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.
Keď som mala 11, spomínam si, ako som sa jedného rána zobudila na radostné zvuky v mojom dome. Môj otec práve počúval Správy BBC na svojom malom, sivom rádiu. Mal na tvári veľký úsmev, čo bolo vtedy nezvyčajné, lebo správy ho väčšinou deprimovali.
"The Taliban are gone!" my father shouted.
"Taliban je preč!" vykríkol môj otec.
I didn't know what it meant, but I could see that my father was very, very happy.
Nevedela som, čo to znamená, ale videla som, že môj otec je veľmi, veľmi šťastný.
"You can go to a real school now," he said.
"Teraz môžeš chodiť do skutočnej školy," povedal.
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.
Ráno, na ktoré nikdy nezabudnem. Skutočná škola. Viete, mala som šesť, keď sa Taliban zmocnil Afganistanu a zakázal dievčatám chodiť do školy. Takže ďalších päť rokov som sa prezliekala za chlapca, aby som sprevádzala moju staršiu sestru, ktorá už mala zakázané zdržiavať sa vonku sama, do tajnej školy. Bol to pre nás jediná možnosť, ako získať vzdelanie. Každý deň sme išli inou cestou aby nikto nevedel, kam ideme. Učebnice sme mali zabalené v nákupných taškách aby to vyzeralo, že sme len išli na nákupy. Škola bola v rodinnom dome, viac ako 100 z nás natlačených v jednej malej obývačke. V zime tam bolo útulne, ale v lete zase extrémne horúco. Všetci sme vedeli, že riskujeme život - učiteľ, študenti a naši rodičia. Čas od času bola škola zrazu na týždeň zrušená, lebo Taliban bol podozieravý. Nikdy sme nevedeli, čo o nás vedia. Sledujú nás? Vedia, kde bývame? Mali sme strach, ale napriek tomu bola škola miestom, kde sme chceli byť.
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?"
Mala som to šťastie, že som vyrastala v rodine, pre ktorú bolo vzdelanie hodnotou a dcéry si vážili. Môj dedko bol na svoje časy výnimočný človek. Totálny individualista z odľahlej provincie Afganistanu, ktorý trval na tom, aby jeho dcéra - moja mama - išla do školy, za čo ho vlastný otec zaprel. Ale moja vzdelaná matka sa stala učiteľkou. To je ona. Pred dvoma rokmi išla do dôchodku, a hneď premenila náš dom na školu pre dievčatá a ženy z nášho okolia. A môj otec - to je on - bol vôbec prvým vo svojej rodine, ktorý získal vzdelanie. Nebolo pochýb, že jeho deti takisto získajú vzdelanie, vrátane jeho dcér, napriek Talibanu, napriek rizikám. Preňho bolo väčším rizikom svoje deti nevzdelávať. Pamätám si, ako som bola počas rokov Talibanu niekedy veľmi frustrovaná z nášho života a stále som mala strach a nevidela som žiadnu budúcnosť. Chcela som skončiť, ale môj otec hovorieval: "Počúvaj, dcéra moja, vo svojom živote môžeš prísť o všetko, čo máš. Môžu ti ukradnúť peniaze. Počas vojny ťa možno donútia opustiť svoj domov. Ale jedna vec, ktorá s tebou vždy ostane je to, čo máš tu. A ak budeme musieť predať našu krv na zaplatenie tvojho školného, tak ju predáme. Tak čo, ešte stále nechceš pokračovať?"
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.
Dnes mám 22. Bola som vychovaná v krajine, ktorá bola zničená desaťročiami vojny. Menej ako šesť percent žien v mojom veku to dotiahlo ďalej, ako na strednú školu, a keby moja rodina nebola natoľko oddaná môjmu vzdelaniu, bola by som jednou z nich. Namiesto toho tu stojím ako hrdá absolventka Middlebury College.
(Applause)
(Potlesk)
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.
Keď som sa vrátila do Afganistanu, môj dedko - ten, ktorého vyhnali z domova za to, že sa opovážil vzdelávať svoje dcéry - bol medzi prvými, ktorí mi gratulovali. Chváli sa nielen mojím vysokoškolským titulom, ale tiež tým, že som bola prvou ženou, a že som prvou ženou, ktorá ho vozí autom ulicami Kábulu.
(Applause)
(Potlesk)
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.
Moja rodina vo mňa verí. Mám veľké sny, ale moja rodina ich má ešte väčšie. Preto som svetovou veľvyslankyňou za 10x10, globálnu kampaň za vzdelávanie žien. Preto som spoluzakladala SOLA, prvú a asi aj jedinú internátnu školu pre dievčatá v Afganistane, v krajine, kde je pre dievčatá ešte stále riskantné chodiť do školy. Je vzrušujúce vidieť na mojej škole študentky s ambíciami chopiť sa príležitosti. A vidím ich rodičov a ich otcov ktorí - tak ako ten môj - sa o ne zasadzujú, a to aj priamo do tváre zastrašujúcim odporcom.
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.
Ako Ahmed. To nie je jeho pravé meno a nemôžem vám ukázať jeho tvár, ale Ahmed je otec jednej z mojich študentiek. Menej ako pred mesiacom boli so svojou dcérou na ceste zo SOLA do ich dediny, a doslova iba o niekoľko minút sa vyhli zabitiu bombou pri ceste. Keď prišiel domov, zazvonil telefón. Varovali ho, že ak pošle svoju dcéru znovu do školy, pokúsia sa o to opäť.
"Kill me now, if you wish," he said, "but I will not ruin my daughter's future because of your old and backward ideas."
"Zabite ma aj teraz, ak chcete," povedal, "ale nebudem ničiť budúcnosť mojej dcéry len kvôli vašim starým a spiatočníckym názorom."
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.
Uvedomila som si o Afganistane - a toto sa často na Západe prehliada - že za väčšinou z nás, ktoré sme uspeli je otec, ktorý uznáva hodnotu svojej dcéry a ktorý považuje jej úspech za svoj vlastný. To neznamená, že naše matky nie sú pre náš úspech kľúčové. V skutočnosti sú to často ony, ktoré začnú presvedčivo vyjednávať za lepšiu budúcnosť svojich dcér, ale v kontexte spoločnosti aká je v Afganistane, musíme mať podporu mužov. Pod vládou Talibanu bolo dievčat, ktoré chodili do školy, rádovo v stovkách - ako som povedala, bolo to nezákonné. Ale dnes chodí do školy v Afganistane viac ako tri milióny dievčat.
(Applause)
(Potlesk)
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.
Afganistan vyzerá odtiaľto z Ameriky veľmi odlišne. Zisťujem, že Američania považujú zmeny za krehké. Mám strach, že po stiahnutí amerických vojakov tieto zmeny nepotrvajú veľmi dlho. Ale keď som späť v Afganistane, keď vidím študentky v mojej škole a ich rodičov, ktorí sa za ne zasadzujú, ktorí ich povzbudzujú, vidím sľubnú budúcnosť a trvácne zmeny. Pre mňa je Afganistan krajinou nádeje a neobmedzených možností a dievčatá zo SOLA mi to pripomínajú každý jeden deň. Rovnako ako ja, aj ony majú veľké sny.
Thank you.
Ďakujem.
(Applause)
(Potlesk)