By Staff Reporter
A rare, leaked recording of the Taliban’s reclusive supreme leader has exposed what he fears most: not foreign enemies, but fractures within his own ranks that could unravel the Islamic Emirate he commands.
In the audio, obtained by the BBC and verified through multiple sources, Hibatullah Akhundzada warns of “insiders in the government” turning against one another, a division that could lead to the collapse of the regime that seized power amid the chaotic US withdrawal in 2021. “As a result of these divisions, the emirate will collapse and end,” Akhundzada says in the speech, delivered to Taliban members at a religious school in the southern city of Kandahar in January 2025.
The recording, which has fueled months of whispers about discord at the highest levels, prompted a year-long BBC investigation involving more than 100 interviews with current and former Taliban officials, local sources, experts and ex-diplomats.
What emerges is a portrait of two competing factions at the pinnacle of Taliban power, each pushing a divergent path for Afghanistan’s future. One faction, anchored in Kandahar and fiercely loyal to Akhundzada, is steering the country toward an ultraconservative isolationist state, where religious hard-liners dominate every facet of life. The other, centered in Kabul and comprising key ministers and militants, envisions a more pragmatic Afghanistan — still rigidly Islamic, but open to international engagement, economic development and limited reforms, including education for girls beyond primary school, which is currently barred.
BBC describes it as a showdown between “the Kandahar house versus Kabul.” But the real intrigue lies in whether the Kabul faction — bolstered by influential figures commanding thousands of loyalists — would dare confront Akhundzada’s growing authoritarianism, as his speech implied. According to Taliban doctrine, Akhundzada wields absolute authority, answerable only to God.
Yet a pivotal incident in late September tested that notion: Akhundzada ordered a nationwide shutdown of the internet and phone services, only for it to be reversed three days later without explanation. Behind the scenes, BBC says, the Kabul group defied the directive, orchestrating the restoration in what amounted to an act of open rebellion. “The Taliban, unlike every other Afghan party or faction, is remarkable for its coherence — there have been no splits, not even much dissent,” said an Afghanistan expert who has tracked the group since its founding in the 1990s. “Bound into the movement’s DNA is the principle of obedience to one’s superiors, and ultimately to the Amir [Akhundzada]. That’s what made the act of turning the internet back on, against his explicit orders, so unexpected, and so notable.”
Akhundzada’s ascent to leadership in 2016 was rooted in compromise. Lacking combat credentials, he leaned on deputies like Sirajuddin Haqqani, a notorious militant with a $10 million US bounty on his head at the time, and Mohammad Yaqoob Mujahid, son of Taliban founder Mullah Omar, whose lineage carried symbolic weight. This trio navigated the Doha talks with Washington, culminating in the 2020 agreement that paved the way for the Taliban’s swift takeover and the US exit in August 2021. To outsiders, they projected unbreakable solidarity.
But once in power, Akhundzada sidelined his deputies, demoting them to ministerial roles while elevating himself as the unchallenged center of authority from his Kandahar stronghold. Even Abdul Ghani Baradar, the Taliban’s co-founder and lead US negotiator, was relegated to deputy prime minister, dashing expectations of a higher post. Akhundzada surrounded himself with ideologues and enforcers, installing loyalists in security, religious affairs and economic posts. “[Akhundzada], from the outset, sought to form his own strong faction,” a former Taliban member who later worked in the US-backed government told the BBC. “Although he lacked the opportunity at first, once he gained power, he began doing so skillfully, expanding his circle using his authority and position.”
Decrees poured out from Kandahar without input from Kabul ministers, often contradicting pre-takeover pledges. The ban on girls’ secondary education and women’s employment has become a flashpoint, labelled a “main source of tension” in a December letter from a UN monitoring team to the Security Council.
BBC depicts Akhundzada as increasingly unyielding in his faith. A former Sharia court judge in the 1990s Taliban regime, he reportedly endorsed his son’s decision to become a suicide bomber in 2017. “Every decision he makes, he says: I’m accountable to Allah, on judgement day, I will be questioned why I didn’t take an action,” a current Taliban official explained.
Meetings with Akhundzada are shrouded in ritual: He speaks sparingly, relying on elderly clerics to interpret his gestures. In public, he conceals his face with a scarf over his turban, turning sideways to audiences. Photography is prohibited; only two images of him are public. Access has tightened. Ministers once consulted regularly, now wait weeks for audiences, and Kabul officials are instructed to visit Kandahar only on invitation. Key functions, like weapons distribution, have shifted south, along with security forces under Akhundzada’s direct command.
The UN letter highlighted this power grab, noting the “continued build-up of security forces under the direct control of Kandahar.” Reports indicate Akhundzada issues orders to local police, bypassing the capital. One analyst told the BBC that “real authority has been transferred to Kandahar.” Taliban spokesman Zabihullah Mujahid pushed back, insisting ministers retain full operational control. “All the ministers have their power in their ministerial framework, undertaking daily works and making decisions — all the powers are delegated to them, and they carry out their duties,” he said. But he affirmed Akhundzada’s “absolute power” from a Sharia standpoint, adding that his rulings are final to prevent division.
In Kabul, resentment simmered as alliances solidified. “They [the Kabul group] are people who have seen the world,” an analyst said. “Therefore, they believe that their government, in its current form, cannot last.” The group favours a Gulf-style model: Islamic but economically viable, with international ties and relaxed virtue laws. Women’s rights, though not a moderate stance, are seen pragmatically. Shifts in the Kabul faction are stark. “We remember that they [the Taliban leaders based in Kabul] used to destroy television sets, but now they appear on TV themselves,” an analyst noted. Yaqoob has cultivated a youthful following via TikTok tributes and branded gear, despite his father’s era banning media.
Haqqani’s transformation is most dramatic. Once a shadowy insurgent behind deadly attacks — including a 2017 Kabul bombing that killed over 90 near the German embassy — he revealed his face at a 2022 police graduation. By 2024, he was courting Western media, sitting for a New York Times interview, pondering his role in change. The FBI soon lifted his bounty.
Still, defiance remained subtle: lax enforcement of beard-shaving bans in Kabul-aligned areas. Open challenges were rare and risky. “Obedience to [Akhundzada] is considered mandatory,” a former member stressed. Haqqani, in his Times interview, voiced unity. “Unity is important for Afghanistan currently, so we can have a peaceful country.” That changed with the internet order. Akhundzada, distrustful of online content as un-Islamic, relies on aides for updates. The Kabul faction views connectivity as essential for governance. The shutdown started in loyalist provinces before going national on Sept. 29. Baradar had already confronted a Kandahar governor, urging candour with Akhundzada. “You don’t tell him the truth openly; whatever he says, you just implement.”
On Oct. 1, Kabul ministers — Baradar, Haqqani, Yaqoob and others — convened at Prime Minister Mullah Hassan Akhund’s office, pressing him to override the edict. He relented; service resumed. BBC says the move crossed a line. Unlike education bans, this threatened the elite’s power and profits, tied to online commerce and administration. “Turning off the internet threatened their privileges in a way that keeping older girls out of education never did,” one expert observed. “Maybe that’s why they were ‘brave’ that one time.”
Repercussions loomed. Some predicted demotions; others saw Akhundzada yielding to avoid escalation. Publicly, stasis held. The UN letter downplayed rifts as “family disputes,” with all invested in the regime’s survival. Mujahid denied splits in early January 2026: “We will never allow ourselves to be divided. All officials and leadership know that a split can be harmful for all, for Afghanistan, religiously prohibited and forbidden by Allah.” He conceded “differences in opinion,” likening them to family squabbles.
But mid-December brought fresh barbs. In Khost, Haqqani told a crowd. “Anyone who gets to power through the nation’s trust, love and faith and then abandons or forgets the same nation… is not a government.” Nearby, Higher Education Minister Neda Mohammad Nadem, an Akhundzada ally, countered. “Only one person leads, and the rest follow orders, this is a true Islamic government. If there are too many leaders, then problems will emerge, and this government that we have achieved will be ruined.” Against this, Akhundzada’s early-2025 warnings now seem prescient. Yet whether the Kabul faction will push for substantive reforms — for Afghanistan’s women, economy or global standing — remains uncertain. “As ever… the question remains after apparent disagreement within the Emirate’s top tier – will words ever lead to action?” one expert asked. “They haven’t yet.”
(This report draws on reporting from a recent article carried by BBC)
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