She was told to marry in a country which bans girls’ education. So she got in a taxi and fled
She was told to marry in a country which bans girls’ education. So she got in a taxi and fled
She was told to marry – Alia, a 19-year-old from the remote village of Daykundi, embarked on a perilous journey to Kabul last year to escape an arranged marriage. With her cousin, both wrapped in full coverage from head to toe, only their eyes visible, they risked Taliban inspections that routinely enforce strict rules on women’s mobility. The pair’s decision to flee was bold, as the ban on girls attending school beyond primary education has left countless young women with limited choices. For Alia, the stakes were clear: staying in her village would mean a life dictated by tradition, while leaving offered a chance to pursue her dreams.
A Leap of Courage
Alia’s escape was not just a personal act but a calculated move to secure her future. She concocted a story to convince her family that she was traveling to meet friends and former classmates in the capital. The deception worked, allowing her to leave without immediate suspicion. Her resolve was fueled by the knowledge that the Taliban’s restrictions have confined many girls to a fate of early marriage, stripping them of opportunities to educate themselves or build independent lives. Yet, even in Kabul, the road to education is fraught with challenges.
“I made up an excuse to my family saying I was coming here to meet my friends and former classmates. But that’s not true. They are not here. The actual reason is that if I stayed in Daykundi, I would be forced to get married.”
Despite escaping, Alia faced a new reality. In Kabul, she enrolled in an English language course, one of the few remaining avenues for girls to continue their education. These short-term, specialized classes are accessible only to those with financial means, a stark contrast to the free public education system that once allowed Afghan girls to thrive. While Alia’s family supports her pursuit, the broader socio-economic landscape makes such opportunities scarce. Three out of every four Afghans struggle to meet basic needs, according to the United Nations, highlighting the immense pressure on families to prioritize survival over education.
The Unseen Consequences
The Taliban’s five-year ban on girls’ education has reshaped the lives of millions. Before the rule was imposed, many young women like Alia aspired to careers in fields such as medicine or aviation. Now, their ambitions are often stifled by the expectation of marriage. For Alia, the fear of accepting a proposal is palpable. She worries that the family she marries into might not provide the same freedoms her parents did, leaving her to abandon her dreams. “Some families can be very restrictive,” she says. “It’s possible they could tell me to forget my dreams. I don’t feel positive at all about it.”
“If my family don’t force me to get married, I will wait. I will resist it until my very last breath.”
Alia’s story mirrors that of Shama, a 24-year-old mother of two daughters. Shama, who once dreamed of becoming a doctor, was married at 18 after her mother, Kamila, feared the Taliban would question her decision to keep her daughter single. Kamila, a former cleaner who worked tirelessly to fund Shama’s education after her husband’s death, now feels powerless. “I had wanted her to be educated, work and contribute to society,” Kamila recalls. “But I am illiterate, so I am like a blind person. I wanted my girls to learn. She had so many dreams. But it didn’t happen for her.”
Shama’s experience underscores the broader consequences of the ban. Her mother’s sacrifice was immense, but the outcome was uncertain. For Shama, the loss of education has meant a life of limited possibilities, one where her aspirations are overshadowed by the demands of family and tradition. “Before the ban, my parents passionately encouraged me to go to school,” she says. “They told me you can definitely achieve your dream of becoming a pilot.” Now, those promises feel distant, replaced by the reality of early marriage and the absence of a career path.
The UN’s Warning
The United Nations has sounded an alarm over the long-term effects of the Taliban’s policy. If the ban persists until 2030, more than two million girls will have been denied education beyond primary school in a nation where female literacy rates are among the lowest globally. This loss is not just academic—it is a chasm between generations, a barrier to progress, and a threat to women’s autonomy.
“Having a husband is not the only dream a woman has. 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.”
Alia’s determination to defy the system is rare, yet her struggle reflects a growing trend. In a country where three in four people cannot meet their basic needs, access to education is a luxury. For families, the choice is often between sending their daughters to school or ensuring their survival. Alia’s family, despite their financial constraints, chose to support her. But even with resources, the battle is far from over. “They are not here,” Alia explains, referring to her former classmates. “The actual reason is that if I stayed in Daykundi, I would be forced to get married.”
Shama’s story illustrates the human cost of this policy. Her mother, Kamila, believed that marrying Shama would protect her from scrutiny, but the cost was steep. Shama’s dreams of a career were sacrificed for the stability of marriage, a trade-off many families in Afghanistan feel compelled to make. “I was fearful that they [Taliban foot soldiers] will question why I’m not getting her married,” Kamila admits. “I had wanted her to be educated, work and contribute to society.” The reality, however, is that for many girls, the option of education is now a distant hope.
The Taliban’s rule has created a paradox: girls are both liberated and constrained. While the ban ensures that they are not subjected to the rigors of formal schooling, it also denies them the chance to develop skills that could empower them in the future. Alia’s enrollment in an English course is a small victory, but it is not a solution. The broader system of education, which once nurtured talent and ambition, has been reduced to fragmented programs. For millions, the only path forward is through marriage, a reality that has transformed the landscape of Afghan women’s lives.
In this climate, Alia’s courage stands out. She represents a flicker of resistance in a society where conformity is often enforced. Yet, her story is just one of many. As the Taliban’s grip tightens, more girls like her may find themselves forced to make similar choices. The question remains: will they be able to resist, or will their dreams be buried under the weight of tradition and fear?