Afghanistan’s Underground Classrooms: Girls Defy Taliban Ban to Pursue Education

Ayesha attends a secret school six days a week, largely to maintain connections with others outside her home. It’s the only way to avoid complete isolation under Taliban rule, she says. It’s the only way to feel alive.

“Without that connection,” she said, “I don’t know what would happen to me.”

Now 18, Ayesha once aspired to study psychology at university. The Taliban ended those dreams when they banned formal education for girls beyond sixth grade in 2022.

Yet Ayesha has been quietly defying the Taliban’s restrictions for years, studying in a classroom hidden behind corridors of a regular primary school. Thousands of such programs operate across the country under the Taliban’s radar.

What began as a temporary measure—keeping girls educated until the Taliban departed—has become a permanent fixture. Five years after the Taliban’s return to power, nearly 2.5 million Afghan girls remain locked out of secondary education.

Based on interviews with over 50 students, educators, therapists, and parents, many fear the ban will cause lasting harm—not only to individual girls but to Afghanistan’s social fabric. All requested anonymity due to concerns about retaliation.

Those who do complete their schooling face limited options: the Taliban have restricted women from most employment opportunities, and chances to study abroad remain scarce. Teachers and humanitarian groups report rising rates of suicidal ideation, self-harm, and underage marriage.

Still, some girls refuse to abandon their pursuit of knowledge.

“We are also part of this society,” Ayesha said. “Just let us be who we want to be.”

Behind Hidden Doors

One evening recently, Ayesha received a text from her friend Zuhal, 17, stating she wouldn’t be attending class the next day. Zuhal’s father had beaten her, claiming there was no purpose in attending an illegal school.

Ayesha remembers crying as she read Zuhal’s message. Known among peers as someone they turn to for emotional support, she considers herself an apprentice therapist. She prayed in her bedroom and encouraged Zuhal to return. “If you sit at home, it’s finished for you,” Ayesha told her. “Nobody else is going to do anything for you.”

Zuhal returned to school a few days later but agreed to attend only when her father was away.

Ayesha’s secret classroom is concealed within an official primary school. Younger students fill the playground with shouts, and rows of small, colorful shoes line the entrance. But tucked behind a corner lies a concealed passage leading to the hidden classroom for older girls.

To avoid detection, students change their routes daily and never walk together. Still, the Taliban occasionally conduct surprise raids—as they did one morning in July during Ayesha’s midyear physics exam. The principal locked the students inside; 14 young women continued writing in silence.

The classroom remains undiscovered. However, when students were absent one day, the Taliban destroyed artwork displayed in a nearby common area, Ayesha recalls.

“Are they expecting the country to develop by denying half the population an education?” asked Palwasha, one of Ayesha’s classmates. “We want nothing more than the rights Islam granted us.”

Only a small percentage of Afghan girls access secondary education through clandestine means; fewer still—like Ayesha and Palwasha—study international curricula and speak English fluently. While Palwasha dreams of launching a fashion brand, Ayesha plans to counsel her classmates after graduation since higher education in Afghanistan is no longer possible for her.

This network forms the core of Ayesha’s social life, though it will disappear soon. No secret schools exist beyond Grade 12.

“Girls, you are here now,” Ayesha remembered her teacher saying as they settled in for their midyear exam. “But at this time next year, you will be at home.”

Technology and Determination

The Taliban highlight rising primary school enrollment for girls—from 78% in 2021 to 87% in 2024, per UNESCO and UNICEF—as evidence of progress. Improved security following the U.S. withdrawal in 2021 has allowed previously shuttered schools to reopen, making streets safer for children walking to class.

However, broader statistics paint a troubling picture. According to UNESCO, nine out of ten Afghan children aged 10 cannot read age-appropriate texts. Only one quarter of Afghan women are literate. Additionally, family pressures further complicate educational access for motivated girls.

Laila, 21, joined a secret school to study computer science and languages two years ago, traveling over 500 miles from her hometown in one of Afghanistan’s most conservative provinces. She threatened suicide to convince her family to allow her attendance.

On a typical morning, she works on computer science projects and Duolingo lessons in a clandestine Grade 11 classroom. Dimly lit hallways echo with quiet footsteps, while colorful posters depicting the human body and solar system line the walls. Dozens of students gather in the basement library.

Laila and hundreds of others attend in-person classes by day and participate in online tutoring sessions by night with volunteers worldwide—from the United States to the Netherlands to Hong Kong—mostly fellow high school students forming a global peer-support network.

Even two years into the program, Laila faces unexpected visits from her younger brother, who accuses her of dishonoring the family by being “too free.” Her father holds more progressive views but fears social stigma if relatives or neighbors discover her involvement, Laila explains.

Fluently speaking four languages—including English—and currently studying Korean, Laila hopes to pursue graphic design in Canada or South Korea after graduation. However, sharing these opportunities with girls from her native province remains impossible.

“I want to share these chances with other girls from my region, but I can’t,” Laila said.

During their initial reign from 1996 to 2001, the Taliban prohibited all levels of female education, deeming secular schools incompatible with their strict interpretation of Islam. Officials claimed it was temporary until introducing an Islamically aligned system, yet that promise was never fulfilled.

Following their return to power in 2021, they reiterated similar statements regarding the public education system expanded during the U.S. occupation. Still, they maintain the ban is temporary.

“We hope that one day girls’ schools will reopen,” said the Taliban’s spokesperson, Zabiullah Mujahid, in an interview earlier this year. “This situation also deeply affects many officials of the Islamic Emirate who have daughters,” he added, referencing the Taliban’s self-designation for Afghanistan.

Five years into their second term, however, the supposed temporary ban increasingly resembles permanence.

Directly ordered from Kandahar—the Taliban’s seat of power and home to its reclusive leader, Sheikh Haibatullah Akhundzada—the prohibition leaves little room for debate. Although many Taliban officials privately advocate lifting the ban, none dare challenge their leader’s directive.

In practice, numerous Taliban members ignore clandestine schools. One principal revealed enrolling children of Taliban intelligence officers without charging fees to preserve relationships. Regular inspections by Taliban police and intelligence ensure female students adhere to dress codes and avoid mixing with male counterparts attending the same facility legally.

Despite tolerating operations, the Taliban retain authority to shut down institutions anytime. Even sanctioned religious seminaries endure strict regulations and surprise visits.

Guards at Laila’s school alert staff via walkie-talkie before sounding a unique bell to warn students upon spotting approaching Taliban vehicles.

Najib, the principal, recounted requesting identification from unfamiliar Taliban officers during a recent visit, prompting one to shout, “My ID is my gun.”

“‘And my weapon is my pen,'” Najib replied, citing Quranic passages emphasizing education for every child. That response satisfied them, and they departed.

Clinging to Hope

Many younger Afghan girls try delaying what Ayesha and Laila now experience for as long as possible.

In December, Somaya, 12, sat for her sixth-grade finals but deliberately skipped exams in Dari language, social studies, and Quran studies, hoping to fail and repeat the year.

“I love going to school,” she said. “I simply wanted to stay.”

Weeks later, Somaya’s teacher permitted her return. With space available only in Grade 4, she occasionally assists in teaching because she already knows the material.

Similarly, Fatima, 12, at another school, tore up her final sixth-grade exams last year, hoping teachers would fail her so she could repeat. Yet they passed her regardless, she claims.

Sitting quietly in her family’s Kabul home, Fatima’s father Azizullah wept openly while discussing his daughter’s dreams of becoming a doctor—all seemingly lost. “I cry when I think about how often she says she wants to be a doctor, and how now it’s all over,” he said.

But Fatima recovered quickly. Weeks later, she passed an entrance exam for an underground school.

Primary schoolteacher Tasnim leaves farewell parties for her sixth-grade students unable to bear witnessing their tears. When asked, “What was this all for?” she finds no adequate answer.

After her own daughter Kowsar completed sixth grade, Tasnim convinced a colleague to include her in class so she could retake the year under the guise of replacing an absent student.

Her daughter’s graduation certificate proudly declares “Successfully promoted to Grade 7.”

“We try to make them happy,” Tasnim said. “But there’s no Grade 7.”

Seeking Alternatives Amid Restrictions

Restrictions on women and girls stand as the primary reason the international community rejects the Taliban. Yet the group promotes religious schools, or madrassas, as alternatives. Girls enrolled there wear full-body black coverings and study science, English, and religious subjects.

Sixth-grader Zala plans enrolling in a religious school upon leaving primary education. “At least we still have opportunities to learn,” she noted.

Ezat, Ayesha’s principal, recently converted the building housing her classroom into a madrassa to ease Taliban pressure. He remains committed to delivering what he calls a “modern education” despite uncertain circumstances.

The duration and scope of this endeavor remain unclear.

Formalizing their ban in 2022 left thousands of teachers unemployed. Many continue working unpaid, accept reduced salaries where permitted, or volunteer in underground classrooms nationwide.

Numerous educators express feelings of disillusionment.

At a recent secret school meeting in Kabul, staff discussed maintaining student motivation. One teacher, Kamela, reflected, “But who motivates us?”

“I see the Taliban in my dreams,” she confessed. “They’re chasing us, beating us, closing the school.”

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