I will resist it until my very last breath
For nearly five years, Afghanistan's girls have lived inside a closing door — one shut by decree in 2021, when the Taliban barred them from secondary education and, in doing so, redirected millions of young lives toward early marriage and foreclosed futures. What unfolds in Kabul and in villages across the country is not merely a policy dispute but a civilizational rupture: the deliberate erasure of a generation's capacity to imagine itself otherwise. The world has watched, and the girls have noticed the watching — and the silence that follows it.
- Millions of Afghan girls have been locked out of secondary school since 2021, with only costly private courses or religious madrasas left as threadbare alternatives for those who can afford them.
- The ban has functioned as a forced marriage pipeline — families, fearing Taliban scrutiny and seeing no other future for their daughters, push girls into unions they never chose.
- Young women like Alia risk dangerous solo journeys across the country just to access an English class, while others like Shama grieve daily over the doctor they were never allowed to become.
- The Taliban's justifications for the ban have shifted and dissolved over years, with officials deflecting responsibility between ministries and leadership while the supreme leader only hardens his position.
- The UN warns that if the ban holds until 2030, more than two million girls will have been denied secondary education in a country already among the world's least literate for women.
- Those living under the ban no longer expect rescue — they feel forgotten, and they are beginning to say so plainly.
Alia was nineteen when she climbed into a taxi with her cousin and traveled hundreds of miles from her village to Kabul, lying to her family about the reason. She had come to escape a forced marriage and to enroll in one of the few educational options still available to Afghan girls — a private English course. The journey was illegal under Taliban rules forbidding women from traveling without a male guardian. She made it. Most girls cannot.
Nearly five years have passed since the Taliban closed secondary schools to girls in 2021. Before the ban, Alia's parents told her she could become a pilot. Now they tell her the best path is marriage. She has received proposals and fears she may eventually have no choice but to accept one. "I will resist it until my very last breath," she says.
In west Kabul, a woman named Shama sits with her two infant daughters. At eighteen, she was guided into marriage by her mother Kamila, who had worked as a cleaner after her husband's death to fund her daughters' schooling — and who felt, once the schools closed, that an unmarried daughter would draw Taliban suspicion. Shama had wanted to be a doctor. She is treated well by her husband, but the grief does not leave. When she watches films showing women working or studying, she feels the weight of a life she will never have. "Having a husband is not the only dream a woman has," she says.
Shama's eighteen-year-old sister Nora now fears the same fate is approaching her. She dreams at night of being back in school. She does not believe she will return. "It has been four and a half years now," she says. "We have been waiting for that message every day."
The Taliban's explanations for the ban have shifted repeatedly — security concerns, religious scholars' objections, pending decisions from leadership — while the supreme leader has only grown more entrenched. The United Nations warns that if the ban continues to 2030, more than two million girls will have been denied secondary education in a country already carrying one of the world's lowest female literacy rates.
Alia remembers the day the schools closed as if it were yesterday. "I felt like I was walking around like a dead body," she says. She watches men her age graduate and move on. Among the women spoken to, there is a shared and heavy sense that their suffering no longer shocks the world — that they have been forgotten. Nora asks only: "Why were we born in Afghanistan?" Her mother Kamila has a message for mothers elsewhere: "In a world where your daughters are allowed to study and work, let them do it. Here in Afghanistan, it's over for us."
Alia was nineteen when she climbed into a taxi with her cousin, both of them wrapped head to toe in the required coverings, only their eyes visible through the fabric. They drove hundreds of miles from their village in Daykundi to Kabul, breaking a Taliban rule that forbids women from traveling long distances without a male relative. It was dangerous. They could have been stopped at any checkpoint. They weren't. When they arrived in the capital, Alia told her family she was visiting old friends. That was a lie. She had come to escape a forced marriage, and she enrolled in an English language course—one of the few educational paths still open to Afghan girls.
Nearly five years have passed since the Taliban closed secondary schools to girls in 2021. In that time, millions of young women have watched their futures narrow to a single option: marriage. Alia's escape was unusual not because it was brave—though it was—but because her family had the money to fund her studies in Kabul. Three in four Afghans cannot meet their basic needs. Most families cannot afford private courses. Most girls have no choice at all.
Before the ban, Alia's parents told her she could become a pilot. Now they tell her the best path forward is marriage. She has received proposals. She is afraid she will eventually have to accept one, afraid that a husband's family might strip away the freedoms her own parents have given her. "Some families can be very restrictive," she says. "It's possible they could tell me to forget my dreams." But she has made a decision: "If my family don't force me to get married, I will wait. I will resist it until my very last breath."
In a bare room in west Kabul, a woman named Shama sits with her infant and toddler, both daughters. Four years ago, at eighteen, she was pushed by her mother into marriage. Before that, she had turned down many proposals because her education mattered more to her than anything else. She wanted to be a doctor. Her mother, Kamila, had worked as a cleaner after her husband died to put her daughters through school. But when the schools closed, Kamila felt she had no choice. She feared the Taliban would question why her daughter remained unmarried. "I had wanted her to be educated, work and contribute to society," Kamila says now. "I am illiterate so I am like a blind person. But I wanted my girls to learn. She had so many dreams. But it didn't happen for her."
Shama is treated well by her husband, but the grief never leaves. She feels trapped. She lives only for her children. When she watches movies showing women working or studying, she becomes triggered, stressed by the sight of a life she will never have. "Having a husband is not the only dream a woman has," she says. "She needs to stand on her own two feet first, become independent and then she can marry and start a family. But I went into this new life with none of that. My dreams remain unfulfilled."
Shama's eighteen-year-old sister Nora now fears the same fate is coming for her. She is too young to marry, she says. She wants to continue her education. But at home her mother tells her she must marry. At night she dreams of being back in school. She does not believe she will ever return. "The Taliban government said that schools are closed for girls until further notice," she says. "But it has been four and a half years now. We have been waiting for that message every day."
Since 2021, the Taliban's explanations for the ban have shifted repeatedly. First, officials said they were working to improve security. Then they blamed religious scholars' concerns about girls' safety traveling to school. In 2024, a Taliban deputy spokesman said they were awaiting a decision from leadership. This month, when pressed again, he deflected to the education ministry, which did not respond. The supreme leader has only hardened his stance. The United Nations warns that if the ban continues until 2030, more than two million girls will have been deprived of secondary education in a country that already has one of the world's lowest female literacy rates.
Alia remembers the day schools closed as clearly as yesterday. "All I did was cry and sob the whole day and night," she recalls. "I could not sleep for a week. I felt like I was walking around like a dead body." She watches men her age graduate and move to university. "I feel very bad," she says. "I feel like I am burning in hell." Among the women and girls we spoke to, there is a sense that one of the most severe forms of institutionalized discrimination no longer shocks anyone. They feel abandoned. "If we hadn't been forgotten, then something would surely have been done by now," Alia says. Nora asks a simpler question: "Why were we born in Afghanistan?" Her mother Kamila has a message for mothers around the world: "In a world where your daughters are allowed to study and work, let them do it. Let them become independent. Here in Afghanistan, it's over for us."
Notable Quotes
Before the ban, my parents passionately encouraged me to go to school. They told me you can definitely achieve your dream of becoming a pilot. But now they say the best way for me is to get married because I can't go to school, to university, I can't even work.— Alia, 19
I had wanted her to be educated, work and contribute to society. I am illiterate so I am like a blind person. But I wanted my girls to learn. She had so many dreams. But it didn't happen for her.— Kamila, Shama's mother
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did Alia's family let her go to Kabul when it was so dangerous?
Because they understood what staying meant. Her mother had worked as a cleaner to keep her in school before the ban. When that door closed, they saw marriage as inevitable—unless Alia could find another way. They had resources most families don't have.
But Alia is still vulnerable, isn't she? An English course doesn't lead anywhere in Afghanistan.
No, it doesn't. She knows that. What it does is buy time. It keeps her in a city where she has some anonymity, some distance from the pressure to marry. It's not a solution. It's a delay.
Shama's mother made a different choice. She pushed her daughter into marriage.
Kamila was terrified. She'd lost her husband, worked as a cleaner to educate her daughters, and then the schools closed. She wasn't being cruel. She was trying to protect her daughter from what she saw as inevitable shame and danger. The Taliban's rules left her no good options.
What's the difference between Alia and Shama, really?
Money, mostly. And timing. Alia's family could afford to fund her escape and her studies. Shama's mother couldn't see a way forward that didn't involve marriage. Both girls lost their futures. One just lost it more slowly.
The Taliban says they've issued thousands of business permits to women. Doesn't that contradict the education ban?
It's a deflection. You can't build a career without education. You can't be independent without education. A business permit means nothing if you've been married off at eighteen and have two children by twenty-two.
What happens to these girls now?
Alia waits and resists. Shama grieves. Nora fears. And millions of others have no choice at all. The ban has been in place for nearly five years. The Taliban's explanations keep changing. The girls' lives don't change back.