Fifth year without school for girls in Afghanistan: "I listened in silence to my cousin's cry"

KabulThe academic year in Kabul begins with the start of spring, because in winter it is so cold that it is then when the school holidays are held. Before the schools reopened on March 28, my journalist colleagues and I repeatedly asked the Taliban spokesmen what would happen this year with the education of girls. We never received a clear answer. Despite everything, we had a small hope that perhaps this year would be different.

But for the fifth consecutive year, when the Taliban Minister of Education rang the bell to mark the start of the academic year, girls over twelve years old were once again excluded from schools. As I watched the announcement on television, I hoped to hear a sentence saying that the restrictions had been lifted. But it was not so. I felt a deep and overwhelming sadness for a country that continues to deliberately exclude half of its population, expels it from public life and confines it within the walls of its home.

At that moment, I thought of my cousins. I have six. Three are of school age, but now they cannot continue with their education. Tamkeen is sixteen years old, Husna is fourteen, and only Asma, who is twelve and in sixth grade, can still go to class. But only for this year.

Guilt and disappointment

That day I called them. I thought maybe I could console them. Husna answered and, the moment I heard her voice, I knew emotion was overwhelming her. She tried to sound normal, but her voice was trembling. Then she told me: "You've been lucky. You've finished your studies, you've achieved your dreams."

Her reflection awoke in me a kind of guilt and I thought that, if I had been born just a few years later, my life could have been exactly like hers. I had no words to console her, nor could I tell her to be patient. I just listened to her cry in silence, the weight of her disappointment.

The last time I visited my cousins' house, I saw Asma in her school uniform getting ready to go to school with excitement. Perhaps it will be the last year she wears it. Her mother told me that sometimes she refuses to take it off, as if by wearing it she could hold onto something that is slowly being taken away from her.

Tamkeen, the older sister, was busy with domestic chores. In the past, she dreamed of being a doctor. If things had gone differently, if the Taliban hadn't returned or if they had simply allowed girls to continue their education, she might have graduated this year. Now her days are filled with sweeping the floor, washing dishes, or cooking. Over the years, she has become quieter. It's not hard to see what five years of exclusion from school, friends, and the outside world have meant for her. When I asked her about school, she simply replied, "The years I was supposed to study are already over. It doesn't make sense anymore." Now she no longer talks about her dreams, but about getting married.

I remember when I was her age. I was preparing for university entrance exams, studying day and night in the hope of being accepted to Kabul University. Now her destiny is reduced to marriage, even though it might be a way to escape one confinement to enter another.

Husna, on the other hand, still holds onto hope, even though she can no longer go to school. One day she told me she wants to be a journalist like me. Every time I bring her books, she runs her hands over the pages, leafing through them again and again. She says she loves the smell. She always asks me to bring her freshly printed books. But even her world is shrinking. Her father, deeply fearful of the current situation, does not allow his daughters to go out alone. They have never gone anywhere without him. Their lives are reduced to four walls.

Sometimes I think about the past. Mornings full of movement, laughter, goals. School was a natural part of their lives. Now, even talking about it seems difficult for them. But this is not just their story. Millions of girls across Afghanistan live the same reality.

Overwhelming silence

For a long time I thought that perhaps things would change. But a few days ago, while preparing a report on girls' education, my perception changed. I went to conduct interviews in Kabul neighborhoods where, in theory, people are more open-minded and where there used to be the best educational centers for girls: the neighborhoods of Macroryan, Shahr-e-Naw, and Qala-e-Fathullah. It was always difficult to find anyone opposed to girls' education there.

Currently, people still want their daughters to go to school, but they no longer dare to say so. I spent hours trying to record just two interviews. All the people I asked for their opinion admitted in a low voice that they want schools to reopen for girls. But when I asked them to say the same thing on camera, they refused. They argued that they were afraid. One man replied to me: "I don't want trouble." Another simply left.

At that moment I understood why there are no large protests in Afghanistan and why the silence is so significant. It is not acceptance, it is fear. And with this fear, hope slowly fades.

The Taliban have become neither more moderate nor more modern. Instead, the people of Kabul are slowly adapting to their way of thinking. And in the midst of this silent transformation, it is the girls who pay the highest price.