Read Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan for Free Online Page B

clothes as long as their hair was covered.
    Peshawar is in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, in the north-west of Pakistan and is one of the most traditional areas of the country, so its tribal code of conduct remains very strong. Women and men do not mix outside the family, boys and girls go to separate schools and men and women socialise in different rooms at parties and weddings. Compared to other cities in Pakistan like Islamabad, Karachi and Lahore, Peshawar is conservative, male dominated and practises a strictly fundamental form of Islam.
    My sisters and I found that men in Pakistan looked at us as if we were pieces of meat, and it frightened us enough to make us change our behaviour and act like older women. At this time we were sharing a house with another Afghan family, and as our family had only two rooms I no longer had my own bedroom and comfortable bed with a proper pillow and blanket. Our existence had become far more basic. I was no longer the daughter of a government minister. We were poor, and my father was looking for work. At that age I didn’t understand that my parents were doing the best they could for us under difficult circumstances, so my sisters and I would moan about how the food we ate was too plain and how it was uncomfortable to have to sleep on the floor. My mother told us off for complaining, reminding us that we should be thanking God for keeping us all alive. I’m sure that if I were ever in that situation again I’d be far more supportive of my mother, particularly when I think of everything she went through, coping with the war and holding the family together. I see her now both as a strong woman and as a role model.
    My sisters and I were soon given places in a school for refugees and even though I missed our house back in Kabul, life was much better than it had been during those long weeks of bombing and shelling, not knowing whether we would live or die. Gradually I adapted to life as an ordinaryPeshawar schoolgirl, and my tastes began to change. I tried to make the best of having to wear shalwar kamiz by choosing ones made of brightly coloured material and searching out those in the most fashionable styles. When I was at school, though, I had no choice but to wear the black hijab . Our refugee school was directly funded by Saudi Arabia – a country supportive of the Mujahedeen – and it concentrated heavily on Islamic studies. I found learning Arabic extremely difficult because even though I could read it – as I’d learnt to recite the Quran – I had no idea how the grammar worked or what the words actually meant. When it came to Arabic exams, I remember crying because I found them so difficult.
    Life improved when my father got a job with an education project at the BBC World Service. He worked as a writer on a radio drama for Afghans, and was sufficiently well paid for us to be able to rent our own house in a better area of Peshawar. At this time, my father decided that my sisters and I should all learn English, saying it was vital for our future. So while we were already studying English at school, he also enrolled us in private language classes. They cost a lot of money, but he was adamant we should have a good education.
    After completing high school in Peshawar at the age of seventeen, I went to a university for Afghan refugees to study journalism. I chose journalism because I harboured an ambition to sing or speak on either the radio or the television. I was still young to be going to university at this age but had been able to jump ahead because I’d finished my school exams early. My real dream though was to be able go to Kabul University, not least because my father had studied there and my mother had always said it would be good to follow in his footsteps. My father had proudly told us about his old university’s high standard of education, and the quality of its teaching, but my ambition to study there remains unfulfilled. The collapse of the Soviet Union, followed by the