no hiding place
by Hamida Ahmadi

I was five when the house next door to ours was bombed and my neighbor's leg got blown off. People lost limbs every day in Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, where I grew up. Was this home? Nowhere felt like home, until I got to the United States.

war, war, war

In Kabul war was part of my daily life. The mujahedeen (freedom fighters) were battling each other, hence the explosions.

But for me the real war zone was in school. Teachers were allowed to hit us for things like chewing gum or talking in class. I was lucky because I was a good student and a girl (male teachers weren't allowed to hit girls, although the women could), so I didn't get into trouble. Just watching the brutality was punishment enough.

One day my sixth-grade class was told to report to the gym. Five hundred of us lined up in rows, while two teachers held a young boy on a table. The principal announced, "This is what you get for trying to skip school!" He began to beat the boy with a large stick. The boy screamed and screamed. I was too terrified to speak, or cry. The beating stopped only when the stick broke--on the boy's head.

Afterward my friends and I didn't discuss this incident, and I never told my parents about it, either. It seemed so awful; I concentrated on my work to avoid trouble. But school was a nightmare every day.

the coming of the Taliban

I was 10 when the Taliban took over. Radio announcements said businesses and schools would be closed during the transition. I was thrilled--no school! I spent those first days watching movies and listening to the radio.

A week later my father returned to work, and the schools reopened. But only boys could go. When my little brothers packed their books and left, I felt confused. I didn't really want to go; neither did I want them to have something I didn't. It was unfair.

Now it was just my mother, my sisters and me at home. We had to hide our TV in the basement. The first time I went out in a burqa--the head-to-toe covering the Taliban made women wear in public--I tripped and struggled. Soon my older sister left to work in Pakistan--she hated the oppression. Two more of my siblings followed.

My days became unbearably monotonous. I heard nothing from my friends--most didn't have phones, and others had moved away. I woke early, prayed, ate, wrote poetry, slept, ate, slept some more.

I got angry. I became jealous of my little brothers. I refused to help them with their homework. Why should I? I couldn't learn anything myself. I hated all men. They were so cruel and controlling. But I hated women, too--they were helpless. I hated myself because I was a woman. Home was a prison. I wanted to to to Pakistan.

getting out

I pleaded, and after nearly a year of life under the Taliban, my parents said I could join my sisters and brother across the border. I couldn't wait. I put on my burqa and boarded a bus with my uncle, who was escorting me. But I had a secret--my small, and only, rebellion against the Taliban.

I'd stuffed a popular music tape into my shoe as a gift for my sister. It was dangerous--being caught with nonreligious music meant a public beating.

The Taliban stopped and searched us six times. I tried to keep my face still, to remain calm. I blamed my perspiration on the heat and my heavy burqa. Ten agonizing hours later, we arrived safely in Peshawar, just across the border in Pakistan.

I was thrilled to see my family and felt a surge of triumph when I handed my sister the tape--I'd outsmarted the Taliban. But my sister had a better present for me: She said I could go to school the next day.

almost like home

At my new school nobody hit anyone. I was overjoyed. My parents visited every few months, and mostly, I felt happy--I could walk outside, go shopping. I threw out my burqa. But instead of simply covering my head, as was the local custom, I wore a hijab that covered my head and face, leaving only my eyes peeking out. Even in Peshawar, Muslim extremists sometimes threw acid at women with uncovered faces, and I didn't want to be a victim.

I spent two and a half years in Pakistan. My sister was working for an Afghan women's rights organization; then she got a job offer in America! My parents agreed to let my brother and me go with her. I was thrilled. I'd seen America in the movies; now I'd see it for real!

Weeks later, when we'd arrived in St. Louis, my first home here, my sister admitted something. We'd left Pakistan because Islamic extremists were threatening our lives. Her work for women's equality had put us in danger of kidnapping, or even worse. It was scary to think how someone could have hurt us. So it turned out that Pakistan was not really a haven after all.

American dream?

Neither was American, at first. I missed my parents, and I couldn't speak English well. I met Afghan kids in my neighborhood, who spoke Farsi like me, but I wanted to meet some American kids, too.

In a few months, though, I'd picked up a lot of English. I still prayed every day, but I didn't cover my head! It felt very natural. I loved American clothes, and music by 'N Sync, Nelly and Pink. I was even making American friends. Then Afghan and Pakistani friends began to criticize me: "She's too Americanized."

I felt rejected. The rest of my family had managed to join us in the United States two years after our arrival, and even they didn't criticize me. I still spoke Farsi; I was a practicing Muslim. But I didn't miss the brutality in Afghanistan's schools, the fighting, the Taliban. I didn't miss hating being a woman. How could I explain that?

After all, Afghanistan will always be my homeland. But here, living in Virginia, I'm safe, free and proud to be a 16-year-old girl. I love high school and American movies. I don't think I can ever go back. America is now my real, true home. [End of article.]

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Copyright 2007 Natalia J. Garland