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By Mehrullah Rahmani
Exile doesn’t talk, yet even Afghan children don’t stop dreaming. The factory noise in Pakistan supplants the ringing of school bells in the refugee settlements. Empty notebooks are strewn around, waiting to be used in what is becoming a more distant future. To thousands of Afghan children, education is now a luxury—something they may wish for but won’t have.
In August 2021, my family left Kabul when the Taliban came back to power. We had to leave our home and all that was familiar to us. I was then a high school student and hoped to become a doctor because I thought that education would protect me in the world of confusion. However, the act of crossing the border into Pakistan froze my belief. We didn’t find any waiting classes, any teachers, or any assurance of the future only the raw situation of displacement and uncertainty.
This wasn’t only my case; it is the story of thousands of Afghan refugee children in Pakistan. UNHCR and UNICEF indicate that among Afghan refugee children in Pakistan, the school enrolment rate is only 28%. The rest, who would love to study, are excluded by law, poverty, and the fear of being deported at any time. UNICEF hasn’t been tactful in its evaluation: education of Afghan refugee children in Pakistan is crumbling under stress.
To my mother, education failure was no longer a figure but a heartbreak. She was living in a rented room, trying to make both ends meet and carry her fears most of the time. Her greatest fear wasn’t hunger. She said, “It is that you will lose your opportunity to study, and your life will be small.” This was the sadness of a parent realizing that, due to factors they cannot control, their child could fail.
However, at Rawalpindi, there was a change. My mother was called to participate in an event organized by The Tree of Knowledge, a women’s support group of Afghan refugees. The women spoke about fear, exile, and hope and were asked to write their greatest fear on a balloon and pop it a symbolic gesture of letting go of the fear
When my mother’s turn came, she wrote:
“My children’s future.”
As she burst the balloon, her hands shook, and it seemed the burden of exile was slightly lifted for the first time in months. A blue-shirted woman stepped forward and tenderly told her not to worry:
“Here your children will be accepted. We will teach them English. We are going to assist them to further their studies.”
Something fine in us was kindled by that sentence. Hope felt real for the first time since we fled Afghanistan. My brother and I ran out and laughed. Exile was lightened a little painful, not yet certain, but survivable.
The truth is cruel for Afghan refugee families.
Murtaza Ahmadi, an Afghan educator in Pakistan, estimates that close to 60 percent of refugee children do not go to school, not because they lack interest but because survival comes first. Human Rights Watch cautions that Pakistan’s deportation policies increase the vulnerability of the population, as many children are unable to attend school. Even worse, girls face more restrictions at home due to safety concerns.
Yet there is still hope. Volunteers educate children in small rooms, under tin roofs, and in courtyards, preserving learning even in exile. Exile education is not merely a learning process but also an act of resistance. It declares that borders and political indifference cannot define lives. One child, one teacher, one book, and one pen can transform the world as Malala Yousafzai once said. That pen of Afghan refugees may be broken, but the hand holding it remains steady.
Recent events have made an already difficult existence even harder. The new expulsion of refugees from Pakistan has forced many families, who had lived there for years, to return to Afghanistan often without homes, schools, or access to basic services. Children bear the heaviest burden, losing continuity in education and the stability needed for growth. Yet, despite these immense challenges, many families continue to show remarkable resilience, striving to rebuild their lives and preserve hope.
These developments underline the urgent need for international attention and humanitarian support, reminding us that the struggles of displaced Afghan families are ongoing and demand awareness and action.
Behind every statistic is a human story stories such as mine: a boy who lost his classroom, a mother who cried silently, a family struggling to survive. Such tales seldom make headlines, yet the burden behind them is profound.
Education shouldn’t be a privilege it should be a lifeline. The crisis won’t end until all Afghan refugee children in Pakistan can open a book without fear. When the world is preoccupied with borders and policies, Afghan refugees are waiting not for charity, but for a chance; not for sympathy, but for justice.
During exile, hope still flickers. And all it needs to sustain itself is one voice saying:
“Don’t worry. You still have a future to go.”