How a rural academy in Kalsindur became a sanctuary for future football stars

It was difficult to guess Jim Akter's age just by looking at her. Her height — an impressive five feet six inches — makes her stand out among most Bangladeshi girls her age. 

So, when she casually said, "I'm 14," I couldn't help but be a little taken aback. 

Jim trains as a goalkeeper at the Kalsindur Football Academy, and her build gives her a natural advantage.

However, she had recently missed three months of training. The reason? Her grandmother had fixed her marriage while they were visiting Dhaka.

"A few days ago, I went to Dhaka with my family," she said. "While I was there, my grandmother arranged a marriage for me with a man. Even my parents agreed to it. But after I came back home, I started thinking — maybe this isn't right. I'm too young to get married. So I refused."

While Jim had the courage to make her own decision, it did not come without consequences. She faced considerable tension at home, which is why she had to stay away from football for several weeks. 

Over time, however, her family came to accept her choice. It was football that helped her escape the clutches of early marriage.

Jim is not alone. At the Kalsindur College field, many underage girls like her turn up regularly for football training. Coming from low-income families, these girls dream of playing for the national team — of making their community and country proud on the international stage.

And these dreams are not in vain. Right before their eyes, they have seen proof that it is possible — 20 players trained on this very field under the same coach have gone on to wear the national jersey. 

Five players from the squad that qualified for the Women's Asian Cup were raised right here — nurtured by Kalsindur's soil, breathing the same air, kicking balls across this same ground. Inspired by their predecessors, about 35 girls now train at the academy, nurturing the same dreams.

But there is another side to the story.

The day I visited Kalsindur, it was pouring with rain. Still, the girls came to train as usual. Among them were two sisters, Rozina and Sadia. Sadia had been injured the day before and couldn't join practice, but Rozina geared up and ran onto the pitch. When I asked to take a photo with the group, Rozina declined. Curious, I asked why. Her face clouded with sadness.

"I realised I'm not mature yet — not mentally, not physically. If I got married now, so many things could go wrong. And I'd have to give up football, which I love. That's why I decided — no, not now."

Jim Akter, 14

"My family said no," she said. "They've forbidden me to come to practice. I'm here today secretly. But even if they say no, I can't just stop loving football."

Why the ban, though? Rozina would not say. So I asked Sadia.

"Rozina apu's been practising for almost three years," Sadia explained. "But she hasn't made it to a higher level yet. That's why our parents said there's no point anymore."

How old is Rozina? Sixteen. And Sadia? Thirteen.

So why is Sadia still allowed to train?

"Maybe when I'm 15 or 16 and still haven't achieved anything, they'll stop me too," she said plainly.

I then turned to the head coach of the Kalsindur Academy, Jewel Mia, to understand the larger picture.

Photo: TBS

"All of these girls come from very low-income families," Jewel explained. "Their families think that just by joining training, their daughters will start earning. But that's not how it works. We can't afford to give them any regular allowance. When the families see that training doesn't bring in money, they try to stop the girls. Some even attempt to marry them off."

Jim's story came flooding back to me. I returned to her and asked what made her say no to marriage.

"I realised I'm not mature yet — not mentally, not physically. If I got married now, so many things could go wrong. And I'd have to give up football, which I love. That's why I decided — no, not now."

Hearing such clarity from a 14-year-old girl in rural Bangladesh left me quietly amazed. Despite growing up in such a difficult environment, girls like Jim are showing a remarkable sense of self-awareness. The question is, will others — like Rozina and Sadia — ever be allowed to make similar decisions for themselves?

At Kalsindur, it is not just Bengali girls who train. Girls from indigenous communities — especially the Garo people, who live in the surrounding hills — also take part. Inspired by national team star Maria Manda, who comes from this region, many of these girls now dream of following in her footsteps.

13-year-old Shiuli Mrong plays as a midfielder. "Whenever Maria didi comes home during holidays, she trains with us," Shiuli said. "We've learned so many techniques from her. Watching her makes us believe that even though we're small in number, we can make it to the top."

But the field that fuels so many of these girls' dreams isn't easy to reach — it takes quite a struggle just to get there.

Kalsindur is located about 6.5 kilometres off the Dobaura Upazila centre. But the three-kilometre stretch of road leading from the upazila's main road into Kalsindur is in an appalling state — virtually impassable during the monsoon. 

While riding a rickshaw through the muddy road, I spoke to several locals. They blamed infighting among local political leaders for the lack of roadwork. Yet, despite these frustrations, their pride in the football girls is palpable.

"These girls brought electricity to our village," said Firoz Shikder, an elderly resident. "Our school and college got nationalised because of them. The whole country knows about Kalsindur now. We're proud."

But this pride wasn't always there. In the early days, villagers fiercely opposed the idea of girls playing football. Some even said it was against religion and a sign of social decay. Over time, however, as success stories emerged and national attention grew, opinions began to shift. 

With support from the local administration, the Kalsindur school and college grounds are now a familiar sight — lined with girls in boots and shin guards, practising with fierce determination.

Beyond the poor road conditions, Kalsindur faces several other persistent problems.

The academy has no real infrastructure. The girls are allowed to rest in a spare classroom — but if the school needs that room, they are left without shelter. Coach Jewel voiced his frustration.

"We regularly send players to the national team, but we don't even have a room of our own. If someone could give us just one space, I'd make it a proper resting and changing area for the girls."

Jewel also clarified that girls are not required to pay any fees to train.

Photo: TBS

"We have around 35–36 girls training right now. They all practise together — we don't divide them by age. Girls don't pay anything to be here. But boys also train with us, and we do take a monthly fee from them. We use that to buy balls and other equipment."

The academy itself has no formal funding. Jewel somehow keeps it going by seeking personal donations.

"There's no fixed food arrangement for the girls," he said. "Football is physically demanding. Without proper nutrition, there's no way to progress. I try to provide them with milk and eggs — whatever I can manage by asking people. Like, now that you're here, I'd say — this is what I need, please contribute. If you help, we can survive for a month. Then I will find someone else."

"About 95% of the girls who come here are from very poor families," Jewel added. "They come because they want to change their lives. But not everyone gets that opportunity. I'm a father myself. And honestly, I'd never let my daughter play football. Not because I don't love the game — but because I know the reality. I'd rather see her study and get a proper job."

Keeping the Kalsindur Academy alive is crucial — not just for the future of women's football in Bangladesh, but for girls like Jim Akter, Rozina, Sadia, and Shiuli Mrong. This field is their last hope — their one shot at escaping the fate that swallows so many other girls in silence.

It's not just a ground — it's their battleground, their safe haven, their dreamscape.