf state saw the Afghanistan peace process as a diplomatic lifeline amid the blockade imposed by Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.

While the Taliban’s rejection of mediation was understandable given their interest in stagnating and stalling the talks, the republican side’s opposition was confounding. With the clock on the American withdrawal ticking, it was obvious that prolonging the talks was hurting the Afghanistan government’s position. A mediator could have brought life-saving speed to the process. Many within the republican team seemed to have realized that since February 2021 and supported Qatar as a facilitator. However, despite constant nudging from the negotiators, Chief Negotiator Masoum Stanekzai refrained—as it only became clear in late June—from formally communicating the request to the Qatari government.

The other reason the lack of a third-party mediation contributed to the process’ failure was the dirt of technical capacity on both sides. Although the Taliban had much more strategic clarity about what they wanted from the talks and possessed better skills and in some ways even more experience in negotiations, their views of complex political and legal issues were very simplistic and rigid. The Taliban used their better negotiation techniques to push for those intransigent views, which made progress more difficult.

In the contact group meetings where the actual negotiation took place, it was obvious that the Taliban were coming with full preparation to counter the republic’s arguments. The republican side, on the other hand, lacked both the strategic clarity and negotiation techniques necessary to manage a process of such fragility and a conflict of such complexity. Strict hierarchy and political infighting disabled it from taking advantage of the available capacity in the negotiating team and the broader peace architecture. One example was their doubling down on religious reasoning against the Taliban’s insurgency and violence or in defense of democratic values, assuming that the Taliban would cease hostilities if they could provide one more irrefutable argument. They dismissed more nuanced arguments from politically less powerful voices who argued that it was falling into a trap where the Taliban forced their intellectual frameworks to drive the negotiations.

Unlike the Taliban who seemed to listen to their advisors, the republican side dismissed most analysis and advice. Instead, it was steered by President Ghani’s political interests and his chief negotiator’s intellectual capacity, none of whom proved capable enough for the complex task at hand. A credible third-party mediator could have helped the process progress by tabling creative ideas. It could also break gridlocks by applying iterative alternatives to conventional methods of negotiations. Equally important, a mediator could have kept the parties accountable against a timeline not necessarily driven by the US troops’ withdrawal.

The third important area where a mediator could have significantly contributed to the success of the process was in managing external stakeholders. The lack of international and regional consensus and the dismissal of allies’ views by the US incentivized many to try exerting influence directly to protect their interests. In addition to their ambassadors based in Kabul, many countries had their special envoys specifically tasked with engaging in the peace process. Such a crowded and chaotic scene took away the parties’ agency, especially of the republican side. The meetings in Moscow, Tehran, Beijing, Tashkent, and the Istanbul that eventually did not take place were examples of such an approach that derailed the process, took away the momentum and credibility from the Doha talks, and further undermined its prospects of success. A third-party mediator could have very well created centralized ownership of the process, channeled international engagements more constructively, and maintained focus in the negotiations.

Conclusion
It is hard to argue that had the process design addressed these three issues, it would have produced an outcome in the form of a comprehensive peace agreement. It is equally hard to discount the degree to which a flawed process design dimmed the prospects of a political settlement. Arguably, the poor design of the process also contributed to the disastrous and chaotic unravelling of the republican government in August 2021. The American decision to exclude the Afghanistan government from the withdrawal talks and commit to releasing the Taliban’s prisoners and removing sanctions took away from the republic the ‘fighting chance’ against the Taliban at the table and on the battlefield. Moreover, the absence of track-IIs and other support mechanisms further undermined representation and buy-in by minimizing public pressure on the negotiating parties. The absence of a credible backchannel also stagnated the talks in an environment of mistrust. Negotiations without a third-party mediator further prolonged the process and amplified the negative implications of the lack of technical capacity on both sides. Lacking a mediator, the process was constantly derailed by arbitrary and external deadlines and preferences. While the first shortcoming of the process design was uncorrectable from the beginning, the two other aspects could have easily been fixed at any point throughout the eleven months if there was political will. Although the process might have still failed even if the warnings about its simplicity and fragility were taken more seriously, it would have probably not collapsed the way it did and with the disastrous ramifications that it had.

Note: This essay was submitted as a discussion paper for a colloquium on “Why was a political settlement not achieved in Afghanistan?” convened on 15 – 16 July 2022, by the US Institute of Peace and the American Institute of Afghanistan Studies at the USIP headquarters in Washington, D.C.

Read at Negotiating Ideas

By Shoaib Rahim

Shoaib Rahim is a Toronto-based associate professor at the American University of Afghanistan who served as the acting and deputy mayor of Kabul from 2016 to 2019. He also lectured at University of Toronto’s Munk School of Global Affairs.

My life’s journey brought me across an ocean to Canada last year, where I was issued permanent residency. Now, I am nearly halfway toward becoming a Canadian. But it is not lost on me that, despite cultural, linguistic and religious commonalities, I had no such path to naturalization after a decade of living in Afghanistan’s neighbour, Pakistan, during the Soviet invasion and war that began in 1979, nor in Iran, just to the west, where my family lived for four years during the first Taliban rule in the 1990s.

An estimated 3.6 million Afghans live in Pakistan, with a substantial number from eastern and southern Afghanistan. They mostly speak Pashto, are almost entirely Muslim and share a common history with Pakistanis, with many even sharing family ties from before Partition. Over the course of multiple large waves of migration that began in 1979, many Afghans in Pakistan have learned Urdu, formed families, and raised children who have never known life in Afghanistan. Many have established successful businesses, creating jobs and contributing to local economies.

But while many Pakistanis have been welcoming and generous to a people with whom they empathize, their government has systemically put paths to citizenship, and the basic legal protections that come with it, out of reach for Afghans. Islamabad, which once viewed Afghan migrants as a means to extract more funding from donor agencies and western capitals, now blames them for unemployment while pushing outdated narratives that they pose safety and national security risks. This fear-mongering has led to threats, intimidation and yet more undignified treatment.

Worse, in October, Pakistan’s government gave the estimated 1.7 million undocumented Afghans fewer than 30 days to return to Afghanistan or face deportation. That deadline passed last week, and now, even Afghans waiting for resettlement, those born in Pakistan and those with proper documentation are reportedly being caught up in the mass expulsion.

Afghans in Iran, meanwhile, almost entirely speak Farsi and many are Shia Muslims, sharing a love for Rumi’s poetry and a civilizational identity – yet the situation there is even worse. Even if Afghans are born in Iran, they are typically not given permanent residency; recently, nationality has been offered only to those who are willing to serve in the Islamic republic’s regional proxy wars. Instead, Afghans face xenophobia and outright racism in Iran, which seem to serve the populist narratives of the country’s political class. Until 2015, Afghan children didn’t even have the right to education. Now, Tehran is also promising to deport the 5 million Afghans it claims are living in Iran “illegally.”

So we must ask: despite the heritage shared by these communities and their host countries, why is there no legal path to naturalization available to Afghans? Is it too much to ask for the same treatment that Iran’s and Pakistan’s citizens ask of other countries elsewhere?

After the fall of the Taliban in 2001, many returned to Afghanistan, in the hopes of writing a new chapter for their country. Young people went to Afghanistan for the first time to discover and shape what it means to be from there, and worked to lay a better foundation for its growth and prosperity. Boys who learned cricket in Pakistan’s refugee camps formed a formidable national Afghan team that defeated Pakistan’s own mighty team in the World Cup last month. So clearly, there is potential in these communities. But the return of the Taliban prompted another massive exodus, and now Afghanistan is mired in a humanitarian crisis, made even worse by years-long drought and multiple earthquakes last month. This is the dire situation that Pakistan and Iran are sending Afghans to.

The moral position is for Iran and Pakistan to offer Afghans – people with whom they have so much in common – a meaningful route to the same protections owed to any of their citizens. Instead, these so-called neighbours are abdicating their responsibility toward the millions of people displaced over decades of conflicts they have, at least in part, inflamed. It is a great shame.

By Shoaib Rahim

Shoaib Rahim is a Toronto-based associate professor at the American University of Afghanistan who was the acting and deputy mayor of Kabul from 2016 to 2019. He has also served as senior adviser to Afghanistan’s minister of defence and senior adviser to the state ministry for peace, which oversaw peace negotiations between the government and the Taliban.

In 1979, when Soviet tanks rolled into Afghanistan to crush the local resistance against its brutal Communist government, the entire world was inspired to get involved in the country. Then, more than 20 years later, the attacks on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, brought Afghanistan back to global relevance as it became the epicentre of the War on Terror. And at the start of both campaigns, we, the people of Afghanistan, were darlings of the West, celebrated in global capitals as courageous and resilient people who fought for our land and freedom despite the odds – first against the communist bloc and then against global terror.

Yet both times, as soon as political interest shifted elsewhere, we were forgotten, and left to our own ruin. And the people of Afghanistan’s most basic yet most significant failure in the decades after 2001 was that we lost ownership of our own war – of its direction and its priorities.

Today, I am following the war in Ukraine from afar, with great sympathy and respect for its people. But I have also seen international pledging conferences for the Ukrainian military, highly publicized visits by world leaders to Ukrainian cities, and globe-trotting tours by Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky. I have seen some people throw blind support for the war effort without asking any difficult questions; I have seen the censoring of dissent and any critique rebuked as unpatriotic. And as I see all this, I am unfortunately reminded of what Afghanistan went through, and how things could have been very different. I wish to be very wrong here, but I can’t help but see Kabul in Kyiv. I hope that Ukrainians do not lose control of their war.

The people of Afghanistan didn’t lose theirs overnight. Over the past two decades, the Afghanistan National Defence and Security Forces (ANDSF) became increasingly dependent on Western funding to pay for training for our volunteer national army and national police, for the supply and maintenance of arms and ammunition, and for modern technology that would allow us to do surveillance and reconnaissance on the battlefield. At first, we engaged with NATO decision-makers and confronted or negotiated with them if we disagreed on an approach, but that eventually gave way to a culture of silence and appeasement, where decisions were rarely challenged. The money kept flowing into the coffers of the small number of military contractors in Afghanistan and their political patronage networks.

Our political class’s fatal mistake was a failure to recognize that the alignment of national and international interests is never meant to be permanent. As a result, the Afghan government was unable to maintain consensus domestically over the course of the last two decades. This was most evident in decisions around the ANDSF, which developed extreme financial dependence on the West’s funding that eventually compromised its ability to independently plan and execute. The world saw the consequences of this as soon as the U.S. signed the Doha deal to exit Afghanistan: A lack of independent preparation, combined with the U.S.’s withholding of intelligence, logistical and air support to the ANDSF, led to operational paralysis on the front lines and swift collapse in the face of the advancing Taliban. Maintaining a minimum level of combat and logistical independence and military capability over the years would have put our security forces in a much stronger position.

Then there’s the matter of international aid. Over the decades, governments from around the world have proudly committed billions of dollars to a wide variety of sectors in Afghanistan – and yet they have little to show for their investment at the end of the day. Despite the aid, our country never managed to recover from the economic devastation of the 1980s from fighting the Soviets and the civil wars of the 1990s; even before the Taliban’s return, Afghanistan remained on the bottom of most development indicators. Even as the international community continues to boast about the ocean of wealth it spent on Afghanistan, it is also quick to lay blame for the exorbitant spends on a lack of technical capacity in the country, or on local corruption.

On a national level, we failed to recognize early on that the global pledges in reconstruction aid were not intended to primarily serve the recipient country – they were meant to support the complex network of organizations in the foreign aid industrial complex. There is supposed to be a trickle-down of funds from the top of this food chain, but in Afghanistan, that flow was limited, and the funding’s effects were unclear. Even as the beneficiaries were left largely in the dark, the polished project appraisals and closeout reports kept being submitted and approved by the various treasuries that unquestioningly doled out these funds in the name of Afghanistan.

Nowhere was this nexus of problems and attitudes more apparent than in Kabul, the beating heart of the country. When I was serving as the acting mayor of Kabul, my team and I worked to reform the city’s governance, investing in its infrastructure and making the city more livable for its nearly 6 million residents. But it was a constant struggle between indifferent and disconnected donors, local power brokers, corrupt parliamentarians, and a population that had grown used to free money, and had difficulty accepting responsibility for its own expenses.

Most of these problems were beyond Afghans’ control. But what was in our control as a people was our ability to hold ourselves accountable.

As a people, we needed to develop and lift up genuinely patriotic leaders – Afghans who would prioritize national interest above their own political goals – but we failed to do so, and had to endure the deception, incompetence and cowardice of those who occupied those positions instead. Our civil society, meanwhile, struggled to rid itself of its short-term, project-oriented mindset. The media and universities did manage to create spaces where difficult questions were asked, but even those institutions could not break free from the dominant mindset of not rocking the boat out of fear that the well would dry up. It made reform attempts increasingly difficult within the government, as there was little incentive for those with their hands in the cookie jar to change their ways.

The public officials who embezzled and looted went largely unpunished, and Afghan society celebrated people who had accrued wealth, regardless of how those gains were gotten. This further shrank the space for dissent and perpetuated the exploitation and corruption of aid funds – in the public sector, to be sure, but also in the not-for-profit sector, which was ironically a very profitable enterprise that has produced some very wealthy individuals over the past two decades.

If we, in Afghanistan, had collectively held ourselves accountable – if we had asked the difficult questions about where and how the funds were being spent, if we had confronted the corrupt in a sustained and meaningful way, if we had supported whistle-blowers, reformers and journalists – we would have prevented the deadly erosion of trust from within. Instead, with the few benefitting at the expense of the many, this sense of distrust and pessimism infested our institutions and society at large and undermined the legitimacy of our fledgling democratic order. This was a moral failure, plain and simple – and one that many Afghans I have spoken to have since come to regret.

On a strategic level, the biggest failure on our part was the lack of consensus on a Plan B in a scenario where NATO would completely withdraw their forces. Our politicians, businessmen, and civil society chose to believe that the gravy train would simply never end, and so were caught off-guard and unable to come together at the most critical time. The writing was on the wall – NATO had even set a date for its withdrawal – and yet we chose to ignore it. Members of our national security forces paid the ultimate price: more than 70,000 lives were lost to the war fighting the Taliban, al-Qaeda and Islamic State. They were the first to be abandoned – not just by the world, but also by Afghanistan’s so-called leaders and, to an extent, Afghan society at large.

We did not realize, until it was too late, how quickly everything could change – how terms like “strategic ally,” “shoulder-to-shoulder” and “as long as it takes” all lose their meaning when priorities change in faraway capitals. A so-called peace process was forced upon us and essentially served us into the hands of the enemy.

If we had been bold and charted a different path early on, based on a clear understanding of the limits of international support and the ever-changing flow of geopolitical interests, the country might have been able to avoid today’s scenario: being ruled by a militant group responsible for the death and destruction of tens of thousands over the past two decades. I hope that Ukrainians take the lessons of Afghanistan to heart, so that they do not experience a similar fate.

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