Defying the Odds in Afghanistan

The girls begin appearing at about seven in the morning. Seen from a distance, they make up thin blue lines snaking across the barren tan mountainside along narrow trails traced in the dirt. They converge from several directions on the little school in the bottom of the valley.

Many of the girls, wearing powder-blue school uniforms and white head scarves and ranging in age from 7 to 18, have already been walking for an hour or more by the time they arrive at the school. There are smaller groups of boys too, mostly out of uniform, walking apart from the girls.

By 7:45, they are all gathered for assembly in the yard of the Rustam School, in a remote corner of Afghanistan’s Yakawlang District. It is the area’s only high school and serves students in 1st through 12th grade. It has an enrollment of 330 girls and 146 boys—astonishing in a country where normally only a third of girls attend school.

The principal, Mohammad Sadiq Nasiri, 49, gives his daily pep talk: Getting into a university is going to be harder than ever this year, so they are going to have to do better than ever.

The girls begin appearing at about seven in the morning. Seen from a distance, they make up thin blue lines snaking across the barren tan mountainside. Each of them walks along the narrow trails traced in the dirt. They come from several direction to gather at the little school in the bottom of the valley.

The girls wear powder-blue school uniforms and white head scarves. They range in age from 7 to 18. Many of them have already been walking for an hour or more by the time they arrive at the school. There are smaller groups of boys too. They’re mostly out of uniform, walking apart from the girls.

By 7:45, they are all gathered for assembly in the yard of the Rustam School, in a remote corner of Afghanistan’s Yakawlang District. It is the area’s only high school and serves students in 1st through 12th grade. It has an enrollment of 330 girls and 146 boys. That’s astonishing in a country where normally only a third of girls attend school.

The principal, Mohammad Sadiq Nasiri, 49, gives his daily pep talk. Getting into a university is going to be harder than ever this year, he says. He tells the students that they are going to have to do better than ever.

Rustam may seem an unlikely place to encourage collegiate dreams. With seven crude stone classrooms, supplemented by six big tents, there are so many students that school is divided into separate morning and afternoon sessions only four hours long.

There is no electricity, heat, computers, or copy machines. Many school materials are written out in longhand by teachers. Foreign aid once helped but has dried up. One teacher says she has fewer books than students.

Only 5 percent of the students have parents who can read and write, Nasiri says. Most are the children of subsistence farmers. Yet Rustam’s 2017 graduating class saw 60 of 65 graduates accepted to Afghanistan’s public universities, a 92 percent college entrance rate. Two-thirds of those accepted were girls.

Unlike most Afghan schools, Rustam mixes boys and girls in its classrooms. “Men and women are equal,” the principal says. “They have the same brains and the same bodies.”

He adds, “We tell these boys and girls, there is no difference between you guys, and you will all be together when you go to college, so you need to learn how to respect one another.”

Rustam may seem like an unlikely place to encourage collegiate dreams. The school consists of seven crude stone classrooms, supplemented by six big tents. There are so many students that school is divided into separate morning and afternoon sessions. Each session is only four hours long.

There is no electricity, heat, computers, or copy machines. Many school materials are written out in longhand by teachers. Foreign aid once helped but has dried up. One teacher says she has fewer books than students.

Only 5 percent of the students have parents who can read and write, Nasiri says. Most are the children of subsistence farmers. Yet Rustam’s 2017 graduating class saw 60 of 65 graduates accepted to Afghanistan’s public universities. That’s a 92 percent college entrance rate. Two-thirds of those accepted were girls.

Unlike most Afghan schools, Rustam mixes boys and girls in its classrooms. “Men and women are equal,” the principal says. “They have the same brains and the same bodies.”

He adds, “We tell these boys and girls, there is no difference between you guys, and you will all be together when you go to college, so you need to learn how to respect one another.”

The school is an oasis of calm and hope in a country that has essentially been at war for 40 years. The fighting and instability began with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 (see Key Dates, below). The Taliban, an extremist group with a very rigid interpretation of how Islam should be practiced, took control in 1996.

Life under the Taliban was hard. They persecuted the country’s few religious minorities. They banned music and TV. They forbade men from wearing neckties and required them to grow beards. But it was women who fared the worst. Girls older than 8 were prohibited from going to school. Women were barred from most jobs and told they must wear a burqa, a head-to-toe covering, when they left their houses.

Although swiftly driven from power by U.S.-led forces in 2001, the Taliban have proved to be an adept guerrilla insurgency, and U.S. troops are still fighting them, even as peace negotiations have recently taken place (see “America’s Longest War,” below). Despite billions of dollars in foreign aid to rebuild the country, much of Afghanistan’s infrastructure—including its education system—is still in tatters.

The school is an oasis of calm and hope in a country that has essentially been at war for 40 years. The fighting and instability began with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 (see Key Dates, below). The Taliban took control in 1996. The extremist group has a very rigid interpretation of how Islam should be practiced.

Life under the Taliban was hard. They persecuted the country’s few religious minorities. They banned music and TV. They banned men from wearing neckties and required them to grow beards. But it was women who suffered the worst. Girls older than 8 were prohibited from going to school. Women were barred from most jobs. Women were also forced to wear a burqa, a head-to-toe covering, when they left their houses.

In 2001, U.S.-led forces swiftly drove the Taliban from power. But the terrorist group has proven to be an adept guerrilla insurgency. U.S. troops are still fighting them, even as peace negotiations have recently taken place (see “America’s Longest War,” below). Despite billions of dollars in foreign aid to rebuild the country, much of Afghanistan’s infrastructure is still in tatters. That includes its education system.

Rustam School is an exception. One day late in the spring term, Badan Joya, 1 of 5 female teachers among the school’s 12, is teaching a fourth-grade math class in one of the overflow tents. A piece of cardboard painted black serves as a chalkboard, with simple algebra formulas scribbled on it. She asks her students, nearly all girls, to name their favorite subject. They reply in unison: “Math.”

That isn’t surprising at Rustam; 40 percent of questions on the college entrance exams cover mathematics, more than any other subject. And the girls excel.

The top student in 11th-grade math, based on test scores, is Shahrbano Hakimi, 17. She’s also the top student in her computer class, where, on that recent day, the girls were studying the Windows operating system—from books.
Only 1 of the 60 students in the class has a computer at home.

“The thing I wish for most in the world,” Shahrbano says, “is a laptop.”

Rustam School is an exception. There are 5 female teachers among the school’s 12. One day late in the spring term, Badan Joya, one of the female teachers, is teaching a fourth-grade math class in one of the overflow tents. A piece of cardboard painted black serves as a chalkboard. It has simple algebra formulas scribbled on it. She asks her students, nearly all girls, to name their favorite subject. They reply in unison: “Math.”

That isn’t surprising at Rustam. Forty percent of questions on the college entrance exams cover mathematics. That’s more than any other subject. And the girls excel.

The top student in 11th-grade math, based on test scores, is Shahrbano Hakimi, 17. She’s also the top student in her computer class. On that recent day, the girls were in that class studying the Windows operating system—from books.

Only 1 of the 60 students in the class has a computer at home.

“The thing I wish for most in the world,” Shahrbano says, “is a laptop.”

The local passion for education, especially among girls, is a reaction to the Taliban era, when it was banned, their teachers say. The fourth-grade math teacher, Joya, who is 28, didn’t begin school herself until the Taliban fell when she was 11. Until then, she couldn’t read or write, and her only schooling had been sewing class.

“I had to start from zero,” she says. “We tell them about the Taliban and what they did to us, and say, ‘You have an opportunity now; you should take it.’ They’re listening. They hear about it at home too, from their mothers and aunts.”

The area around Rustam is now free of the Taliban and little touched by violence. In other areas of the country, families are reluctant to send girls to school, especially over long distances in rural parts.

The girls at Rustam are highly motivated. In every subject except Islamic studies, nearly all the top students are girls.

“Honestly, girls are better than boys; they are more serious,” says Nasiri, the principal. “These kids all know that you can’t make a slave out of someone who is educated.”

One day Nasiri noticed one of his students, 13-year-old Friba, hiding behind other girls during assembly because she was out of uniform. Her family was too poor to buy one. So he bought a swatch of blue cotton in the nearest bazaar. Joya, the math teacher, sewed a tunic from it, using her Taliban-era skills. Nasiri, who earns less than $200 a month, had to borrow the money to buy the cotton.

The local passion for education, especially among girls, is a reaction to the Taliban era, when it was banned, their teachers say. The fourth-grade math teacher, Joya, who is 28, didn’t begin school herself until the Taliban fell when she was 11. Until then, she couldn’t read or write, and her only schooling had been sewing class.

“I had to start from zero,” she says. “We tell them about the Taliban and what they did to us, and say, ‘You have an opportunity now; you should take it.’ They’re listening. They hear about it at home too, from their mothers and aunts.”

The area around Rustam is now free of the Taliban and little touched by violence. In other areas of the country, families are reluctant to send girls to school, especially over long distances in rural parts.

The girls at Rustam are highly motivated. In every subject except Islamic studies, nearly all the top students are girls.

“Honestly, girls are better than boys; they are more serious,” says Nasiri, the principal. “These kids all know that you can’t make a slave out of someone who is educated.”

One day, Nasiri noticed one of his students, 13-year-old Friba, hiding behind other girls during assembly because she was out of uniform. Her family was too poor to buy one. So he bought a swatch of blue cotton in the nearest bazaar. Joya, the math teacher, sewed a tunic from it, using her Taliban-era skills. Nasiri, who earns less than $200 a month, had to borrow the money to buy the cotton.

In addition to running the school for the past six years, Nasiri has supported four daughters and two sons with his wife, Roya, 45. They married during Taliban times; he taught his wife to read and write.

“We discussed it and decided she should go to school,” he says. “Children will do better when their mom is educated.”

This year Roya graduated from high school, and next year she will take the college entrance exams, Nasiri says proudly.

“She raised six children,” he says. “Now she raises herself.”

Across from Rustam School, there’s a rocky mountainside where sheep graze, watched by shepherds. Hundreds of feet up the hillside, one of the shepherds carries a pen and a Pashto language workbook. Her name is Nikbakht, she says, and she is 13. She should be at Rustam, but work comes first.

“I love school, but no one else was home, so I had to work with the animals,” she explains.

Pashto, one of Afghanistan’s main languages, is a required subject, but it’s not her favorite, Nikbakht says. Her favorite is math.

In addition to running the school for the past six years, Nasiri has supported four daughters and two sons with his wife, Roya, 45. They married during Taliban times; he taught his wife to read and write.

“We discussed it and decided she should go to school,” he says. “Children will do better when their mom is educated.”

This year Roya graduated from high school. She will take the college entrance exams next year, Nasiri says proudly.

“She raised six children,” he says. “Now she raises herself.”

Across from Rustam School, there’s a rocky mountainside. There, sheep graze, watched by shepherds. Hundreds of feet up the hillside, one of the shepherds carries a pen and a Pashto language workbook. Her name is Nikbakht, she says, and she is 13. She should be at Rustam, but work comes first.

“I love school, but no one else was home, so I had to work with the animals,” she explains.

Pashto, one of Afghanistan’s main languages, is a required subject, but it’s not her favorite, Nikbakht says. Her favorite is math.

Shahrbano, the student who wishes for a laptop, dreams of becoming a doctor, in part because her mother suffers from vision problems and her father is nearly deaf at age 65. Both are illiterate. Outside their mud-walled home, a waterwheel on a nearby irrigation ditch turns a small generator, just enough to power lights at night, for studying.

“I’m not educated,” says her father, Ghulam Hussein. “I’m just a farm laborer. I don’t want them to have the same life.”

The family is also an example of why fewer boys are in school. Hussein’s son Ali, 9, stays home to help his parents, while his older son Reza, 12, works in the fields. “Ali wants so badly to go to school,” says his mother, Zenat. “Maybe next year.” All the daughters, though, are in school.

Of their 11 children, a son and two daughters have already reached college. Zenat can’t hide her family’s sense of accomplishment.

“I am so proud of them,” she says.

Shahrbano, the student who wishes for a laptop, dreams of becoming a doctor. Her dream is partly driven by the fact that her mother suffers from vision problems and her father is nearly deaf at age 65. Both are illiterate. Outside their mud-walled home, a waterwheel on a nearby irrigation ditch turns a small generator. It’s just enough to power lights at night, which she uses for studying.

“I’m not educated,” says her father, Ghulam Hussein. “I’m just a farm laborer. I don’t want them to have the same life.”

The family is also an example of why fewer boys are in school. Hussein’s son Ali, 9, stays home to help his parents, while his older son Reza, 12, works in the fields. “Ali wants so badly to go to school,” says his mother, Zenat. “Maybe next year.” All the daughters, though, are in school.

Of their 11 children, a son and two daughters have already reached college. Zenat can’t hide her family’s sense of accomplishment.

“I am so proud of them,” she says.

Rod Nordland covers Afghanistan for The New York Times.

Rod Nordland covers Afghanistan for The New York Times.