With no access to education beyond the 6th grade, girls in Afghanistan turn to religious schools
When the next school year starts, she will be enrolling in a madrassa, a religious school, to learn about the Quran and Islam — and little else.
'I prefer to go to school, but I can't, so I will go to a madrassa,' she said, dark brown eyes peering out from beneath her tightly wrapped black headscarf. 'If I could go to school then I could learn and become a doctor. But I can't.'
At the age of 13, Nahideh is in the last grade of primary school, the limit of education allowed for girls in Afghanistan. The country's Taliban government banned girls from secondary school and university three years ago — the only country in the world to do so. The ban is part of myriad restrictions on women and girls, dictating everything from what they can wear to where they can go and who they can go with.
With no option for higher education, many girls and women are turning to madrassas instead.
The only learning allowed
'Since the schools are closed to girls, they see this as an opportunity,' said Zahid-ur-Rehman Sahibi, director of the Tasnim Nasrat Islamic Sciences Educational Center in Kabul. 'So, they come here to stay engaged in learning and studying religious sciences.'
The center's roughly 400 students range in ages from about 3 to 60, and 90% are female. They study the Quran, Islamic jurisprudence, the sayings of the Prophet Muhammad, and Arabic, the language of the Quran.
Most Afghans, Sahibi noted, are religious. 'Even before the schools were closed, many used to attend madrassas,' he said. 'But after the closure of schools, the interest has increased significantly, because the doors of the madrassas remain open to them.'
No recent official figures are available on the number of girls enrolled in madrassas, but officials say the popularity of religious schools overall has been growing. Last September, Deputy Minister of Education Karamatullah Akhundzada said at least 1 million students had enrolled in madrassas over the past year alone, bringing the total to over 3 million.
Studying the Quran
Sheltered from the heat of an early summer's day in a basement room at the Tasnim Nasrat center, Sahibi's students knelt at small plastic tables on the carpeted floor, their pencils tracing lines of Arabic script in their Qurans. All 10 young women wore black niqabs, the all-encompassing garment that includes a veil, leaving only the eyes visible.
'It is very good for girls and women to study at a madrassa, because … the Quran is the word of Allah, and we are Muslims,' said 25-year-old Faiza, who had enrolled at the center five months earlier. 'Therefore, it is our duty to know what is in the book that Allah has revealed to us, to understand its interpretation and translation.'
Given a choice, she would have studied medicine. While she knows that is now impossible, she still harbors hope that if she shows she is a pious student dedicated to her religion, she will be eventually allowed to. The medical profession is one of the very few still open to women in Afghanistan.
'When my family sees that I am learning Quranic sciences and that I am practicing all the teachings of the Quran in my life, and they are assured of this, they will definitely allow me to continue my studies,' she said.
Her teacher said he'd prefer if women were not strictly limited to religious studies.
'In my opinion, it is very important for a sister or a woman to learn both religious sciences and other subjects, because modern knowledge is also an important part of society,' Sahibi said. 'Islam also recommends that modern sciences should be learned because they are necessary, and religious sciences are important alongside them. Both should be learned simultaneously.'
A controversial ban
The female secondary and higher education ban has been controversial in Afghanistan, even within the ranks of the Taliban itself. In a rare sign of open dissent, Deputy Foreign Minister Sher Abbas Stanikzai said in a public speech in January that there was no justification for denying education to girls and women.
His remarks were reportedly not well tolerated by the Taliban leadership; Stanikzai is now officially on leave and is believed to have left the country. But they were a clear indication that many in Afghanistan recognize the long-term impact of denying education to girls.
'If this ban persists until 2030, over four million girls will have been deprived of their right to education beyond primary school,' UNICEF Executive Director Catherine Russell said in a statement at the start of Afghanistan's new school year in March. 'The consequences for these girls — and for Afghanistan — are catastrophic. The ban negatively impacts the health system, the economy, and the future of the nation.'
The importance of religious education
For some in this deeply conservative society, the teachings of Islam are hard to overstate.
'Learning the Holy Quran is the foundation of all other sciences, whether it's medicine, engineering, or other fields of knowledge,' said Mullah Mohammed Jan Mukhtar, 35, who runs a boys' madrassa north of Kabul. 'If someone first learns the Quran, they will then be able to learn these other sciences much better.'
His madrassa first opened five years ago with 35 students. Now it has 160 boys aged 5-21, half of whom are boarders. Beyond religious studies, it offers a limited number of other classes such as English and math. There is also an affiliated girls' madrassa, which currently has 90 students, he said.
'In my opinion, there should be more madrassas for women,' said Mukhtar, who has been a mullah for 14 years. He stressed the importance of religious education for women. 'When they are aware of religious verdicts, they better understand the rights of their husbands, in-laws and other family members.'
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DEIR AL-BALAH, Gaza Strip (AP) — Every morning, Abeer and Fadi Sobh wake up in their tent in the Gaza Strip to the same question: How will they find food for themselves and their six young children? The couple has three options: Maybe a charity kitchen will be open and they can get a pot of watery lentils. Or they can try jostling through crowds to get some flour from a passing aid truck. The last resort is begging. If those all fail, they simply don't eat. It happens more and more these days, as hunger saps their energy, strength and hope. The predicament of the Sobhs, who live in a seaside refugee camp west of Gaza City after being displaced multiple times, is the same for families throughout the war-ravaged territory. Hunger has grown throughout the past 22 months of war because of aid restrictions, humanitarian workers say. But food experts warned earlier this week the 'worst-case scenario of famine is currently playing out in Gaza.' 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The other children are more stoic. Abeer then rolls up the bedding and sweeps the dust and sand from the tent floor. With no food left over from the day before, she heads out to beg for something for her family's breakfast. Sometimes, neighbors or passersby give her lentils. Sometimes she gets nothing. Abeer gives Hala water from a baby bottle. When she's lucky, she has lentils that she grinds into powder to mix into the water. 'One day feels like 100 days, because of the summer heat, hunger and the distress,' she said. A trip to the soup kitchen Fadi heads to a nearby soup kitchen. Sometimes one of the children goes with him. 'But food is rarely available there,' he said. The kitchen opens roughly once a week and never has enough for the crowds. Most often, he said, he waits all day but returns to his family with nothing 'and the kids sleep hungry, without eating.' Fadi used to go to an area in northern Gaza where aid trucks arrive from Israel. There, giant crowds of equally desperate people swarm over the trucks and strip away the cargo of food. Often, Israeli troops nearby open fire, witnesses say. Israel says it only fires warning shots, and others in the crowd often have knives or pistols to steal boxes. Fadi, who also has epilepsy, was shot in the leg last month. That has weakened him too much to scramble for the trucks, so he's left with trying the kitchens. Meanwhile, Abeer and her three eldest children — 10-year-old Youssef, 9-year-old Mohammed and 7-year-old Malak — head out with plastic jerrycans to fill up from a truck that brings freshwater from central Gaza's desalination plant. The kids struggle with the heavy jerrycans. Youssef loads one onto his back, while Mohammed half-drags his, his little body bent sideways as he tries to keep it out of the dust of the street. A scramble for aid Abeer sometimes heads to Zikim herself, alone or with Youssef. Most in the crowds are men — faster and stronger than she is. 'Sometimes I manage to get food, and in many cases, I return empty-handed,' she said. If she's unsuccessful, she appeals to the sense of charity of those who succeeded. 'You survived death thanks to God, please give me anything,' she tells them. Many answer her plea, and she gets a small bag of flour to bake for the children, she said. She and her son have become familiar faces. One man who regularly waits for the trucks, Youssef Abu Saleh, said he often sees Abeer struggling to grab food, so he gives her some of his. 'They're poor people and her husband is sick,' he said. 'We're all hungry and we all need to eat.' During the hottest part of the day, the six children stay in or around the tent. Their parents prefer the children sleep during the heat — it stops them from running around, using up energy and getting hungry and thirsty. Foraging and begging in the afternoon As the heat eases, the children head out. Sometimes Abeer sends them to beg for food from their neighbors. Otherwise, they scour Gaza's bombed-out streets, foraging through the rubble and trash for anything to fuel the family's makeshift stove. They've become good at recognizing what might burn. Scraps of paper or wood are best, but hardest to find. The bar is low: plastic bottles, plastic bags, an old shoe — anything will do. One of the boys came across a pot in the trash one day — it's what Abeer now uses to cook. The family has been displaced so many times, they have few belongings left. 'I have to manage to get by,' Abeer said. 'What can I do? We are eight people.' If they're lucky, lentil stew for dinner After a day spent searching for the absolute basics to sustain life — food, water, fuel to cook — the family sometimes has enough of all three for Abeer to make a meal. Usually it's a thin lentil soup. But often there is nothing, and they all go to bed hungry. Abeer said she's grown weak and often feels dizzy when she's out searching for food or water. 'I am tired. I am no longer able,' she said. 'If the war goes on, I am thinking of taking my life. I no longer have any strength or power.' ___ Magdy reported from Cairo. Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request. There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again. You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our terms of use and privacy policy . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google privacy policy and terms of service apply. Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page .
The Hill
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DEIR AL-BALAH, Gaza Strip (AP) — Every morning, Abeer and Fadi Sobh wake up in their tent in the Gaza Strip to the same question: How will they find food for themselves and their six young children? The couple has three options: Maybe a charity kitchen will be open and they can get a pot of watery lentils. Or they can try jostling through crowds to get some flour from a passing aid truck. The last resort is begging. If those all fail, they simply don't eat. It happens more and more these days, as hunger saps their energy, strength and hope. The predicament of the Sobhs, who live in a seaside refugee camp west of Gaza City after being displaced multiple times, is the same for families throughout the war-ravaged territory. Hunger has grown throughout the past 22 months of war because of aid restrictions, humanitarian workers say. But food experts warned earlier this week the 'worst-case scenario of famine is currently playing out in Gaza.' 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The other children are more stoic. Abeer then rolls up the bedding and sweeps the dust and sand from the tent floor. With no food left over from the day before, she heads out to beg for something for her family's breakfast. Sometimes, neighbors or passersby give her lentils. Sometimes she gets nothing. Abeer gives Hala water from a baby bottle. When she's lucky, she has lentils that she grinds into powder to mix into the water. 'One day feels like 100 days, because of the summer heat, hunger and the distress,' she said. A trip to the soup kitchen Fadi heads to a nearby soup kitchen. Sometimes one of the children goes with him. 'But food is rarely available there,' he said. The kitchen opens roughly once a week and never has enough for the crowds. Most often, he said, he waits all day but returns to his family with nothing 'and the kids sleep hungry, without eating.' Fadi used to go to an area in northern Gaza where aid trucks arrive from Israel. 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Otherwise, they scour Gaza's bombed-out streets, foraging through the rubble and trash for anything to fuel the family's makeshift stove. They've become good at recognizing what might burn. Scraps of paper or wood are best, but hardest to find. The bar is low: plastic bottles, plastic bags, an old shoe — anything will do. One of the boys came across a pot in the trash one day — it's what Abeer now uses to cook. The family has been displaced so many times, they have few belongings left. 'I have to manage to get by,' Abeer said. 'What can I do? We are eight people.' If they're lucky, lentil stew for dinner After a day spent searching for the absolute basics to sustain life — food, water, fuel to cook — the family sometimes has enough of all three for Abeer to make a meal. Usually it's a thin lentil soup. But often there is nothing, and they all go to bed hungry. Abeer said she's grown weak and often feels dizzy when she's out searching for food or water. 'I am tired. I am no longer able,' she said. 'If the war goes on, I am thinking of taking my life. I no longer have any strength or power.'
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3 hours ago
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DEIR AL-BALAH, Gaza Strip (AP) — Every morning, Abeer and Fadi Sobh wake up in their tent in the Gaza Strip to the same question: How will they find food for themselves and their six young children? The couple has three options: Maybe a charity kitchen will be open and they can get a pot of watery lentils. Or they can try jostling through crowds to get some flour from a passing aid truck. The last resort is begging. If those all fail, they simply don't eat. It happens more and more these days, as hunger saps their energy, strength and hope. The predicament of the Sobhs, who live in a seaside refugee camp west of Gaza City after being displaced multiple times, is the same for families throughout the war-ravaged territory. Hunger has grown throughout the past 22 months of war because of aid restrictions, humanitarian workers say. But food experts warned earlier this week the 'worst-case scenario of famine is currently playing out in Gaza.' Israel enforced a complete blockade on food and other supplies for 2½ months beginning in March. It said its objective was to increase pressure on Hamas to release dozens of hostages it has held since its attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023. Though the flow of aid resumed in May, the amount is a fraction of what aid organizations say is needed. A breakdown of law and order has also made it nearly impossible to safely deliver food. Much of the aid that does get in is hoarded or sold in markets at exorbitant prices. Here is a look at a day in the life of the Sobh family: A morning seawater bath The family wakes up in their tent, which Fadi Sobh, a 30-year-old street vendor, says is unbearably hot in the summer. With fresh water hard to come by, his wife Abeer, 29, fetches water from the sea. One by one, the children stand in a metal basin and scrub themselves as their mother pours the saltwater over their heads. Nine-month-old Hala cries as it stings her eyes. The other children are more stoic. Abeer then rolls up the bedding and sweeps the dust and sand from the tent floor. With no food left over from the day before, she heads out to beg for something for her family's breakfast. Sometimes, neighbors or passersby give her lentils. Sometimes she gets nothing. Abeer gives Hala water from a baby bottle. When she's lucky, she has lentils that she grinds into powder to mix into the water. 'One day feels like 100 days, because of the summer heat, hunger and the distress,' she said. A trip to the soup kitchen Fadi heads to a nearby soup kitchen. Sometimes one of the children goes with him. 'But food is rarely available there,' he said. The kitchen opens roughly once a week and never has enough for the crowds. Most often, he said, he waits all day but returns to his family with nothing 'and the kids sleep hungry, without eating.' Fadi used to go to an area in northern Gaza where aid trucks arrive from Israel. There, giant crowds of equally desperate people swarm over the trucks and strip away the cargo of food. Often, Israeli troops nearby open fire, witnesses say. Israel says it only fires warning shots, and others in the crowd often have knives or pistols to steal boxes. Fadi, who also has epilepsy, was shot in the leg last month. That has weakened him too much to scramble for the trucks, so he's left with trying the kitchens. Meanwhile, Abeer and her three eldest children — 10-year-old Youssef, 9-year-old Mohammed and 7-year-old Malak — head out with plastic jerrycans to fill up from a truck that brings freshwater from central Gaza's desalination plant. The kids struggle with the heavy jerrycans. Youssef loads one onto his back, while Mohammed half-drags his, his little body bent sideways as he tries to keep it out of the dust of the street. A scramble for aid Abeer sometimes heads to Zikim herself, alone or with Youssef. Most in the crowds are men — faster and stronger than she is. 'Sometimes I manage to get food, and in many cases, I return empty-handed,' she said. If she's unsuccessful, she appeals to the sense of charity of those who succeeded. 'You survived death thanks to God, please give me anything,' she tells them. Many answer her plea, and she gets a small bag of flour to bake for the children, she said. She and her son have become familiar faces. One man who regularly waits for the trucks, Youssef Abu Saleh, said he often sees Abeer struggling to grab food, so he gives her some of his. 'They're poor people and her husband is sick,' he said. 'We're all hungry and we all need to eat.' During the hottest part of the day, the six children stay in or around the tent. Their parents prefer the children sleep during the heat — it stops them from running around, using up energy and getting hungry and thirsty. Foraging and begging in the afternoon As the heat eases, the children head out. Sometimes Abeer sends them to beg for food from their neighbors. Otherwise, they scour Gaza's bombed-out streets, foraging through the rubble and trash for anything to fuel the family's makeshift stove. They've become good at recognizing what might burn. Scraps of paper or wood are best, but hardest to find. The bar is low: plastic bottles, plastic bags, an old shoe — anything will do. One of the boys came across a pot in the trash one day — it's what Abeer now uses to cook. The family has been displaced so many times, they have few belongings left. 'I have to manage to get by,' Abeer said. 'What can I do? We are eight people.' If they're lucky, lentil stew for dinner After a day spent searching for the absolute basics to sustain life — food, water, fuel to cook — the family sometimes has enough of all three for Abeer to make a meal. Usually it's a thin lentil soup. But often there is nothing, and they all go to bed hungry. Abeer said she's grown weak and often feels dizzy when she's out searching for food or water. 'I am tired. I am no longer able,' she said. 'If the war goes on, I am thinking of taking my life. I no longer have any strength or power.'
