"Some families send their daughters to work to help with wedding expenses or support the household, especially since there are no formally employed men in the house," said Naglaa Khater, 45, sitting outside her family home, her voice heavy with loss. Her niece was among the 18 young girls who never came back.
Ahram Online visited the Kafr alongside a delegation from Egypt's Journalists Syndicate, who came to offer condolences to the grieving families. During the visit, Ahram Online witnessed firsthand the modest homes where these girls once lived.
The walls of Khater's home were a faded turquoise, worn by time. Chairs were set out in the dirt courtyard for those arriving to help alleviate some of the pain.
A home in mourning: chairs set for those arriving to grieve.
On Friday morning, the girls had boarded a microbus bound for the agricultural fields near Sadat City. It was a route they knew well—one they had taken countless times, often before sunrise. But this time, they did not make it. A transport truck collided with their vehicle on a regional road near Ashmoun, killing 18 girls, all aged between 14 and 23, and injuring others.
'Come and pick your daughters'
There was no official notice. No coordinated response. The news reached families in a sudden, jarring phone call.
"Come and pick your daughters' bodies," a stranger's voice said coldly. "They are on the street because there was a car accident."
No names. No location. No details.
Panic spread like wildfire through the village. Parents scattered across five hospitals in a frantic search. Some were met with injured daughters, bruised but alive. Others were met with silence—and then, with white sheets.
Sunrise marches, sunset shifts
The work never ends—nor does it follow the rhythm of seasons -- in Kafr El Sanabisah, where the families of the deceased live, days blur together for girls burdened with responsibilities far beyond their years.
There are two year-round jobs they cycle through. Some work in the fields, harvesting seasonal fruit. Others labour inside Egypt's export stations—large agricultural facilities where produce is packed for international markets.
But before the work begins, there is a journey.
For those headed to farms, the day starts in darkness. By 3:00 a.m., they're out the door. It takes half an hour on foot to reach the village gate. By 3:30 a.m., they arrive at the meeting point.
The entrance to Kafr El Sanabisah—the gate the girls walked to each morning, boarding their buses.
Buses, arranged by local brokers, collect them by 4:00 a.m. for the two-hour trip to remote farms. Once there—around 6:00 a.m.—they work until sunset, often staying until 8:00 or even 10:00 p.m.
Those working at export stations leave slightly later. They depart home at 6:00 a.m., walk to the gate by 6:30 a.m., and catch the 7:00 a.m. buses. Shifts begin as early as 9:00 a.m. and end as late as 10:00 p.m.
In both cases, the walk is non-negotiable. "The cost of a ride per person is 50 EGP," families explained—a luxury the girls cannot afford. Tuk-tuks, the most common rural transport, remain idle as the girls march past, saving every pound.
Their break? Just 30 minutes—maybe an hour on a good day—for food and prayer.
The International Labour Organisation (ILO) estimates that 63.5 percent of child labour in Egypt is found in the agricultural sector. Yet, labour force surveys record only 0.2 percent of working females and 0.5 percent of males as minors, most of whom are unpaid or informally employed.
Heritage not hiring
"No one introduced the girls to this job. It's hereditary," said one grieving aunt, her voice breaking by the doorway of her modest home in the Kafr, now cloaked in mourning.
Here, labour is not just work—it's a legacy passed from mother to daughter.
"It's part of our family tradition," she continued, wiping tears with her scarf. "Their parents used to work in the same jobs. As they grew up, they followed the same path."
Poverty left little room for choices. These girls did not dream of fieldwork or processing lines. But they bore the burden of their families, waking before dawn to help cover daily expenses, save for university, or prepare for marriage.
"One of them was supposed to get married next week," said a relative of Marwa, one of the deceased, her voice trailing as she pictured the girl glowing on her wedding day.
The hidden brokers
Children from the village play on, unaware of the tragedy that struck their home.
Behind this quiet labour machine lies a well-worn system of informal intermediaries. In many rural areas, a dallala acts as the link between girls seeking work and the simsar—a male middleman—who coordinates with farms or export stations.
The dallala is the first point of contact. Each morning, the girls gather at the village entrance. She records their names by hand before boarding. According to one victim's sister, she travels with them, stays through the shift, and returns with them at night.
"She's more than a recruiter," one aunt said. "She's a family friend—trusted and known in the community."
The simsar, in turn, decides how many girls are needed and arranges transport. The dallala informs him of the available number, and he assigns buses.
Neither is from Kafr El Sanabisah. "The simsar is from another Kafr called Tamalay, and the dallala is from Barheem," explained Hana's grandmother. Yet they are known across the governorate for their organisation of work. Similar arrangements exist in nearby villages—this is not an isolated case.
"No one from the village deals directly with the farms," said a family member who lost a daughter in the crash. "You just say you want to work, and they take it from there. We've got more girls working than anywhere else around. It's normal here."
The wage gap
One aunt said the base daily wage at the export station is 300 EGP. But the girls rarely brought that full amount home.
After deducting for the driver, Dallala, and Simsar, they took home 120–130 EGP. "The men make 200, the girls get 130," said Entsar, 33, a relative of Marwa.
If they stayed late, they might receive an extra 30 to 50 EGP, depending on the hours worked. "That's not steady—it's not promised," said Toka's aunt.
"The girl earns 300 pounds. But the farms prefer to recruit girls because they know the boys won't accept that wage. So, who are they fooling? The girls. The ones who just want a new outfit or to help their father out," said Hana's aunt in frustration.
No contracts, no protection
None of the girls had formal contracts, the families said. "No one asked for any official papers," except one family, who said birth certificates were requested for two sisters.
The road's dangers were well known. "Some of the girls used to come home and say they saw many accidents on the way," recalled one family member.
The regional road where the crash occurred—unfinished, exposed, and lacking basic protection.
The Regional Ring Road, a 400-kilometre highway encircling Greater Cairo, was completed in 2018 after a decade of construction and EGP 10 billion in public spending. Partial maintenance took place two years later, but only half the repairs were completed, forcing the closure of one carriageway and turning the other into a two-way route.
Fatal accidents involving informal workers have been recorded across Egypt—from Fayoum to Minya, from Beheira to Dakahlia. The geography changes. The structure does not.
What the families want
The government issued compensation in the days following the tragedy—500,000 EGP to families who lost daughters, and 70,000 EGP to those with injured survivors.
But in Kafr El Sanabisah, money is not what people are asking for.
The problem is not new, and it's not limited to the deceased. Across the village—and far beyond in neighbouring kafrs—the same story repeats every day.
What the people demand is not charity. It is change.
"We want something that girls and women can work in. They can do anything—they can learn and excel," said Toka's aunt, her voice trembling not just with grief but frustration. "We just want our village to progress—give us a year-round school and job opportunities for girls. We didn't ask for money."
Marwa's aunt echoed the sentiment. "We don't want anything. We don't need clothes or money," she said firmly. "The only thing we want are projects for the village. Not for us—for the people. If we were used to begging, we wouldn't have let our daughter go out to work."
Her final words cut through the room, heavy with pain and defiance:
"I don't want to earn charity through my pain."
In Kafr El Sanabisah, the memory of these girls lingers not only in grief but in the hope that no other daughter will need to leave before dawn to support her family and never return.
Mothers sit in silence, their grief too deep for words.
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