Farah* lives in Karte Char, a neighbourhood in Kabul not far from Rabia Balkhi High School, where she used to study. She was in seventh grade when the Taliban closed secondary and high schools to all girls after returning to power in 2021.
“Every time I pass the school, I feel suffocated,” she says. “When I see the black gate, I can’t breathe. For four years, they have deprived us of going to school.”
The street around Rabia Balkhi is silent. The once constant sounds of girls’ excitement are gone.
The last time Farah put on her black uniform and white headscarf and went to the school gate was in March 2022. She and her classmates were stopped at the entrance.
“They told us it wasn’t allowed,” she says in a phone interview with Zan Times. “They said, ‘Go home and wait until further notice.’”
Four years later, she is still waiting.
Founded in 1948 as the Modern Women’s Education Center, Rabia Balkhi High School was one of Afghanistan’s most prominent girls’ schools for decades. It provided modern education to girls from middle-class and low-income families and was eventually renamed after the renowned 10th-century poet Rabia Balkhi. The school stood as a symbol of women’s intellectual presence in society.
For more than 70 years, the school nurtured doctors, engineers, artists, athletes, administrators, and women activists. In 1979, Naghma, one of Afghanistan’s most famous and iconic singers recorded her first song while still a 10th grade student there.
That history stands in stark contrast to the present status of the school.
In August 2021, when the western- backed republican government collapsed, 3,870 girls were enrolled. Today, only 450 students in grades one to six remain, less than 12 percent of the school’s capacity. Rabia Balkhi High School has effectively been reduced to a girls’ primary school. Somaya, a staff member, says that of 56 classrooms once filled with students, only 17 are now in use. The others stand empty.
Until recently, Rabia Balkhi was a refuge for politically aware and socially active women. Its role extends beyond the past two decades into the longer history of women’s political life in Afghanistan.
Amilia Spartak, a retired university professor now living in Germany, graduated from the school in 1970. “In our time,” she says, “Rabia Balkhi was known as the school of militant girls in Kabul.”
She recalls Teachers’ Day celebrations where girls sang and boys from nearby schools played music together. She was captain of the school’s basketball team and, alongside her studies, taught literacy to elderly women and worked for women’s awareness and political participation.
Najia Aziz Arsalaei, who graduated in 1983, says she joined protests against the Soviet invasion while a student. “Despite students participating in demonstrations,” she says, “the regime at the time never closed Rabia Balkhi.”
She remembers one protest in which two students from the school — Nahid Sa’ed and Wajiha — were killed. Nahid Sa’ed later became known as Nahid the Martyr, remembered in poems and writings as a symbol of courage.
Dr. Zarghona Obaidi, who graduated in 1976 and now lives in Europe, recalls a time when women could study and work safely in Kabul. Teachers were experienced and respectful, she says, creating a calm and supportive learning environment.
“To imagine that school without the sound of girls feels like a nightmare,” she says. “A single-gender society is a desperate society.”
Mina*, who graduated in 2016, describes Rabia Balkhi as a place of pride and excellence. “Sometimes our rankings differed by half a mark,” the 30-year-old says. “Everyone studied hard. We expected to succeed.”
Beyond academics, the school hosted spaces where girls learned leadership and confidence, including active literary, cultural, scientific, sports, and arts committees. .
That world ended with a Taliban decree that ended girls’ education at the primary level. Thousands of students were forced to retreat from their schools into their homes. Those who attended Rabia Balkhi were no exception.
Farah is now 17.
“My black uniform has become too tight,” she says. “But I still hope schools will reopen. And when they do, I will go early in the morning on the first day.”
Names marked with * have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees. Khadija Haidary and Hura Omar (pseudonym) are Zan Times journalists. F. Amin contributed reporting.
