I struggled to control the oversized bike as I navigated PaliSurkh Street. Boys, men, women, children, cars, and other bikes were all trying to get in my way. I didn’t care. I was proud of myself for doing something that few girls were allowed to do in Afghanistan.
When I was in first grade, I dreamed of riding a bike like so many boys did in my school, so I asked my father to please buy me one. “You’re so small,” he said. “But I promise that one day when you’re bigger, I will buy you a bike.” For three years I waited. One day my father put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Zohra, why don’t you go and check upstairs?”
Feeling my heart pump faster than usual, I whispered, “Please be it, please be it.” A shiny blue bike smiled at me. He surprised my brother and me with new bikes. I was so excited because in my country, many families don’t let their daughters ride bikes. It was in that moment that I realized my brother and I were equal in my father’s eyes. There are very few men in Afghanistan who let their daughters ride bikes and their wives drive cars. For instance, my female cousins are not allowed to ride bikes, but their brothers each have one.
Also, one of my really good friends loved and loves riding a bicycle as much as I did and do, and despite her having a bike, she is not allowed to ride it in the street.
Every day, the thought of coming home and riding my bike with my dad filled me with light. He never cared about the ridicule we both received. For months after school, he and I would practice riding my bike in the alley. Finally, I took off the training wheels. My father taught me how to ride. It was my dream to ride to school on it. Early one morning my father whispered, “Be quiet, wash your face, and let’s go biking before your mom wakes up.” However, when we were trying to take it out, my mother heard us, and she said she would love for me to be able to ride my bike to school, but she was afraid of what might happen to me. “Please don’t ride a bike out on the streets,” she said. “ I don’t want rude people to say bad words to you or boys to disturb you.” Sometimes boys tried to take my bike away from me. I yelled back or ignored them.
I had to obey my mother. My dad was also fearful, but he said, “My beautiful daughter, you have to be strong. You must stand in front of those who want to take away your rights. Never ever give up.”
I studied hard. I tried my best. I became one of the top students in my class. In 7th grade, I was very interested in learning about computers. My father had promised me that if I earned the first position, he would buy me one. “You can take a computer class,” he said. “And then whatever you learn, you have to teach me.”
I never got the chance. My father died a few months later. When I became the first position, he was no longer with me. That morning we had eaten breakfast together and had had lots of fun and in the evening when I was studying for my Arabic exam. My cousins brought his dead body from the hospital. I still don’t know how he died. He not only left me alone in this world but also in a male-dominated country.
My father’s death impacted me profoundly. I realized I couldn’t just think about myself anymore. As the oldest child, I felt responsible for my mother. I began to help her with paperwork and chores. I took my siblings biking on the weekends, took them to the supermarket, made them laugh, wiped their tears, and tried to be a father to them. I wanted to see them happy. I applied and got accepted to SOLA (School of Leadership Afghanistan), the only boarding school for girls in my country. My mother supported me, but still, she wanted my uncle’s opinion about this path. My father absence gave my uncle the power to stop me. “You can close the village’s door,” he said, “but you can never close people’s mouths.”
I packed, and I left.
I went to SOLA and improved a lot. I learned how to stand strong in my beliefs and not let others defeat me. I learned how to be a good and creative leader, how to be strong and self-sufficient. SOLA has revolutionized my thinking and worldview. My world was so small, but after joining SOLA, it expanded. I learned how to face challenges even with the widespread discrimination in my country.
It was bright on Darulaman Street a year and a half later when I rode my bike. I was confident without any man standing beside me. I had changed my life’s direction. That day, I thought of my father. I thought of my journey. I thought about how far I had come. That day, I felt like a bird freed from a cage, but I wanted to be more independent. I wanted to do more for the world and for my people. I knew about my potential. I couldn’t keep it in that small box anymore, so I applied to Emma Willard school. I wanted to ride my bike thousands of miles away from home yet still belong.
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