Afghan men's hair and beards are under scrutiny by Taliban, UN says
A strict Islamic morality law introduced by Afghanistan's Taliban rulers six months ago has severely muzzled civil liberties in the country, according to a new UN report released on Thursday.
The law on the propagation of virtue and prevention of vice (PVPV) was brought into force in August 2024 on the instruction of the Taliban's supreme leader, Haibatullah Akhundzada.
The law is reminiscent of one in place during the Taliban's first stint in power in the 1990s, and implements an Islamic civil and moral code in the country. Among other things, it stipulates that women must cover their entire bodies, including their faces, and may not travel without a male companion.
However, the law has also increasingly targeted men's hairstyles and beard lengths, with more than half of the arrests made in the first six months concerning men's appearances, the report by the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA) showed.
"Afghanistan's de facto authorities use [the PVPV] to ensure their vision of a pure Islamic system is implemented nationwide," the report said, emphasizing that the law has limited women's and girls' access to public spaces and health care, dress code and travel.
The law has also prevented UN agencies and other non-profits from delivering services to millions of people across Afghanistan, the study, mandated by the UN Security Council, said.
Around 3,300 male "inspectors" are now deployed in 28 of Afghanistan's 34 provinces, 540 in the capital province of Kabul alone, the report said.
These inspectors have extensive powers, including the right to detain individuals for up to three days and to destroy property such as musical instruments. Few women are employed as inspectors, the study said.
In addition to the serious impact on human and women's rights, the report also highlights the economic consequences of the Taliban's measures, pointing to a World Bank study which puts the economic losses of work and education bans for women at around $1.4 billion.
Both women and men told UNAMA that the law "deprived families of their incomes, exacerbated poverty and forced families to consider migration."
"The direct and indirect socio-economic effects of PVPV law implementation are likely to compound Afghanistan's dire economic and humanitarian situation," the report stated.
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Before the headlines, Nadya Gill's life was filled with promise. Originally from the GTA, she played on Canada's youth national soccer team . At 16, she entered university in the U.S. on athletic scholarships, where she excelled on the pitch and in the classroom and earned the first of five post-secondary degrees. A coach told a Connecticut TV station her competitive drive could easily lead her to becoming a lawyer, a doctor, or 'a UN ambassador.' She graduated from law school, where she won awards and worked summers at the Crown law office in Toronto. After passing the bar exam, she landed a dream articling position at a sports law firm. It allowed her to work remotely and play professional soccer in Norway . Then came the rumblings online; her life fell apart — and she had to pick a new name. Two years ago, Nadya Gill and her twin, Amira, now 26, were outed as 'pretendians,' first by online sleuths and then a reporter in Nunavut , for falsely claiming to be Inuit to receive scholarships and grants. In September 2023, the RCMP charged the sisters and their mother, Karima Manji, with fraud. Last year, it was Manji alone who pleaded guilty, admitting she sent enrolment forms to Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated (NTI) with the false information that she'd adopted her own daughters from an Iqaluit woman. The forms were approved and she was provided enrolment cards that entitled the twins access to benefits earmarked for Inuit students. Manji had in fact given birth to her daughters in Mississauga in 1998. In court, it was revealed that the girls had received more than $158,000 for their education from September 2020 to March 2023. To many, Nadya's successes were a slap in the face and a reminder of the harm caused by more famous Canadians who've been exposed for falsely claiming to be Indigenous. In March 2024, Toronto Life magazine published an exposé on the family under the headline, 'The Great Pretenders: How two faux-Inuit sisters cashed in on a life of deception.' It went to press before a judge in Iqaluit sentenced Manji to three years in prison and called the twins 'victims.' On a warm sunny morning this past week in an Etobicoke park not far from where she grew up, the Star spoke with Nadya Gill under her new name, Jordan Archer, about her involvement in Canada's first criminal case of Indigenous identity fraud. It's the first time she has spoken publicly about the scandal that she says has destroyed her life. In the basic facts, Archer's story is this: She's a first-generation Canadian, born to a mother who immigrated from Tanzania and lived for only a brief period in Nunavut. Her father, Gurmail Gill, is British. No member of the family is Inuit, nor of Indigenous background. Still, Archer says, the story the public thinks they know is wrong — not that her version will convince everyone who sees her as a villain. For the first time since the scandal broke in 2023, Jordan Archer speaks about being at the centre of Canada's first criminal case of Indigenous identity fraud. 'How would you have expected me to know,' Archer says, referring to her teenage self while sitting on a park bench in athletic wear after jumping off an old hybrid bike. 'Put yourself in my shoes. If your mom came up to you, gave you the story, with proof.' 'Proof,' Archer says, was the Inuit enrolment card her mother applied for — by outright fraud — in February 2016, when Archer was 17 and already going to school in the U.S. Like many teens, Archer says she was only too happy to let her mother handle all her applications, finances and logistics. Manji was controlling, the kind of 'soccer mom' who would scold her daughter after a match if she hadn't performed up to her standards. She was also someone a judge would call a 'habitual and persistent fraudster.' At the time she filed the false applications, Manji was already facing serious fraud charges. In August 2017, she was sentenced to defrauding the charity March of Dimes, her longtime employer, of $850,000, for which she received a non-custodial sentence after reimbursing $650,000. Karima Manji, seen after her arrest in the March of Dimes fraud case. As unlikely as it may sound — the case was publicized — Archer says she wasn't aware of those charges until much later. At the time, she was living in the U.S. and had distanced herself from her mom, who still controlled many of her life decisions. She returned home from school in the U.S. at 20, which is when Manji told her: 'You're going to Saskatchewan … to a program where you'll do property law in the summer. It's for Indigenous students.' That's when, she says, Manji presented her with 'officially issued proof' — the Inuit enrolment card — and told her 'the story.' Manji had lived in Iqaluit in the '90s and had grown close to an Inuit family. That much was true. As her mother explained, when the father became ill with cancer, Manji took care of a daughter. That connection, Manji lied, had made her eligible for Inuit enrolment and, by extension, so were her daughters. Should Archer have questioned things? Maybe. But she says she believed her mother. In the interview, she likened the logic of her mom's explanation to a marriage — it wasn't a blood tie but 'a connection.' (In retrospect, this explanation is nonsense. To qualify, an applicant must both be Inuk according to Inuit customs and identify as an Inuk .) Still, Archer emphasizes that she accepted and embraced the connection she now thought she had — believing in some way that 'I belonged to the Iqaluit community.' She says she immersed herself in learning about Indigenous culture and participated in ceremonies, activities and educational sessions. She volunteered for the Akwesasne Community Justice Program and facilitated Kairos blanket exercises where participants step into roles of Indigenous groups throughout Canadian history. If she knew about the fraud, why would she do that, she asks. 'I think if you're trying to hide something, you stay under the radar.' As for what the card meant, Archer says she was kept in the dark as her mom secured tens of thousands of dollars for her education. 'I know the card gets you benefits, you have some kind of status with it, but I had no idea what (Manji) was doing with it.' Who questions their parents about things that happened before they were born, she asks? 'I know my dad's from England … I didn't say, 'Show me your birth certificate.'' The Iqaluit RCMP charged both Manji and the twins with defrauding the NTI — the organization tasked with enrolling Inuit children under the Nunavut Land Claims Agreement — in September 2023. As is often the case with fraud, the big lie ended up being trivially easy to disprove. Manji had written on the application forms that Nadya and Amira were the birth daughters of a real Inuk woman named Kitty Noah, and then the application was approved without a shred of proof. (While there's no question her mother 'dug this hole,' Archer asks how the bogus application forms could have been accepted without a birth certificate.) Manji then used the girls' status cards to apply for benefits from Kakivak Association, an organization that, among other things, provides sponsorship funding to help Inuit students from Baffin Island pay for education. By early 2023, while Archer was articling and had already played in Norway, social media users began questioning the story of the successful 'Inuit' sisters from Toronto with the South Asian names. 'Our communities are small, we know each other. We know of each other and our families. There are only around 70,000 of us in Canada,' famed Inuk throat singer Tanya Tagaq wrote in a tweet asking how the twins could get scholarships meant for Inuit students. 'The resources and supports are limited.' In late March 2023, a reporter with Nunatsiaq News asked Amira to respond to the social media allegations. In a statement, Amira passed on Manji's story, that the twins' 'Inuit family ties' were through a family her mother had lived with. (Amira Gill declined to be interviewed for this story. 'My sister has chosen to keep her life personal, away from the public eye,' Archer said when asked about her twin.) But that's not what Manji put on the form; NTI soon released a statement that Noah was not the twins' birth mother and asked the RCMP to investigate. Kitty Noah has since died. When she found out she'd been listed on the application, she was 'flabbergasted,' her son later told CBC . Today, Archer says she struggles to make ends meet. She's working part-time at a hockey rink as a community service representative, 'directing people to the lost and found.' A Zamboni driver recently asked about her background. 'How much time do you have?' Archer told him, recalling the exchange. 'No matter what career I try to explore, I don't want this to come back.' She lost friends along with her articling job. In the wake of the case, the Law Society of Ontario initiated an investigation into her status as a lawyer. To practise law in Ontario, applicants for a licence must be of 'good character'; Archer feels she has no choice but to abandon a law career, at least at this point. She says she used to be puzzled when people described being debilitated by stress, but 'now, I really, really do understand. There were months when I wouldn't move or go anywhere.' Last fall, Archer thought she'd found a lifeline and signed a contract to play pro soccer. She felt she had been forthright about her past before signing but, ultimately, the league decided to rescind its approval of the contract. She was devastated. But it was also a 'turning point' — the realization she had to do something to try to clear the air and provide a 'fulsome' picture of the story. 'No matter what career I try to explore, I don't want this to come back.' She's since written a memoir, titling it 'When Life Conspired Against Me.' A summary provided to the Star described the book as an examination of the toll of the public backlash that destroyed her professional reputation. She's 'a victim of online bullying and was crucified in the media, despite not being involved in the fraud,' the summary reads. (The book does not have a publisher.) 'I'm serving a life sentence for a crime I didn't commit,' Archer says in a prepared blurb. 'I was the victim, but that means nothing when the court of public opinion plays both judge and executioner. In their story, I'm the villain, and that's all that matters.' Looking back, Archer says she now knows her mom would have pursued any chance at an advantage. 'She saw, you know, a bureaucratic loophole and she just went for it,' she says. 'Whether it was an Indigenous community or any other community, she would have just gone for it.' Confronting her mom was 'one of the hardest things I've ever had to do,' she told the Star in the days after the interview. Their relationship is messy, she adds. 'She didn't just hurt me, she detonated my life … and yet she's my mom.' She feels a 'heavy, inescapable obligation' to still be there for her mother, but 'supporting her didn't mean forgetting the harm. It didn't mean pretending everything was OK.' Soon after Manji pleaded guilty last year, the Crown withdrew the charges against Nadya and Amira. In response, the then-president of NTI called the withdrawal of charges against the twins 'unacceptable.' The twins 'benefitted from their mother's fraud scheme, and yet their role in the scheme will go unanswered,' Aluki Kotierk told Toronto Life. There's little chance Archer's story will convince anyone who believes she should have known. 'How can they say they didn't know they were not Inuit,' one First Nations advocate wrote on X. To those skeptics, Archer says she never claimed to be Inuk by blood; that was her mom's lie. Still, she hopes the doubters read the judge's words. Karima Manji, who is not Indigenous, pleaded guilty to one count of fraud over $5,000, after her twin daughters used fake Inuit status to receive Karima Manji, who is not Indigenous, pleaded guilty to one count of fraud over $5,000, after her twin daughters used fake Inuit status to receive 'The true victims of Ms. Manji's crime are the Inuit of Nunavut,' Iqaluit judge Mia Manocchio wrote . Manji 'defrauded the Inuit of Nunavut by stealing their identity. She has further victimized the Noah family and the memory of Kitty Noah. This is an egregious example of the exploitation of Indigenous Peoples.' 'Finally,' Manocchio continued, 'Ms. Manji has victimized her own children, her two daughters, whose lives and careers have been severely compromised by her fraud.' Manji is now serving a three-year sentence — a term that, the judge wrote, serves as 'a signal to any future Indigenous pretender that the false appropriation of Indigenous identity in a criminal context will draw a significant penalty.' Manji was also ordered to pay back $28,254 — what remained after she had already reimbursed $130,000. (Not that the 'proven fraudster' deserved any credit for paying back the fruits of her crimes, Manocchio wrote — 'if such were the case, then a fraudster with means could essentially buy their way into a reduced prison term, whereas an impecunious fraudster would serve the longer term.') Reached by phone at a halfway house, where she was in the middle of drywalling, Manji, 60, insisted to the Star that Nadya — she doesn't call her Jordan — was unaware of the scheme. 'I never, ever said a word to Nadya,' she said. 'She trusted me 120 per cent, if you can imagine, when this all started, she was in the States … her whole focus was on soccer.' Manji said she is appalled by the hurt she caused not only to Inuit communities, but to her own children, 'especially Nadya.' (The girls have an older brother.) While serving some of her sentence at Grand Valley Institution for Women in Kitchener, Manji said it would take weeks to read her daughter's letters, because 'I just feel so awful.' Unprompted, Manji offers up an explanation for her actions: She was brought up in a strict, conservative family and believed that if you were a doctor, lawyer or engineer, 'you would do fine in life.' She had an unhappy upbringing and marriage and wanted to make sure her kids didn't go through that. 'If I made sure they were successful in terms of their education and career, that they wouldn't have to have gone through what I've gone through,' she says.
