When the Taliban swept back into power in August 2021, they did more than reclaim Kabul—they began a radical experiment in governance. At its helm sits an elusive figure, Supreme Leader Hibatullah Akhundzada, whose influence is felt more through edicts than appearances. From the corridors of power to the dusty streets of provincial towns, a new political order is being constructed—one rooted in religious legitimacy rather than technocratic expertise, national pride over international approval, and strict social norms over liberal freedoms. The result is a nation marked by contradiction: a government praised for restoring basic security even as it restricts girls from classrooms; a leadership hailed for rooting out corruption yet hindered by a lack of professional capacity; and a movement unified in appearance but quietly divided over the realities of state-building. On the ground, a complex picture emerges of a populace enjoying newfound security yet stifled by social constraints, and growing cracks between the ideals of the Islamic Emirate and the realities of running a fractured nation still reeling from decades of foreign occupation and civil strife.

Often referred to by his religious title Amir al-Mu’minin—a term historically used to denote the ruler of the Afghani people—Hibatullah Akhundzada was appointed Supreme Leader by the Taliban Leadership Council in 2016 and assumed ultimate authority over the Afghan state on 15 August 2021, following the Taliban’s spectacular victory over U.S.-backed forces after two decades of war. Since then, Akhundzada has seldom appeared in public and never addresses the press or the international community directly, helping curate a near-mythical status in Afghanistan. The Supreme Leader sits above any bureaucratised governmental positions, freeing him from the formality of government, and allowing his role to remain organic and uncompromising. Whilst he is rarely seen or heard, his edicts from above, conveyed through decrees and intermediaries, are profoundly felt by the people he rules over, and his numerous decrees have transformed the country’s system of governance.

When I found the opportunity to ask government officials and provincial governors about their enigmatic leader, I sensed both reverence for his position and deference to his authority, partly from a deeply rooted culture of obedience but also–after decades of war and instability–there is an appreciation of the need to close ranks in what is a period of vulnerability. Among his many executive powers, Akhundzada is responsible for governmental appointments at all levels, from the prime minister and other members of the cabinet to judges and provincial and local leaders.

The officials I spoke to working in the municipality of Kabul confirmed as much. The deputy mayor jovially explained how he had absolutely no relevant experience or expertise for his current role but was appointed by virtue of his achievements as a mujahid on the battlefield, his knowledge of Islam and his reputation for honesty and integrity. This, one senior scholar of the Taliban explained, is the defining feature of their system of governance: “This is the first time since the time of the Sahabah that the ulema control of all branches of government,” he proclaimed, arguing that their leadership has proven more effective than the so-called specialists who previously held these positions.

One such individual was Mohammed Khalid of the Mayoral Office, who appeared visibly delighted to have the opportunity to present the accomplishments of his administration. Speaking from the Mayoral complex—once occupied by U.S. forces—he eagerly outlined their initiatives aimed at tackling corruption and improving operational efficiency. Among the successes he highlighted were the cleaning and expansion of a canal in Kabul, the development of water distribution systems, and the planting of two million trees—all achieved with limited resources and at a fraction of the expected cost.

Khalid also described bold internal reforms, including the dismantling of several projects tainted by nepotism and the dismissal of 1,860 government employees whose primary activity appeared to be the misappropriation of public funds. The meeting concluded with a quiet acknowledgement that, despite the administration’s earnest efforts, further progress would require the support of skilled specialists, and ingenuity alone was not enough to elevate Afghanistan to the next stage in its development. “Tell the world the truth about what you see,” Khalid told me. “If there are mistakes, be open about it”. My visit to the Kabul Municipality reflected my broader impression of the departments and officials I encountered: warm, welcoming, and dedicated, yet constrained by international isolation—an issue that is, to some extent, of their own making.

The Taliban’s presence is now firmly established throughout the country. Even a short drive through Kabul involves passing multiple checkpoints manned by smiling, youthful, Kalashnikov-clad guards. Yet, their presence rarely feels oppressive or intrusive. Many locals attest to a transformation in the overall security situation. Before 2021, people were hesitant to even use their mobile phones in crowded public areas. To my amazement, I passed open-air currency exchangers handling bundles of cash, some even pushing wheelbarrows full, seemingly without a care in the world. The streets are unexpectedly clean and orderly, with a sense of calm and tranquillity that locals, having endured two decades of violence and instability, are vocally appreciative of, even while harbouring grievances with other aspects of the Taliban’s rule.

At the forefront of recurring grievances during my stay was the issue of girls’ education. Whether speaking to a street vendor in Kabul, a former Taliban fighter, or current ministers, the longer I remained, the more frequently I encountered frustration over the Taliban’s current ban on girls attending secondary school and beyond. Schools for Quran and Islamic studies are still open to girls of all ages, but secular education remains out of reach. One particularly striking conversation was with a civil engineer and long-time supporter of the Taliban, who expressed deep frustration over the lack of a clear plan for female education—he has daughters of his own and is desperate for them to have access to schooling.

Even senior figures within the current administration admit that the education ban has become a major obstacle to Afghanistan’s reintegration into the global economy, acknowledging that the two primary barriers to international recognition are the restrictions on girls’ education and ongoing security concerns. Notably, there are reports of some high-ranking Taliban members sending their own daughters to study in countries like Pakistan or Qatar—an indication of the internal divisions that exist beneath the movement’s outward display of unity. At the same time, the Taliban have appealed to members of the Afghan diaspora, particularly the intelligentsia, to return and help rebuild the country. But many have declined, unwilling to compromise their daughters’ education in exchange for appeals to national pride.

I spoke directly with one of the Taliban’s most respected scholars on the issue, who offered a passionate defence of their policy. He insisted that the Taliban is not inherently opposed to girls’ education, but views the current restrictions as a temporary measure aimed at shielding Afghan society from what he described as the corrosive influence of Westernisation. In his view, girls’ education has been used as a vehicle to undermine Islamic values and reshape women’s roles in ways that conflict with their moral framework. He was eager to point out that thousands of girls’ schools still operate across the country, where secular subjects are taught, and he assured me that education for girls would resume once the system had been comprehensively restructured in line with their principles. However, the core concern remains: no timeline has been provided—a fact that offers little comfort to those hoping for a swift return to normalcy.

This points to a broader issue within the new system of governance: a lingering uncertainty rooted in the absence of communication with the Afghan public. One senior minister candidly acknowledged this, telling me, “We are good in a practical sense, but we are not so good at communicating our message.” It’s a fair assessment that aligned with what I observed—whether in the absence of public explanations for the strict social edicts issued by the newly formed Department of Calling to the Good and Forbidding the Evil, or in the failure to articulate a clear political vision for the country’s future.

When I asked a senior official from the Interior Ministry about a timeline for the long-promised constitution—and whether it would be ratified by the people—he answered only the first part, saying a committee is currently working on its composition alongside the Supreme Court and the Supreme Leader. Notably, he gave no indication of a timeline. Perhaps more troubling is the lack of clarity around the question of leadership succession. In systems where power is concentrated in a supreme leader, authority is rarely relinquished except through death. The Taliban have given no indication of how a future transfer of power would take place. This ambiguity fosters further uncertainty, undermining efforts to build stability, reassure the population, and attract much-needed foreign investment to a country still reeling from decades of war.

This complex transition from insurgency to statecraft was perhaps best illustrated during a journey into the mountains of Paghman. As we set off for a hike through the breathtaking mountain passes, we were joined by Abu Khalid, a former mujahid turned government official. With a Kalashnikov slung casually over his shoulder, he climbed into the 4×4 and greeted me with a warm, affectionate smile. Having fought through two decades of war, Abu Khalid carried with him an endless trove of stories—tales of battles against U.S. forces delivered with vivid detail and tireless enthusiasm. Gazing out of the window, a glint in his eye and a faintly melancholic smile on his face, he spoke of his fallen comrades: “They were the lucky ones. They achieved martyrdom. Now we carry the heavy burden of running the state.” In that moment, I saw a man proud of their victory, yet quietly yearning for a simpler time—when the path was clearer, and the mission less burdened by the complexities of governance.

Afghanistan is often referred to as the graveyard of empires, and en route to Panjshir province to meet its governor, we encountered a stark visual reminder of that legacy — a vast expanse of decimated Soviet tanks stretching into the mountainous horizon. As we clambered over the rusting remnants of a once-feared empire, I was struck by how, for many, the Taliban have come to symbolise unwavering resistance to imperial domination — first against the Soviets in the 1980s, and more recently against the Western coalition over the past two decades. In their shift from insurgency to governance, their refusal to compromise on core principles or bow to international pressure regarding their vision for society has earned them admiration across parts of the Global South, where the spectre of Western imperialism is ever present. “It is important for us to maintain the mentality of Jihad in the people — the U.S. has done a lot of damage to the mindset of the people,” one senior official told me, highlighting the continued emphasis on preserving their ethos of religious struggle in a post-conflict era.

Afghanistan today stands at a fragile crossroads. Under the Taliban’s rule, the country has emerged from the chaos of occupation and civil war into a fragile order, one defined more by security than by inclusion. Despite the many contradictions at the heart of the Taliban’s rule, what I encountered across Kabul and beyond was a nation cautiously recalibrating after decades of war. Beneath the rigid ideology and the lingering opacity of leadership, there exists a cadre of officials determined to deliver change—often with limited resources but abundant resolve. From municipal reforms to local security improvements, there are signs, however modest, of a government attempting to build from the ruins of occupation and civil strife. The challenges are undeniable: restrictions on education, the absence of clear constitutional direction, and the lack of specialist expertise remain pressing concerns. Yet within the movement itself, and among its rank and file, there are voices calling for pragmatism and reform. If those voices grow louder—and are heeded—the Islamic Emirate could gradually shift from insular authority to engaged governance, rooted not only in religious conviction but in the trust and participation of its people. If the Taliban can evolve from rigid rulers to responsive stewards, Afghanistan may yet chart a path forward—one that honors its principles while finally breaking the cycle of isolation and instability.

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