Read Online Letters to My Daughters by Fawzia Koofi - Free Book Online
Authors: Fawzia Koofi
Tags: BIO026000
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high school there. I was so excited as we drove through the city streets for the first time that I thought my heart might burst with joy.
Kabul was exactly as I had dreamed it would be: exciting and loud. I marvelled at the yellow taxicabs with black stripes down the sides and gazed in wonder at the blue Millie buses with female drivers in their smart blue miniskirt uniforms. (In those days Kabul had the worldâs only electric bus system, called the Millie bus; the glamorous female drivers were nicknamed Millies.) I loved the glitzy shops with all the latest fashions on display in the windows and the smell of delicious barbecued meat floating from the hundreds of restaurants. The city entranced me and embraced me, and I loved it back with all my heart. I still love it today as much as I did then.
Those three years we stayed in Kabul were some of the happiest of my childhood. My mother loved the city too. To her, shopping in the big bazaars was a wonderful, exciting adventure. It may not sound like much, but this was an independence she could never have dreamed of when she was married to my father. I too enjoyed undreamed-of liberty. I experimented with fashion and talked about poetry and literature with my friends. We would walk home from school along tree-lined boulevards, carrying our school books with pride.
These new school friends seemed to me extremely sophisticated and glamorous. Their families had houses with swimming pools, their mothers were chic with bobbed hairstyles and their fathers were indulgent and kind, trailing the faint scent of aftershave and Scotch whisky behind them. Some of the girls even wore makeup and nail varnish. My brothers banned me from using cosmetics, but one day I put some on at a friendâs house, also borrowing some long socks and a short skirt. My friend and I were casually sauntering along the road, delighted with our sophisticated appearance, when Jamalshah drove past. He saw me and slowed down, staring out of the open window. With no time to hide, I turned and faced the wall. My thinking was, ostrich-like, that if I couldnât see him, he couldnât see me. But of course he did. And he was waiting for me when I got home. When he made as if to beat me, I ran away to hide. I heard him bellowing with laughter, calling my mother to tell her the tale. She laughed too, and shamefaced I quietly sneaked back in for dinner.
Those days in Kabul were carefree and light. Once again, however, the wider world was about to collide violently with my safe little world.
Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,
When I was young, I felt like my life changed all the time. Each time we found a safe place to live or a moment of calm, the war forced change back upon us.
I hated change in those days. All I wanted was to stay in one place, in one home, and to go to school. I had big dreams, but I also wanted a contented life. I want the same for you. I want you to fly free and find your dreams, but I also want you to have a happy home, a husband who loves you and one day the joy of having children of your own.
In your short lives, youâve had to experience more changes than I would have wished for you. Tolerating a bad situation is often easier than having changes forced upon us. But sometimes I worry that I have asked you to tolerate too much: my long absences, your fears that I will be killed and that you will be left motherless.
Sometimes tolerating something is the wrong approach. All great leaders have shared the ability to adapt and start anew. Change isnât always our enemy, and you must learn to accept it as a necessary part of life. If we make a friend of change and welcome it in, then it may choose to treat us less painfully the next time it comes to call.
With love,
Your mother
· · FIVE · ·
A Village Girl Again
{ 1991â1992 }
IT WAS THE beginning of the 1990s. Apartheid in South Africa had ended, the Berlin Wall had come down and the great Soviet Empire was
Kabul was exactly as I had dreamed it would be: exciting and loud. I marvelled at the yellow taxicabs with black stripes down the sides and gazed in wonder at the blue Millie buses with female drivers in their smart blue miniskirt uniforms. (In those days Kabul had the worldâs only electric bus system, called the Millie bus; the glamorous female drivers were nicknamed Millies.) I loved the glitzy shops with all the latest fashions on display in the windows and the smell of delicious barbecued meat floating from the hundreds of restaurants. The city entranced me and embraced me, and I loved it back with all my heart. I still love it today as much as I did then.
Those three years we stayed in Kabul were some of the happiest of my childhood. My mother loved the city too. To her, shopping in the big bazaars was a wonderful, exciting adventure. It may not sound like much, but this was an independence she could never have dreamed of when she was married to my father. I too enjoyed undreamed-of liberty. I experimented with fashion and talked about poetry and literature with my friends. We would walk home from school along tree-lined boulevards, carrying our school books with pride.
These new school friends seemed to me extremely sophisticated and glamorous. Their families had houses with swimming pools, their mothers were chic with bobbed hairstyles and their fathers were indulgent and kind, trailing the faint scent of aftershave and Scotch whisky behind them. Some of the girls even wore makeup and nail varnish. My brothers banned me from using cosmetics, but one day I put some on at a friendâs house, also borrowing some long socks and a short skirt. My friend and I were casually sauntering along the road, delighted with our sophisticated appearance, when Jamalshah drove past. He saw me and slowed down, staring out of the open window. With no time to hide, I turned and faced the wall. My thinking was, ostrich-like, that if I couldnât see him, he couldnât see me. But of course he did. And he was waiting for me when I got home. When he made as if to beat me, I ran away to hide. I heard him bellowing with laughter, calling my mother to tell her the tale. She laughed too, and shamefaced I quietly sneaked back in for dinner.
Those days in Kabul were carefree and light. Once again, however, the wider world was about to collide violently with my safe little world.
Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,
When I was young, I felt like my life changed all the time. Each time we found a safe place to live or a moment of calm, the war forced change back upon us.
I hated change in those days. All I wanted was to stay in one place, in one home, and to go to school. I had big dreams, but I also wanted a contented life. I want the same for you. I want you to fly free and find your dreams, but I also want you to have a happy home, a husband who loves you and one day the joy of having children of your own.
In your short lives, youâve had to experience more changes than I would have wished for you. Tolerating a bad situation is often easier than having changes forced upon us. But sometimes I worry that I have asked you to tolerate too much: my long absences, your fears that I will be killed and that you will be left motherless.
Sometimes tolerating something is the wrong approach. All great leaders have shared the ability to adapt and start anew. Change isnât always our enemy, and you must learn to accept it as a necessary part of life. If we make a friend of change and welcome it in, then it may choose to treat us less painfully the next time it comes to call.
With love,
Your mother
· · FIVE · ·
A Village Girl Again
{ 1991â1992 }
IT WAS THE beginning of the 1990s. Apartheid in South Africa had ended, the Berlin Wall had come down and the great Soviet Empire was
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