Afghanistan's hunger crisis forces fathers to sell children to survive

In Chaghcharan, the capital of Ghor province in Afghanistan, hundreds of men gather each dawn at a dusty square. They stand along the roadside waiting—hoping that someone, anyone, will offer them work. It is the only thing that determines whether their families will eat. Juma Khan, forty-five years old, has managed to find just three days of work over the past six weeks. Each day paid between two and three dollars. "My children went to bed hungry three nights in a row," he says. "My wife was crying, so were my children. So I begged a neighbour for money to buy flour." He lives with the constant fear that his children will starve.

Across Afghanistan, three out of every four people cannot meet their basic needs. The United Nations estimates that 4.7 million Afghans—more than one in ten of the country's population—are now one step away from famine. Unemployment is widespread. Healthcare is collapsing. The international aid that once kept millions alive has been cut to a fraction of what it was. Ghor province has been hit harder than most. The men searching for work in that square are not unique in their desperation. Rabani's voice breaks as he describes receiving a call that his children had not eaten for two days. "I felt like I should kill myself," he says. "But then I thought how will that help my family?" Khwaja Ahmad can barely speak before he begins to weep. "We are starving. My older children died, so I need to work to feed my family. But I'm old, so no one wants to give me work."

When a local bakery opens near the square, the owner distributes stale bread. Within seconds, the loaves are torn apart, men clutching at pieces. A motorcycle arrives with a man looking to hire one labourer to carry bricks. Dozens of men throw themselves at the opportunity. In two hours, only three found work. In the scattered homes across the barren hills nearby, the weight of this unemployment becomes visible. Abdul Rashid Azimi brings out his seven-year-old twin daughters, Roqia and Rohila. He holds them close and weeps. "I'm willing to sell my daughters," he says. "I'm poor, in debt and helpless. I come home from work with parched lips, hungry, thirsty, distressed and confused. My children come to me saying 'Baba, give us some bread'. But what can I give? Where is the work?" He kisses Rohila as tears fall. "It breaks my heart but it's the only way to feed my other children." Their mother, Kayhan, says all they have to eat is bread and hot water, not even tea. Two of her teenage sons polish shoes in town. Another collects rubbish, which she burns for cooking fuel.

Saeed Ahmad has already sold his five-year-old daughter, Shaiqa. She developed appendicitis and a cyst in her liver. He had no money for surgery. "I sold my daughter to a relative," he explains. The price was 200,000 Afghani—roughly three thousand two hundred dollars. He negotiated to receive only enough immediately for her treatment, with the remainder to come over five years, after which the relative would take her. Shaiqa's surgery was successful. She wraps her tiny arms around his neck. "If I had money, I would never have taken this decision," Saeed says. "But then I thought, what if she dies without the surgery? This way at least she will be alive." Two years ago, Saeed and millions like him received food aid—flour, cooking oil, lentils, supplements for children. That assistance has largely vanished. The United States, once Afghanistan's largest donor, cut nearly all aid last year. The United Kingdom and other major donors have also reduced contributions significantly. Current UN figures show that aid received so far this year is seventy percent lower than in 2025. A severe drought affecting more than half the country's provinces has made the crisis worse.

The Taliban government, which took power in 2021, blames the previous administration. "During the 20 years of invasion, an artificial economy was created due to the influx of US dollars," says Hamdullah Fitrat, deputy spokesman for the Taliban. "After the end of the invasion, we inherited poverty, hardship, unemployment and other problems." The Taliban points to plans for infrastructure and mining projects to create jobs and reduce poverty. But these are long-term efforts. Millions will not survive without urgent help now. Mohammad Hashem's fourteen-month-old daughter died a few weeks ago. "My child died of hunger and a lack of medicine," he says. "When a child is sick and hungry, it is obvious they will die." A local elder reports that child mortality from malnutrition has "really gone up" in the last two years. There are no formal death records here. The graveyard tells the story. When small and large graves are counted separately, there are roughly twice as many small graves as large ones—suggesting twice as many children as adults have died.

At the main provincial hospital in Chaghcharan, the neonatal unit is packed. Every bed is full; some hold two babies. Most are underweight and struggling to breathe. A nurse wheels in a small cot with newborn twin girls, two months premature. One weighs two kilograms, the other just one. They are in critical condition and placed immediately on oxygen. Their mother, Shakila, twenty-two years old, is recovering in the maternity ward. "She is weak because she had barely anything to eat when she was carrying them, just bread and tea," explains their grandmother, Gulbadan. "That's why the babies are in such a condition." A few hours after the reporters left that day, the heavier baby died before she could even be named. "The doctors tried to help her but she died," Gulbadan says the next day, her voice stricken. "I wrapped her tiny body up and took her home. When her mother found out, she fainted." Nurse Fatima Husseini says there are days when as many as three babies die. "In the beginning, I found it very hard when I saw children dying. But now it has almost become normal for us," she says. Dr Muhammad Mosa Oldat, who runs the neonatal unit, reports a mortality rate as high as ten percent. "But because of poverty, the patient load is increasing every day," he says. "And here we also don't have the resources to treat the babies properly." The hospital has no medicine for most patients. Families must buy medication from pharmacies outside. Sometimes, leftover medicine from wealthier families is used for those who cannot afford it. Six-week-old Zameer suffers from meningitis and pneumonia—both curable—but the hospital lacks the equipment for an MRI scan. Gulbadan's surviving granddaughter gained weight and her breathing stabilized, but her family took her home after a few days. They could not afford to keep her in hospital. Zameer was also taken home. Their tiny bodies must now fight to survive alone.