Huddled in secret schools, Afghan girls refuse to give up on education

Behind a yellow door in an alley blanketed by snow, 25 girls sit on the floor, huddled in coats and headscarves, in front of a white board. “What are you doing?” the teacher asks in English.

“I am a student!” they chant in unison.

Their plastic shoes that are piled outside the door are a symbol of extraordinary courage: six months after the Taliban seized power in Kabul, crushing the dreams of women and girls by banning them from secondary education, some are fighting back.

They are going to secret classes in clandestine schools.

“I want to be an educated person,” says Yalda, 11, eyes shining under a scarlet scarf. “I want to be an engineer and build beautiful schools and homes in my country.”

Kamila, 16, had heard stories from her mother about secret schools under the previous Taliban regime in the 1990s but never imagined she might end up in one. “I thought the world is too developed. But here we are.” She dreams of a brighter future: “I want to go to university to be an investigative lawyer, particularly helping those who can’t pay.”

When the girls heard about a secret school in their area, they were overjoyed. They bravely insisted that they are not scared of being caught. “Learning is not a crime,” Fatima, 12, said.

After the Taliban takeover and withdrawal of foreign troops, the best-known female activists, MPs, journalists and judges fled the country in their thousands, receiving plaudits worldwide for their bravery. “Learn their names, learn their stories,” urged the actress and activist Angelina Jolie in an impassioned speech on Friday.

Now it is the women and girls left behind who are showing the real courage.

Some are trying to work within the system to provide services, including medical care, for women; or to keep the world informed about their plight by working as journalists. The bravest of all are going on the streets in protest. Others are setting up clandestine schools for girls.

The one I visited, comprising two rented rooms in southwest Kabul, is the creation of a 24-year-old woman called Parasto, a former adviser in the administration of the president, who fled as the Taliban entered the city. “Most of my friends left too,” she said. “But I didn’t think that was the right thing to do.”

She and a teacher friend came up with the idea of holding secret classes in schools that had been shut down. The Taliban got wind of it, however: “They said to us, ‘Don’t you know girls’ schools are banned?’”

Parasto then began raising money to rent premises that could be used as classrooms. She has recruited teachers, too, and now has three clandestine schools in rented rooms in Kabul and one in Bamiyan. “If they ban one, we will build ten,” she said. “If they ban ten we will build one hundred. We will not let them take back what women have gained.”

The Taliban’s claims that girls will be allowed back to school after winter holidays have provoked widespread scepticism. Abdul Balkhi, a foreign ministry spokesman, said the ban was a result of “technical problems”, including a “lack of stationery”.

“I don’t see any sign the Taliban have changed, said Rahallah, 35, one of the teachers. “Their ideology is the same. They have just become wilier in their dealings with the outside world. The more time passes the more restrictions we see. This country is like a prison for women and girls.”

Another of the teachers had been stopped that day at a Taliban checkpoint. She was asked: “Why are your nails so long?” Rahallah said: “The scary thing is they are the judges. If they want to kill you they will.”

No one knows that better than Sahra, 22, who should be in her last year of studying political science and law at Kabul University but is now one of the secret English teachers. She was in a university classroom in November, 2020, when gunmen stormed the campus, killing 32 people, including two of her classmates. The Taliban denied responsibility for the attack, which was claimed by Isis. But Sahra sees little difference.

“When they took over it was the worst day of my life,” she said. “I locked myself in my room, crying. Whenever I saw their white flag I felt traumatised.” The message from Parasto inviting her to be a teacher has given her a new lease of life.

In one positive sign, the Taliban, desperately trying to win international legitimacy, announced last week that universities would reopen for male and female students. “Even if my university does reopen for girls I don’t know if I can go back,” Sahra said. “Whenever I pass, I see Taliban at the gate. These are the people who were attacking us.”

Among women who felt duty-bound to stay in Afghanistan as most of her friends fled was Najmussama Shefajo, one of the country’s top gynaecologists. She began her career secretly delivering babies in the 1990s under the last Taliban regime. Now she runs a maternity hospital.

 “Oh, you haven’t gone!” patients exclaimed as she went on her rounds one day recently. Among those under her care was a pregnant woman who has suffered three miscarriages and needs blood-thinning injections, which she says she cannot afford; and another woman who was desperate to get pregnant so that her husband would not take another wife.

“I think I am crazy staying but I love my country and my job and think people need me more than ever, especially the poor women,” Shefajo says. She added: “I have a smile on my face but there is fear in my heart.”

The two remaining female presenters at Afghanistan’s most popular television channel, Tolo TV, know what she means. “We try to be hopeful but we come to work every day with fear,” Khatera, 25, said. “We think tomorrow or the day after they will say we can’t come [to work] any more.”

She has been ordered to wear a hijab on screen to cover her hair. “I don’t like it but if it means I can still present the news it’s better than nothing.” She has stopped wearing nail varnish and white trainers. “If the Taliban tell me to stop wearing make-up, I will,” she added.

Some women have taken to the streets, staging small protests demanding the right to work and education — and some of these brave activists have been forced into hiding after the Taliban came looking for them.

In a flat in Kabul, four young women were sitting in the darkness, curtains drawn and with five locks on the door. Propane gas cannisters had been placed near by and were primed, according to the women, to be detonated if the Taliban tried to enter the room.

A pharmacist, a secretary, a human rights activist and a teacher, all in their twenties — these women see themselves as the last resistance to Taliban rule. “We can’t just sit by and let all the gains of the past 20 years go,” one said.

But they are clearly terrified, freezing at a bang on the door. One went to look through the peephole — there was nobody there. Another of the women, who agreed to be identified only as Fariba, 24, had been an administrator in a ministry. She recalled how she had slapped one of the Taliban during a protest. A video of the incident went viral.

She then received a call from a colleague telling her to come to her office as she was being promoted. “When I got there, I was told to sit at a table with two guards behind me. The official put his phone on the table and showed a picture of me and other girls protesting. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘We fought 20 years in the mountains, now you are trying to disrupt things’.

She went on: “I told them we were simply trying to protect our rights and freedoms but he said, ‘You’re lucky, this is an office and ministry, otherwise you wouldn’t be left alive. We know your entire family.’ ”

A few days later her sister was arrested. Police told the local community leader they would release her only if Fariba stopped protesting. She did not.

Last month Taliban soldiers came to her house, looking for her. “They beat up two of my brothers and I fled to the roof,” she said, crying.

“It was night and freezing. Then someone told me about this place.” She added: “No one else is resisting the Taliban. We can’t stop now or we will lose everything.”