Harvard-trained researcher Dr. Zuhra Faizi returned to Afghanistan in early 2024 to document girls’ education under Taliban rule, uncovering both quiet resilience in communities and profound uncertainty for their futures.

Four years into the Taliban’s second stint in power, few voices are better placed to reflect on the evolving realities of Afghan life than Dr. Zuhra Faizi. A scholar with deep roots in Afghanistan, she earned her doctorate in Education from Harvard University and has spent her academic career exploring how education functions in contexts of conflict and displacement. Dr. Faizi’s research background also includes immersive fieldwork in Kabul’s informal settlements, making her one of the leading experts on community-based education in Afghanistan.

Formerly lecturer at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) and a Fellow at Harvard’s Refugee REACH Initiative, Dr. Faizi has maintained close ties with Afghanistan through research. Her latest trip in 2024 marked a return to fieldwork after the Taliban’s return to power, providing her with rare firsthand insights into life on the ground, particularly the shifting landscape for women and girls in both urban and rural areas.

In this exclusive interview with Sangar Paykhar, Dr. Faizi offers a grounded, multifaceted portrait of Afghan society today: from the quiet resilience of girls attending madrassas and informal classes, to the cautious hope of families advocating for education despite systemic restrictions. Drawing on her personal history and professional expertise, Dr. Faizi dissects the complexities of gender, education, and socio-political transformation in Afghanistan with clarity and compassion.

What inspired you to move to Afghanistan in 2024?

I have returned to Afghanistan throughout my life, each visit anchoring me more deeply to the place my family once called home. I was six when my parents left the refugee camp in Pakistan and moved us to Colorado, USA—leaving behind my loving grandfather, uncles, and aunts. I never saw my grandfather again; he passed away before we could return. But we made it a priority to visit as often as possible, to see family and to stay connected to our roots.

As I grew older, my personal connection to Afghanistan began to evolve into an academic one. While pursuing a master’s degree in international political economy in Colorado, I found myself questioning the limited and often distorted images of Afghanistan I encountered in the U.S.—a mix of apathy, ignorance, or sensationalism. I didn’t know which was worse. What I did know was that none of it reflected the country I had come to know through family, language, and experience.

Girls’ education, in particular, seemed to be the centerpiece of every dramatic narrative about Afghanistan—treated more as a symbol of Western concern than as a complex, lived issue. I wanted to understand it more deeply, beyond the headlines.

My curiosity about education had been sparked years earlier, in seventh grade. After 9/11, my social studies teacher, Mrs. Howe, began clipping out newspaper articles about Afghanistan and saving them for me. One day, she asked me about my mother’s education. I didn’t know how to explain that my mother had never attended formal school. She had grown up during the Soviet war, in a small village in Logar, just south of Kabul, with only one school that she could not attend. Mrs. Howe smiled gently and said, ‘You don’t have to go to school to learn.’ Then she asked if my mom could sew, cook, or grow things. I told her yes—of course. That moment planted a seed: learning and schooling are not the same.

Years later, I returned to that idea as a doctoral student at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. In 2018, I spent a full academic year in Kabul conducting my dissertation research on girls’ education. I had visited the country many times before and spoke the language fluently, but this was the first time I was there as a researcher. It was eye-opening—not only in terms of what I learned about education systems under pressure, but also in how communities define learning, resilience, and opportunity on their own terms.

In 2024, I had another chance to live in the country for a year—doing research, reconnecting with family, and witnessing the country’s transformations. I spent time in both rural and urban areas, observing new developments and gaining firsthand insight into the evolving security landscape. It deepened my understanding of how everyday life, especially for women and children, continues to shift under changing political realities.

How has your academic training influenced the way you approach your understanding of Afghanistan today?

I have had a unique and extensive academic journey, with training in linguistics, international affairs, and—most importantly—education. Linguistics taught me to appreciate the nuance of language; international affairs gave me tools to understand how global trends shape local realities. But it’s my education training that has most deeply shaped my perspective on Afghanistan.

I remember in one of my first seminars at the Harvard Graduate School of Education, a professor said, ‘Everyone thinks they understand education because they went to school.’ That observation stayed with me. While personal experience shapes how we view education, academic training brings a necessary layer of objectivity, structure, and analytical depth.

We see in both the U.S. and globally how individuals without educational expertise often misinterpret how systems function. My training taught me to look beyond the existence of schools and ask what kind of learning is happening, who is being served, and who is being left out. A perspective grounded in education research—one that centers access, quality, and sustainability—is often missing from discussions about Afghanistan, despite how frequently education is discussed.

After spending a year in Afghanistan, what changes in Afghan society have struck you most deeply compared to previous periods, particularly regarding women’s experiences?

The most striking change I noticed during my time in Afghanistan in 2024 was the sense of physical security. For the first time in Kabul, I felt safe enough to go shopping alone, take taxis by myself, and even visit doctors without a companion. In the neighborhood where I lived, it was common to see women out and about in small groups, navigating daily life with security that had previously felt impossible.

This was a stark contrast to earlier years during the war, both in Kabul and in the villages. In Logar, where some of my family lived, traveling was often dangerous. Battles between the Taliban and NATO forces would erupt on the highway without warning. Drones constantly patrolled the skies, and at night, helicopters flew so low over our homes that we would wake up in fear. In Kabul, the ever-present threat of suicide bombings made every trip outside feel like a calculated risk. We would go to the market anxiously and return home as quickly as possible.

Crime was also more rampant then. Kidnappings were a constant fear, and everyone was on edge. Our cousins warned us not to take photos in public—phone theft was so common that even pulling one out felt risky. The difference in 2024 wasn’t just about fewer explosions or less visible violence. It was the absence of that daily undercurrent of fear.

Visually, one of the most noticeable changes is that more women wear long black robes, and most cover their faces with masks. This isn’t entirely new—it had become more common even before the Taliban’s return. Despite these signs of order and safety, there’s also a palpable sadness, especially around girls’ education and women’s futures.

It’s important to remember that Afghanistan is incredibly diverse—not just in languages and ethnic groups, but in levels of wealth, education, and access to services. Public discourse tends to focus on ethnic or political tensions and less on the socioeconomic conditions that shape everyday life across communities.

Interestingly, World Bank data shows that more Afghan girls are enrolled in primary school than before, due in part to the improved security situation. I have female relatives who are going to school for the first time in their lives as teenagers because their areas are now safer. But safety in Afghanistan isn’t just about physical protection—it’s also about trust.

Many families, especially fathers who decide on their daughters’ mobility, were reluctant to send girls to school under the previous government due to the presence of foreign military forces or a general distrust of institutions. Now, some of those same families feel more comfortable allowing their daughters to attend school or madrassa. I met girls who were genuinely happy to be in class—but none of them expected the restrictions the Taliban would impose.

Even among those who supported the Taliban or simply welcomed the return of stability, there’s surprise and disappointment at the severity of the restrictions on girls’ high schools and higher education. In both urban areas and rural regions that once had strong access to education, the feeling of despair is deep. People are anxious—not only about the present, but about what the future holds for education and the economy.

Has  daily life evolved for women and girls in Afghanistan since the Taliban takeover, particularly in rural versus urban settings?

In some areas, girls are attending primary school for the first time. I witnessed this firsthand in rural Logar, where early in the morning, young girls—often dressed in long black dresses—walk to school to study the standard curriculum, which now includes an increased emphasis on Islamic studies. It’s important to note that Afghanistan has never had a fully secular education system; even under the Republic, religious studies were part of the public school curriculum.

Urban areas had already established relatively better access to education, so the increase in security has not necessarily translated into improved access to schools. Girls’ high schools remain closed, and while some girls were still able to participate in higher education in 2024 in cities across the country—mainly in health-related fields such as midwifery and nursing—these opportunities are becoming increasingly limited. Most public institutions of higher education no longer serve women and girls.

Beyond schools, I noticed another significant change. In 2021, urban residents were visibly fearful of the Taliban’s presence in cities—something unimaginable over the previous two decades. By 2024, that fear had largely dissipated. Women and girls now go to markets with confidence. There is a sense of increased comfort in daily life in some ways, along with a reluctant acceptance of the new reality—despite continued and widespread disapproval of many policies.

I also observed that policies tend to be less strict in urban areas compared to rural ones. In Logar, my sister-in-law and I witnessed a Talib advising merchants to only serve women who observe proper hijab. Meanwhile, in Kabul, it’s not unusual to see women confidently go to bazaars wearing full makeup. It’s unclear whether this reflects their recognition of Afghanistan’s diversity or if it’s part of a gradual shift towards stricter policies on dress and movement.

How are Afghan communities responding to the restrictions on girls’ education beyond the age of 12?

There is a growing presence of madrassas for all age groups. These are often more active in the afternoons, when girls and women walk to their local madrassas to study Islamic and Quranic subjects. In urban and more populated areas, madrassas transition to darul ulooms, which are similar to high schools, where girls study more advanced subjects, mostly focused on Islamic Studies.

Most madrassas I visited also offered courses in sewing and literacy. Recently, a young woman in Kabul told me that they are studying from the same textbooks previously used in high schools. Thiss practice is unlikely to be sanctioned under current regulations and more  driven by community-led efforts to continue girls’ education informally.

Wealthier families, typically in urban areas, often enroll their daughters in online classes taught in English or other foreign languages, and some are even able to send them abroad for higher education.

You mentioned that Islamic madrassas are increasingly filling educational gaps for girls. Who runs these madrassas, what do they teach, and how widely are they accepted in local communities?

There is a national movement toward standardisation, with all madrassas now required to register with the government. In return, the government covers teachers’ salaries. For girls and women, teaching at a madrassa remains one of the few ways to earn an income. The curriculum, however, is more complex. While the government is rolling out a standardised curriculum, madrassas still teach a variety of subjects and books.

During a research study I conducted in Afghanistan for Save the Children in 2024, government officials acknowledged the local demand for integrating general subjects into madrassas—effectively expanding their curriculum to reflect that of formal schools. These officials expressed their agreement with this demand and noted ongoing efforts to merge school and madrasa curricula. The specifics, however, remain unclear. My assumption is that officials are aware of madrassa leaders’ creative incorporation of additional subjects and books, and they are quietly allowing these practices until a comprehensive curriculum is developed. This tacit acceptance is reminiscent of Taliban policies from the 1990s, though I would argue that madrassas today are more active and perhaps more effective in supporting learning than ever before.

In terms of public acceptance, Afghanistan has changed significantly over the past few decades. The country is firmly established in its Islamic identity (unlike during the Soviet influence in the 70s to 90s). I didn’t meet anyone who opposed madrassas. Even during the Republic, boys and girls in both rural and urban areas attended madrassas before or after school to supplement their education. What is noteworthy, however, is that families want an expanded curriculum that incorporates general subjects to help girls build a brighter future. While education officials express approval, the Taliban operate within a hierarchical political system, where authority rests at the top with individuals who seem quite removed from the public. Ultimately, it is these top officials who decide the direction of education policy.

How do Afghan families perceive the shift from formal schooling to religious madrassas for their daughters?

In both urban areas and rural communities that previously had access to girls’ schools, the replacement of formal schools with madrassas has been met with alarm and confusion. To be clear, the concern is not with madrassas themselves—they have long played an important role in education. The deeper issue lies in the closure of high schools and the suspension of higher education for girls. I spoke with families in places like Logar, where it is common for women to work outside the home—often lifting their families out of poverty. These families had high hopes for their daughters’ futures, which are now increasingly uncertain.

As an education researcher, I am particularly concerned by the slow rollout of official, standardised education plans; the lack of transparency around who is making key decisions; the absence of input from education specialists; and the ongoing challenges around the certification of informal education. All of these factors significantly undermine the overall quality and accessibility of education.

Have you encountered grassroots initiatives or informal community-led schools attempting to address the education gap for older girls?

Beyond madrassas, local NGOs also create learning opportunities for older girls. For example, the World Orphan Foundation, funded by Afghans in the diaspora, offers classes in a range of subjects. In some areas, such initiatives have successfully improved literacy and raised awareness around health and nutrition—particularly important in the most remote communities. However, in areas where formal certification once opened pathways to professional employment, the lack of recognised credentials represents a serious setback.

How have employment opportunities for Afghan women changed since the Taliban regained power?

Women’s employment in Afghanistan is under growing pressure due to mounting restrictions. The closure of girls’ high schools and universities has narrowed the pipeline for future female professionals, especially in critical sectors like healthcare. In 2024, midwifery programs were abruptly banned just a week before final exams; only after public outcry were students allowed to graduate. While private schools still operate, they largely serve wealthier families, leaving poorer girls with little to no path toward employment.

National directives restricting gender mixing make traditional workplaces hard for women to access. Large NGOs can offer gender-segregated offices, but smaller groups often shift women to remote work with internet and equipment support. Hosting in-person training is also difficult, as venues often refuse to hold women-only events due to fear of repercussions. That said, the implementation of such restrictions varies. Some NGOs I visited maintained mixed-gender environments, and hospitals and clinics continue to operate with men and women working side by side.

Afghan women remain active across many sectors. I saw women employed at airports, banks, clinics, madrassas, markets, and even serving as security guards. In Kabul, an all-women’s hospital is run by a female OBGYN, Dr. Shafajo, and in rural Logar, women still staff local clinics. Afghan women—and communities—continue to resist and negotiate restrictions at the local level.

Have you explored how Afghan women entrepreneurs are adapting under current restrictions??

Tailoring at home is one of the most common forms of female entrepreneurship, supported by madrassas and community centers that offer skills training. In 2024, my sister-in-law conducted a survey for an NGO on women’s entrepreneurship and found that in rural areas, many women also raise chickens and livestock, sell eggs and milk, and create handicrafts to sell in larger city markets. In Kabul, I also saw women working in markets, though it remains relatively uncommon.

How supportive or restrictive are local authorities and communities towards female entrepreneurs?

While local NGOs are active in promoting female entrepreneurship, efforts are often underfunded, overly optimistic, and lacking in concrete follow-through. The government also promotes entrepreneurship, primarily through public exhibitions and fairs, but these initiatives are limited in scope and largely inaccessible to rural communities.

I did not observe significant regional differences in community attitudes toward female entrepreneurship. Support appeared fairly consistent across areas where women were engaged in entrepreneurial activities—likely because most women continue to work within private or home-based spaces, which are more socially accepted. In both Logar and Kabul, what surprised me—as somewhat of an outsider—was how supportive families often are of female entrepreneurs. Afghans are widely known for their entrepreneurial skills, and with greater support from local authorities—including education and training initiatives, as well as the creation of female-only spaces where women can sell their products—there is real potential for the growth of female-led enterprises.

How have Afghan women sustained work under restrictions?

In Logar, I met nurses and midwives who commuted in groups to reach their clinics. Over the past several years, they have had to adapt their clothing in order to keep working. Initially, they were required to wear black; later, the blue chadari became mandatory. These women complied—not out of agreement, but out of necessity—so they could continue supporting their families. As I have mentioned before, based on my observations, restrictions on women appear to be tightening more outside of Kabul.

That said, women are not passively accepting these changes. They continue to advocate for themselves, often with the support of their families. Their resistance may not always be loud, but it is persistent and deeply rooted in their commitment to their work and their families.

What changes have you seen in women’s healthcare access, especially between urban and rural areas?

I visited two private clinics and one hospital in Kabul that served women—two with female doctors and one with male doctors. All three were packed with women from across the country. I met women from Ghazni, Faryab, and Kunduz who had come to Kabul specifically for treatment. At Dr. Shafajo’s hospital, the busiest of all of them, it’s not uncommon to see men, who resemble those affiliated with the Taliban, accompanying their wives and mothers. At the end of the day, the need for good medical care goes beyond political and ideological differences, and it could help bring more support for women in healthcare.

Rural areas do have clinics, but they are often poorly equipped and staffed by nurses or midwives with limited experience. As a result, wealthier Afghans travel to cities, especially Kabul, for better treatment.

What barriers do Afghan women face in accessing maternal care today?

The main challenge Afghan women face in seeking medical care has remained consistent: poverty and poor-quality healthcare. Patients with severe medical conditions often travel to Iran or Pakistan fortreatment. Unfortunately, Afghan doctors receive inadequate training, hospitals lack basic infrastructure, and the shortage of resources and education prevents improvements in healthcare.

To give you an example—when my brother was hospitalised two years ago for dehydration, I was shocked when the doctor handed me the IV drip to hold and walked back to his office. I have witnessed women in pain waiting in emergency rooms while doctors are absent. Patients are expected to bring a family member to provide food, change clothes, and even administer medicine.

How are Afghan women and healthcare workers overcoming barriers to care?

Doctors like Dr. Shafajo continue their work, building well-equipped hospitals and training nurses and midwives. The demand for maternal healthcare is clear. With educational institutions closing for women, including midwifery programs, the future of female healthcare looks bleak. Many people simply cannot afford to travel to Pakistan or Iran for treatment, especially with major visa restrictions in place.

How are Afghan communities—especially women—responding to Taliban gender rules?

You can observe varying degrees of resistance, accommodation, and negotiation in both rural and urban settings. In many areas, more women are wearing long robes, which most of the people I spoke with didn’t mind—so long as they were still able to go about their daily lives. Many Taliban members who patrol the streets also quietly overlook certain directives. I often went out alone to banks and hospitals, even though women are officially expected to be accompanied by a male guardian in public. In Kabul, it was more feasible for me to move around independently. In Logar, however, my mobility was more restricted due to prevailing social norms.

There are also moments when women and men openly push back against changes that go too far. Weddings still feature music, women continue to attend school and madrassas in groups, and they also go shopping without men and visit parks.

Women working in healthcare tend to have the greatest degree of freedom, as their work is essential. Nurses and doctors commute with confidence, go out for lunch, and enjoy relatively more flexibility in how they dress.

Have you noticed any shifts in attitudes toward gender roles, especially among younger Afghan men?

I was struck by the strong support for girls’ education from nearly everyone I met—whether taxi drivers, students, teachers, or farmers. Across the board, people expressed a desire for girls to regain their right to attend high school and university. Several taxi drivers mentioned that while security has improved and they are content with the modest income they earn, what matters most to them is the reopening of girls’ schools. This sentiment was echoed in both Logar and Kabul. I don’t think I have ever witnessed such widespread support for girls’ education in the country. When I conducted research in Kabul in 2018, many parents were hesitant to send their daughters to school due to safety concerns during the commute. Today, those same parents are bewildered: the country feels safer, yet schools remain closed. Even male students noted that their own education has suffered, as many of their female teachers are no longer allowed to teach boys.

Do community or religious leaders support women’s rights, especially in education or health?

One of the clearest examples of community-level advocacy occurred when midwifery programs were abruptly ordered to close during final exams. In response, community members protested, and as a result, the programs were allowed to resume long enough for students to complete their finals. Despite such moments of resistance, most people seem unsure of where—or to whom—they can voice their concerns. Even prominent Taliban figures who appear in the media have been largely ineffective in advocating for girls’ education. International mediators, including those from Qatar, have also failed to make meaningful progress.

How would you describe the role of religion in shaping current policies toward women and girls in Afghanistan?

This is not a country experiencing a crisis of religious identity—Afghans are deeply proud and secure in their Muslim identity. The people I spoke with did not view the closure of upper-grade girls’ schools as a religious decision, but rather as a political one made by a group with a specific ideology. In the absence of formal education, Islam is also filling critical gaps for girls. Madrassa teachers have emerged as community leaders, creating alternative learning opportunities and even expanding vocational programs for girls within their communities.

How does religious interpretation vary across Afghanistan, and how does this affect local rules on women’s roles?

I believe cultural and religious interpretations help explain some norms and practices, however, we often overlook factors that shape these interpretations, such as geography, security, and poverty. I saw firsthand that women living in secure areas connected to main roads have much better access to schools and markets. In Kabul, wealthier women experience far fewer restrictions. In contrast, poor families, whether in rural or urban areas, often face difficult trade-offs about who stays home and who receives an education—choices that typically favor boys. It is essential to look beyond culture and religion alone to understand how gender norms are formed and maintained. By focusing on concrete, material factors rather than abstract notions, we can also begin to identify more practical areas for change and opportunity within the predominant religious and cultural landscape.

What emotional impact have you seen the restrictions have on Afghan women and girls?

Many girls are trying to maintain ties with former classmates through madrassas and community gatherings, but these efforts are more about preserving connection than building a clear path forward. And, madrassa education remains limited in its ability to open meaningful opportunities. Even those attending madrassas for the first time express a desire to achieve more.

Four years on, an entire generation of high school girls has come to terms with the reality that they may never return to their studies and graduate. Their older sisters—fortunate enough to finish high school before the bans—now work as nurses, teachers, and NGO staff. Meanwhile, these girls strive to carve out new opportunities within the limited spaces available to them.

Have you seen generational differences in psychological resilience between younger girls and women who lived through the earlier Taliban era?

Afghanistan is far more connected to the world today than it was in the 1990s when the Taliban first came to power. There is a theory that those with greater hope experience the deepest disappointment when those hopes are abruptly dashed. In other words, hope is risky. Today’s girls have more hope than their mothers, who lived through the Soviet occupation and the civil war. In the 1990s, the Taliban’s rise was seen by many as a relief from the constant turmoil of war. Today, however, people’s hopes have grown, and the contrast between expectation and reality has made the sense of despair even more profound.

What feels hopeful is that Afghans are far more globally connected today, and I predict this will ultimately make a difference. Even people from the most remote villages have relatives abroad who keep them connected, provide financial assistance for medical care, and fund local educational opportunities. This network of support offers a lifeline and a source of resilience that wasn’t available in previous generations.

How effective have international efforts been in addressing Afghan women’s challenges in education, healthcare, and jobs?

International and humanitarian interventions have had a mixed impact on addressing the education, healthcare, and employment challenges faced by Afghan women and girls. UNICEF, for example, has supported community-based education by funding local and international NGOs. Many Afghans—particularly those with higher levels of education—rely on the presence of international organisations for employment. Large international NGOs are often able to provide separate office spaces for women in order to comply with national directives limiting gender mixing. In contrast, smaller NGOs that lack such capacity allow women to work from home and provide them with internet and technology support.

There is also an increasing emphasis by the current authorities on localisation. While this shift may create more job opportunities for locals, it also raises concerns about the integrity of local systems. Without robust accountability measures, localisation efforts can be undermined by corruption. At the local level, I heard several accounts of irregularities—including salaries being halved, delayed payments, or no payments at all.

What types of support do Afghan women say they most urgently need?

Most of the women I interacted with expressed deep appreciation for employment opportunities—even short-term positions on research projects were highly valued. Women from the poorest backgrounds also regularly visit local clinics to register their children for malnutrition treatment and to receive monthly nutritional support and health check-ups. These essential services are made possible through funding from international organisations.

Are there common misconceptions NGOs or global actors have about Afghan women’s priorities?

There is unquestionably a need for continued and substantial international support. This need coexists with deep disillusionment over how international organisations operate. The urgency of the situation often suppresses open criticism—many people are reluctant to speak out because they rely on this support.

International organisations regularly conduct large-scale surveys in areas such as education, health, and employment, often investing significant resources in the process. But many locals question what comes next. They ask: What happens after the surveys? When will we see the benefits? In some cases, community members are explicitly told there is no direct financial benefit to their participation, which feels incomprehensible to many—yet they still hope for something in return. In other cases, they are promised benefits that are never delivered, due to the complexity of interventions or because programs are delayed or halted entirely—often without any explanation. This lack of follow-through undermines trust and contributes to growing skepticism toward international actors.

What were some of the most moving moments you experienced in Afghanistan this past year?

I met many amazing, vibrant, and proactive women. One day, I had the opportunity to attend a madrassa graduation in Logar. The madrassa was held in a teacher’s home. For the occasion, she and her students had decorated the yard. Mats were laid out on the ground for the mothers and sisters who came to gather. The stage was her front porch, adorned with flowers and candy. The teacher even set up a loudspeaker. Everything was thoughtfully organised.

One student began with introductions. Then the teacher spoke, emphasising the importance of education and thanking the mothers for their support. Several other students came forward to sing religious songs or recite verses from the Quran. It was a special day for the girls.

Sitting on the ground during that hot late-summer day reminded me of 2018, when I conducted research at a community-based school in Kabul. That study taught me that education is about far more than books and exams to move ahead. It’s about community. It’s about socialisation. These girls were thrilled to celebrate their learning and to come together as a community. While these girls’ futures might be unclear, they are making every effort to carve out a place for themselves—to continue gathering, learning, and celebrating together. Bleak headlines about Afghanistan are widespread, but the reality is far more complex for people who live there.

What key misconceptions about Afghan women’s lives need correcting—for both local and international audiences?

You will never understand the lives of Afghan women if you take them out of their ecosystem. Afghanistan is a highly communal society, rooted in extended families and collective responsibility. To truly understand Afghan women, you must also understand Afghan men and the family structures they are part of. Afghan men and women share a value system grounded in Islam, shaped by shared history, hardship, and hope.

In her 2009 book Gender and International Aid in Afghanistan, Lina Abirafeh interviews both men and women who express a common sentiment: their lives would be better if their husbands, fathers, and brothers  had jobs. We have talked extensively about Afghan women, but far too little about Afghan men. The unfortunate reality is that Afghanistan’s economy is extremely weak, with a high unemployment rate. When men are out of work, women’s lives also suffer—economically, socially, and emotionally. This context helps explain decades of neglect toward girls’ education. When resources are scarce, families are forced to make painful decisions about who gets access to opportunity.

The broader point is this: all of Afghanistan must be lifted. The country needs serious investment in healthcare, infrastructure, education, and employment. But none of this is possible without security. The hope now is that security can lay the foundation for broader, long-term change.

As difficult as it may be, international audiences must consider what to invest in to lift everyone, rather than supporting policies or sanctions that disproportionately harm the most vulnerable—often women.

Based on your time in Afghanistan, what key advice would you give international policymakers?

To effectively address Afghanistan’s challenges, I urge policymakers to prioritise the needs and voices of Afghans in the country. This means pursuing a serious and sustained diplomatic effort—both through intermediaries like Qatar and direct engagement with the Taliban—with the aim of lifting sanctions and encouraging trade. While this advice may seem unconventional coming from an education researcher, it stems from my deep understanding of the complexity of cultural dynamics, evolving systems, and shifting power structures over time. So far, diplomacy has been underutilised; our approaches have lacked creativity and proactivity. Meanwhile, the regional landscape is rapidly shifting. Chinese investment is increasingly visible in Kabul, and Chinese tourists and businesspeople are openly present—signaling new geopolitical realities that demand thoughtful, grounded policy responses.

As an educator and advocate for Afghan girls and women, I often wrestle with difficult questions. One of the hardest is whether, in pursuit of long-term progress, we should consider setting aside the issue of girls’ formal schooling—at least temporarily—in diplomatic negotiations. I come back to the word ‘schooling’ deliberately, because while schools are closed to many, education itself is not. Learning is still happening, often in informal, creative, and community-based ways.

Could diplomacy, development, and deeper international engagement help create the conditions for Afghans to address this issue on their own terms, as living standards improve? The debate over girls’ modern education is not new—it dates back to the 1920s, when King Amanullah’s sweeping reforms, including efforts to modernise education, triggered fears of Westernisation. For over a century, decisions about education have been made by those at the top. Today, Afghanistan may be on the cusp of something different: an opportunity for Afghans to shape an approach to education that is both rooted in their values and responsive to the realities of modern life.

What gives you hope or concern for Afghan women’s future, and where do you see chances for progress?

I’ll start with what concerns me most: Afghanistan’s deeply hierarchical political structure. It remains opaque how decisions are made or who truly holds influence. Power appears concentrated within a small circle of religious scholars who advise the Emir—figures whose ideas often feel disconnected from the realities Afghans face today.

Yet even within this rigid structure, cracks are beginning to show. We have seen signs of internal debate and divergence, particularly around issues like girls’ education. Encouragingly, some of the most influential Taliban figures—such as the son of Mullah Omar—have voiced support for comprehensive girls’ education. Within the movement, there appears to be a growing awareness that current restrictions are unsustainable. In many cases, national directives have gone unenforced at the local level, suggesting that implementation is far from uniform.

Diplomatic engagement has been slow and inconsistent, yet Afghanistan is more connected to the world than ever before—largely thanks to its active and engaged diaspora. Afghans abroad are not only sending remittances but also reinvesting in their homeland. Many families depend on these networks to survive. The relative security in recent years, though fragile, has enabled members of the diaspora to return, build homes, buy land, and reestablish ties to the country’s social and economic fabric. Across provinces, major infrastructure projects—roads, dams, factories, and large apartment complexes—signal a new phase of development.

Of course, these gains come with risks, particularly growing inequality. But I believe that increased human interaction, remittances, and economic activity have the potential to benefit broad segments of society. The foundation for inclusive development exists, even if unevenly distributed.

I don’t expect Afghanistan to adopt Western models wholesale—nor should it. Afghans take deep pride in their culture, religion, and history. Education, however, can serve as a powerful tool rooted in these values—one that strengthens national identity while expanding opportunities and improving livelihoods.

My greatest source of hope lies in the resilience and creativity of Afghan girls and women. I met many who are quietly but determinedly forging space for themselves—continuing their education, building careers, and supporting their communities. At Dr. Shafajo’s all-women hospital, I often sat and observed how much the young women there took pride in their work—treating patients, supporting one another, and finding joy in their daily routines. Their strength is a testament to what’s possible, even in the most constrained environments.

At Harvard, my advisor would always ask: ‘How does change happen—top down, bottom up, or both?’ That question continues to guide my thinking about Afghanistan. The answer may lie in a layered approach that includes formal diplomacy, grassroots efforts, and direct investment by Afghans themselves—inside and outside the country.