We all have big dreams: to live in a nice house, buy a new car, travel the world. Sometimes our dreams grow so big that to reach them we must fly in the sky without wings. In the corner of my heart there is the garden for my dreams; one of those dreams is to drive a car.

When I was a little girl, I would look through my brother’s toys. His yellow truck was my favorite. The truck did not have a driver, and I promised myself that when I grew up I would drive that truck!

In Afghanistan, it is foolish for a girl to dream of driving a car. Driving is only for men. A few women, however, have dared to buy a car and drive in public. I say Bravo! to these women who don’t worry about traditions and respect their own choices instead.

But what insulting names people call those women, and how strangely everyone looks at them. It is as if people with two eyes borrow two more, and with those four eyes they stare at women drivers. Much of the time, men try to block women who drive on the street. Children make noises and people open the windows to see such a strange sight.

My boss drove

I knew all about the restrictions of my culture, but still, I could not kill my dream of driving a car. I imagined myself in a very stylish car. I would wear sunglasses that would reflect the angry men insulting me. For many years, driving remained a hidden dream. I then started working for a female foreign boss who was a brave and very strong woman. Although it was a risk for foreigners to drive a car in public streets, she did. Most of the time she took me along. I liked her, but I still felt the eyes of the people upon us. 

One day, a truck drove in front of us. The truck was filled with girls about nine or ten years old. They looked as if they came from the villages. The girls seemed so amazed to see my boss driving a car. One girl did not even blink; she just stared. After that day, my dream of driving grew stronger.

A year later, our office hired a male driver, and one day I told him about my hidden dream. He smiled and said he would teach me, but first I had to ask my boss. She said yes—if I got a license first. I watched my dream dissolve! I didn’t have a driver’s license, and would be not allowed to get one.

I had so many illegal licenses—all those freedoms I had given myself. I gave myself a license to talk, to wear the clothes I liked, to be educated. I was tired of respecting the law. I told my driver about my frustration, and he said: “Okay, I will train you. Maybe one day you will get a driver’s license and show how capable you are.”

To be free from stares, we went to a street outside Kabul. It was a silent place. Half of the sky was cloudy and raining that day, the other half was sunny. It was as if my heart was half happy to see my dream come true, and yet still half afraid. Would I become the yellow truck driver?

The car key

When the kind driver asked me to sit in the front seat, my heart beat hard. It was the first time I had dared to sit in the front seat of a car, a place where I was not allowed. I had been told that when you sit in the front, you steal attention because men look at you. I told myself to be strong. The kind driver showed me how to start the car with a key. Within a half an hour, I began to drive. It was amazing. I was so happy my eyes filled with tears just like the sky that day.

Caught

Suddenly my driver politely asked me to stop, and I did. Behind the car, I saw a policeman approaching the car. I jumped into the back seat, my heart burning with fear. The policeman asked my driver to step out of the car. He pointed at me and briefly looked into my eyes. The driver and policeman started walking and talking. I could not hear them, and I did not dare open the car windows and listen. I saw the police officer request something from the driver. I understood only that my driver said yes to every question. Five minutes extended into twenty, and I knew something must be wrong. The policeman kept pointing to me. Finally, he came over to me. The driver stood by himself; his face was red and he played with his ring. 

When I opened the window, the policemen said, “Hey, girl! What are you doing here?”

I told him that we were driving on this street because it was safe, and that the kind driver was teaching me how to steer the car.

The police officer looked into my eyes and said, “Girl, be honest. If you lie, I will put both of you in jail. I am well known here. People call me the Tiger.”

The policeman

I felt near to dying. I could not breathe. I tried to be very polite and told him I was honest. “Whatever you ask, I will answer,” I said.

He looked at both of us and said, “Is this man your fiancé?”

I was shocked and felt my face grow red. I didn’t know what to say. I looked at my driver. He was still playing with his ring. If I denied that he and I were engaged to be married, then we would both be punished. With a feeling of shock in my heart, I said, “Yes, he is my fiancé. I swear he is my fiancé!”

The police officer went back to the driver, and I saw the driver put all of his money in the man’s hand. The Tiger smiled and disappeared into the rain. As my driver walked back to the car, I imagined for a second wearing a white dress and holding roses he had given me. He opened the door but did not look at me. He said, “I’m sorry,” in a soft, shy voice.

After that day, I did not dare think about driving for a long time. But I don’t like to give up. Although it is almost impossible—like touching the sky—I still dream of driving a car. I imagine myself stepping into a car, and when I close the door, I hear my driver’s kind voice as he teaches me to drive.

Good luck, dear fiancé!

By Norwan

Shaquila Naderi (right), a driving school teacher, during a lesson in September 2011. Ms. Naderi, the only female driving instructor in Kabul, teaches several classes a day, mostly to women. Photo by Jonathan Saruk / Getty Images.