Da jeg var 11, kan jeg huske at jeg vågnede en morgen til lyden af glæde i mit hus. Min far lyttede til BBC News på denne lille, grå radio. Der var et stort smil på hans læber hvilket var usædvanligt dengang, fordi han blev for det meste kun deprimeret af nyhederne.
When I was 11, I remember waking up one morning to the sound of joy in my house. My father was listening to BBC News on his small, gray radio. There was a big smile on his face which was unusual then, because the news mostly depressed him.
"Taliban er væk!" råbte min far.
"The Taliban are gone!" my father shouted.
Jeg vidste ikke hvad det betød, men jeg kunne se at min far var meget, meget glad.
I didn't know what it meant, but I could see that my father was very, very happy.
"Du kan gå i en rigtig skole nu," sagde han.
"You can go to a real school now," he said.
En morgen jeg aldrig vil glemme. En rigtig skole. Ser I, jeg var seks da Taliban overtog Afghanistan og gjorde det ulovligt for piger at gå i skole. Så i de næste fem år, klædte jeg mig som en dreng for at eskortere min ældre søster, der ikke længere måtte være udenfor selv, til en hemmelig skole. Det var den eneste måde hvorpå vi begge kunne få en uddannelse. Hver dag, tog vi en forskellig rute så ingen ville mistænke hvor vi gik hen. Vi gemte vores bøger i indkøbsposerne så det lignede at vi bare var ude og købe ind. Skolen var i et hus, mere end 100 af os pakket i en lille stue. Det var hyggeligt om vinteren med ekstrem varmt om sommeren. Vi vidste alle at vi satte vores liv på spil -- læreren, de studerende og forældrene. Fra tid til anden, var skolen pludselig aflyst i en uge fordi Taliban var mistænksomme. Vi undrede os altid over hvad de viste om os. Var der nogen der fulgte efter os? Vidste de hvor vi boede? Vi var bange, men alligevel, skolen var der vi ville være.
A morning that I will never forget. A real school. You see, I was six when the Taliban took over Afghanistan and made it illegal for girls to go to school. So for the next five years, I dressed as a boy to escort my older sister, who was no longer allowed to be outside alone, to a secret school. It was the only way we both could be educated. Each day, we took a different route so that no one would suspect where we were going. We would cover our books in grocery bags so it would seem we were just out shopping. The school was in a house, more than 100 of us packed in one small living room. It was cozy in winter but extremely hot in summer. We all knew we were risking our lives -- the teacher, the students and our parents. From time to time, the school would suddenly be canceled for a week because Taliban were suspicious. We always wondered what they knew about us. Were we being followed? Do they know where we live? We were scared, but still, school was where we wanted to be.
Jeg var meget heldig at vokse op i en familie hvor uddannelse blev værdsat og døtre blev værdsat. Min bedstefar var en bemærkelsesværdig mand for sin tid. Totalt en fritænker fra en fjerntliggende provins af Afghanistan, han insisterede på at hans datter, min mor, gik i skole, og på grund af det blev hånden slået af ham af hans far. Men min uddannede mor blev lærer. Der er hun. Hun gik på pension for to år siden, kun for at forvandle vores hus til en skole for piger og kvinder i vores nabolag. Og min far -- der er han -- han var den første nogensinde i sin familie til at modtage uddannelse. Der var ikke noget spørgsmål om at hans børn modtage uddannelse, inklusiv hans døtre, på trods af Taliban, på trods af risiciene. For ham, var der en større risiko ved ikke at uddanne sine børn. I Talibanårene kan jeg huske at der var tidspunkter hvor jeg ville blive så frustreret over vores liv og altid være bange og ikke se nogen fremtid. Jeg ville stoppe, men min far, han sagde, "Hør engang, min datter, man kan miste alt man har i livet. Ens penge kan blive stjålet. Man kan blive tvunget til at forlade ens hjem i en krig. Men det eneste der altid vil blive hos en er det der er her, og hvis vi skal sælge vores blod for at betale for jeres skolegang, så gør vi det. Så vil du stadig ikke fortsætte?"
I was very lucky to grow up in a family where education was prized and daughters were treasured. My grandfather was an extraordinary man for his time. A total maverick from a remote province of Afghanistan, he insisted that his daughter, my mom, go to school, and for that he was disowned by his father. But my educated mother became a teacher. There she is. She retired two years ago, only to turn our house into a school for girls and women in our neighborhood. And my father -- that's him -- he was the first ever in his family to receive an education. There was no question that his children would receive an education, including his daughters, despite the Taliban, despite the risks. To him, there was greater risk in not educating his children. During Taliban years, I remember there were times I would get so frustrated by our life and always being scared and not seeing a future. I would want to quit, but my father, he would say, "Listen, my daughter, you can lose everything you own in your life. Your money can be stolen. You can be forced to leave your home during a war. But the one thing that will always remain with you is what is here, and if we have to sell our blood to pay your school fees, we will. So do you still not want to continue?"
I dag er jeg 22. Jeg er opvokset i et land der er blevet tilintetgjort af årtier med krig. Færre end seks procent af kvinder i min alder har klaret sig længere end gymnasiet, og var min familie ikke så beslutsomme på min uddannelse, ville jeg være en af dem. I stedet for, står jeg her som en stolt dimitent fra Middlebury College.
Today I am 22. I was raised in a country that has been destroyed by decades of war. Fewer than six percent of women my age have made it beyond high school, and had my family not been so committed to my education, I would be one of them. Instead, I stand here a proud graduate of Middlebury College.
(Bifald)
(Applause)
Da jeg vendte tilbage til Afghanistan, min bedstefar, den der blev sendt i eksil fra sit hjem, for at vove at uddanne sin sine døtre, var blandt de første til at ønske mig tillykke. Han praler ikke kun af min universitetsuddannelse, men også at jeg var den første kvinde, og at jeg er den første kvinde der har kørt ham gennem gaderne i Kabul.
When I returned to Afghanistan, my grandfather, the one exiled from his home for daring to educate his daughters, was among the first to congratulate me. He not only brags about my college degree, but also that I was the first woman, and that I am the first woman to drive him through the streets of Kabul.
(Bifald)
(Applause)
Min familie tror på mig. Jeg drømmer stort, men min familie drømmer endnu større for mig. Det er derfor jeg er global ambassadør for 10x10, en global kampagne for at uddanne kvinder. Det er derfor jeg er medstifter af SOLA, den første og måske eneste kostskole for piger i Afghanistan, et land hvor det stadig er risikabelt for piger at gå i skole. Det spændende er at jeg ser studerende på min skole med ambitioner om at gribe alle muligheder. Og ser deres forældre og deres fædre der, ligesom mine egne, støtter dem, på trods af og selv overfor enorm modstand.
My family believes in me. I dream big, but my family dreams even bigger for me. That's why I am a global ambassador for 10x10, a global campaign to educate women. That's why I cofounded SOLA, the first and perhaps only boarding school for girls in Afghanistan, a country where it's still risky for girls to go to school. The exciting thing is that I see students at my school with ambition grabbing at opportunity. And I see their parents and their fathers who, like my own, advocate for them, despite and even in the face of daunting opposition.
Ligesom Ahmed. Det er ikke hans rigtige navn, og jeg kan ikke vise jer hans ansigt, men Ahmed er far til en af mine studerende. For mindre end en måned siden, var han og hans datter på vej fra SOLA til deres landsby, og de undgik bogstavelig talt at blive dræbt af en vejside bombe med få minutter. Da han ankom hjemme, ringede telefonen, en stemme der advarede ham at hvis han sendte sin datter tilbage i skole, ville de prøve igen.
Like Ahmed. That's not his real name, and I cannot show you his face, but Ahmed is the father of one of my students. Less than a month ago, he and his daughter were on their way from SOLA to their village, and they literally missed being killed by a roadside bomb by minutes. As he arrived home, the phone rang, a voice warning him that if he sent his daughter back to school, they would try again.
"Dræb mig nu, hvis I vil," sagde han, "men I skal ikke ødelægge min datters fremtid på grund af jeres gamle og tilbagestående ideer."
"Kill me now, if you wish," he said, "but I will not ruin my daughter's future because of your old and backward ideas."
Det jeg har indset om Afghanistan, og dette er noget der ofte bliver afvist i vesten, at bag de fleste af os der lykkes er en far der anerkender værdien i sin datter og der ser at hendes succes er hans succes. Det betyder ikke at mødrene ikke er afgørende i vores succes. Faktisk, er de ofte de første og overbevisende forhandlere af en god fremtid for deres døtre, men i sammenhæng med et samfund som det afghanske, skal vi have mændenes støtte. Under Taliban, var antallet af piger der gik i skole hundredvis -- husk på, at det var ulovligt. Men i dag, er der mere end tre millioner piger i skole i Afghanistan.
What I've come to realize about Afghanistan, and this is something that is often dismissed in the West, that behind most of us who succeed is a father who recognizes the value in his daughter and who sees that her success is his success. It's not to say that our mothers aren't key in our success. In fact, they're often the initial and convincing negotiators of a bright future for their daughters, but in the context of a society like in Afghanistan, we must have the support of men. Under the Taliban, girls who went to school numbered in the hundreds -- remember, it was illegal. But today, more than three million girls are in school in Afghanistan.
(Bifald)
(Applause)
Afghanistan ser så anderledes ud her fra USA. Jeg føler at amerikanere ser skrøbeligheden i forandringen. Jeg frygter at disse forandringer ikke holder meget længere efter de amerikanske troppers tilbagetrækning. Men når jeg er tilbage i Afghanistan, når jeg ser en studerende i min skole og deres forældre der støtter dem, der opmuntrer dem, ser jeg en lovende fremtid og varende forandring. For mig, er Afghanistan et land af håb og endeløse muligheder, og hver eneste dag minder pigerne fra SOLA mig om det. Ligesom mig, drømmer de stort.
Afghanistan looks so different from here in America. I find that Americans see the fragility in changes. I fear that these changes will not last much beyond the U.S. troops' withdrawal. But when I am back in Afghanistan, when I see the students in my school and their parents who advocate for them, who encourage them, I see a promising future and lasting change. To me, Afghanistan is a country of hope and boundless possibilities, and every single day the girls of SOLA remind me of that. Like me, they are dreaming big.
Tak.
Thank you.
(Bifald)
(Applause)