Marzia Babakarkhail was a judge in Afghanistan for seven years before becoming a member of the board and chair of the Women’s Committee of the Afghan NGO’s Coordination Bureau. Now living in the UK, she is a caseworker for a member of Parliament and is a lifelong women’s rights activist and advocate. Babakarkhail appears on the BBC and other news outlets as a spokesperson for Afghan women. Pamela Say is a nonprofit consultant and serves as a book coach, writer, and editor for emerging authors through her consulting firm. She is the author of five books and spent more than six months interviewing and collaborating with Marzia Babakarkhail to tell her story. Their new book Marzia: A Judge’s Fight for Afghan Women’s Rights (Nebraska, 2026) was published in May.

From her childhood in Puli Khumri, Afghanistan, to her courageous advocacy on the global stage today, Judge Marzia Babakarkhail weaves together deeply personal stories that resonate with international audiences. Marzia: A Judge’s Fight for Afghan Women’s Rights takes readers on a heart-pounding journey through the stark realities of life under Taliban rule following the U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021—navigating checkpoints, relying on secret networks, and making high-stakes decisions in moments where every second mattered. Through vivid storytelling, Marzia brings to life the fear that gripped so many, as well as the resilience that carried her and countless others forward.

Through Marzia’s journey, this book stands as a tribute to the International Association of Women Judges, honoring countries, governments, organizations, and individuals who refused to stay silent. It is a call to remember, to act, and to stand in solidarity with Afghanistan—especially with its women of justice, whose bravery and unwavering spirit continue to inspire the world.

I don’t think that the country can govern itself well without the participation and the free will of the people of that land, and therefore, democracy is essential to society.

—Afghanistan’s last king, Mohammad Zahir Shah, 2002 CNN interview

1970s

As a child growing up in Puli Khumrī, the capitol of the Baghlan Province of northern Afghanistan, I saw a city bursting with color and happiness. The lush green valley juxtaposed against the stark brown edges of the Afghan mountains looked like a wonderland. As a working-class people, the citizens of Puli Khumrī labored in factories, served in government and education, and worked the land. As the economic hub of northern Afghanistan, Puli Khumrī thrived under the reign of the nation’s last king, Mohammad Zahir Shah, who brought forty years of peace. The king expanded diplomatic relations throughout the world, remaining neutral through the Cold War. He built international relationships, receiving aid from both the United States and the Soviet Union, expanding infrastructure, and developing the country’s first modern university. King Shah introduced free elections, a new constitution, and a parliament. He expanded civil, political, and women’s rights.

Just five and a half hours from Kabul, roads weaved their way from Puli Khumrī to all the other provinces, and industry expanded. In that golden era of Afghanistan, I was born to an educated family. I lived in a big, beautiful house with my mom, dad, four sisters, and two brothers. Trees and grass accented our landscape, and inside, a charming atrium featured a verdant garden that could be seen through huge glass windowpanes. Every year of my childhood, on March 21, the residents of Puli Khumrī gathered at the big park in the city to celebrate Nowruz, the traditional spring festival. My imagination soared alongside the hundreds of kites floating in the sky. On Thursdays, we walked to the base of the mountain where water rolled gently down the hillside, gathering in a warm, natural pool. A communal space, we bathed playfully in the water as the warm sun danced on our skin. During those years, those good years, northern Afghanistan remained diverse. Not a strictly Islamic state, we enjoyed many freedoms. My mother, who served as a teacher and later a principal, kept order in the house. A beautiful woman, she had short hair and perfectly polished fingernails. My father, on the other hand, was both successfully self-employed and a modern, hopeless romantic. He grew up in Ghorband, also known as Syagird, in the province of Parwan—a wonderful place in the southern foothills of the Hindu Kush, forming the western boundary of the ancient valley of Koh Daman. Our home’s atrium, which we called the flower room, perfectly captured his essence. Dotted with chairs and tables, we watched the birds flutter about in the summer when the temperatures soared. In the winter, the snowflakes could be seen falling through the picture windows. My father could often be found there, drinking his tea.

Our family expanded outside the walls of that beautiful house as well. In our culture, it remained common for a man to take multiple wives. My father married three times. While I never met his first wife, his second wife and her children became an integral part of our lives. Though they lived a city away, we remained closely connected. I shared my father’s blood with his second wife’s children, and I loved them deeply. Every summer for three long months, my parents, siblings, and I made our way to Kabul for holiday. My dad purchased a home in Kārte Parwān, a famous neighborhood on the northwestern side of the city, before he and my mother married. That home became our summer gathering place. Kārte Parwān brought great joy into my life. It remained home to the famous Hotel Inter-Continental Kabul—the nation’s first international luxury hotel—and the regal Bagh-e Bala Palace. It also served as the center for the Hindu and Sikh communities in Afghanistan. Even more meaningful, those summers brought my immediate family together with my father’s other wife and all my half-siblings. Together for three months, we lived a perfect life. They came to our house, and we went to theirs. We traveled to the cinema and made food together. The sharing of love and closeness during those summer months lit up my days and nights. In our homes, we learned to care for one another. Elderly family members often lived with their children and grandchildren. We enjoyed freedom and togetherness.

In this setting, I grew into a playfully mischievous little girl, competing with my brother constantly. My naturally naughty nature led me to constantly act on what I wanted, rather than what the adults expected of me. For years, when I was little, I snuck my childhood pacifier to school, shifting my body weight down low behind the other students’ backs to suck on it without being detected. When the family gathered around the table in our spacious dining room, everyone finished their meal while I stayed long after, sitting at the table, savoring every bite.

Each of the seven children in my home had their own room and a sense of independence. Though I attended a government school, my dad hired a teacher to come to the house and help us with our studies. My brother used the time very wisely, but I often dodged my lessons. The teacher eventually complained to my father, and I knew, intuitively, mistakes would be part of my life. As I got older, I wandered off to walk through the streets of Puli Khumrī. I stashed away money without telling anyone and found a thrift market full of secondhand clothes from America and England. Though my mother hated me going there, a sense of freedom and wonder filled me as I navigated the tables dotted with wares from a world away.