This is how I can continue studying in Kabul, despite the Taliban's ban

KabulI had always dreamed of pursuing a master’s degree in journalism. It was not an unrealistic dream,until the Taliban turned it into one inside Afghanistan. Universities closed, futures narrowed, and plans that once felt within reach suddenly became distant.

Still, I hold on to the idea of a future without the Taliban. That hope is what pushed me to look for scholarship opportunities abroad. But getting a scholarship is not easy. It requires documents, exams, proof of ability, and patience in a life where nothing feels stable.

I understood that without a language certificate, none of those doors would even open. If I wanted to apply for educational opportunities abroad, I needed a language certificate. I followed lessons online until one day my friend said “let’s go to a language course together”. “Are we allowed to go?”, I asked. She named a neighborhood in Kabul and added: “Girls still go there.”

The best location

I was afraid but I went to the course. It was in one of the best locations in Kabul, an apartment on the fifth floor of a building that also housed a shopping center. The movement of people gave a sense of apparent safety. But from the moment I arrived, anxiety didn’t leave me. The first question I asked the course manager was: “Isn’t it dangerous to come here? What will you do if the Taliban come?”. The manager calmly answered: “It’s not a concern. If they do come, we have a solution”. He didn't specify what the solution was, though.

Still, this did not ease my fear, especially when I learned the instructors were men. The Taliban have forbidden men from teaching girls, just as women are not allowed to teach boys. In fact, just days earlier, they had arrested a teacher and his students in Balkh province, in northern Afghanistan, accused of "immorality."

I have no problem being taught by a man, and I've had male teachers before, but now, with the Taliban's restrictions. However, my goal was bigger than my anxieties: I wanted to prepare for an official English exam and apply for a scholarship abroad. So I accepted the risk.

Things got even more complicated when I realized that in the course, boys and girls studied together in the same classroom, something the Taliban have also completely forbidden. If the Taliban came, we'd have no excuse and would be arrested.

That night, when I returned home, my father asked about the course. I said the space was good, the instructors were women, and there was no problem. I knew I was lying but, if I had told the truth, he probably wouldn't have let me go back.

In our class, there were seven girls and six boys. We studied English together in one room with a male instructor. Less than two weeks later, the hidden reality of this course revealed itself. One day, at 3:45 PM, right in the middle of a debate lesson, a loud alarm rang. The teacher and the boys immediately left the classroom. The girls stayed. One girl sat behind the teacher’s desk and pretended to be the instructor. I was confused, I didn’t know what had happened. Then one of the girls said: “Put on your mask”. That’s when I realized the Taliban morality officers had arrived. My hands trembled. I felt like someone waiting to be arrested after committing a crime. I pulled my mask up and hid my face.

Bribes to the Taliban

After ten minutes, the teacher and the boys returned. I asked the teacher what had happened. He said: “The officers from the Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vic came. This is the warning bell. Whenever they arrive, the course manager rings it so everyone gets organized”. He also told us not to worry. “We know what to do”. He didn’t explain exactly how, but I understood. I guessed they must be paying them off.

Despite the scare, I continue attending the in-person English classes. I admit I go anxious; I can't help it. But I try to stay calm, thinking that, whether I like it or not, this is the only way I can get an official English certificate and one day be able to leave Afghanistan to continue my studies.

Since that day, every time I go to the course, I enter with anxiety. But when I think that this is my only way out getting a language certificate and leaving Afghanistan, I trust my decision even more.

Despite all these fears, I still attend these classes, because for me, it’s not just about learning a language; it’s a way to keep myself alive. Every time I sit with other women and learn a new word, I feel that I am not completely silenced. These classes give me something the outside world does not: a sense of movement, a sense of choice, a sense that my future has not been entirely taken from me.