Wheels
Wheels
I had heard about them. I had even seen them on TV, but only once or twice. Having them would be a dream come true. Few girls I knew in the community could afford them, and even fewer would be allowed to own them. But we all coveted them, and between chores, their vibrant colors were the topic of conversation.
On a normal Friday evening, right before the maghrib azaan, while waiting for the men to arrive, Meeno and I would have our lives changed. There was a knock on the door. We all knew who it was; it was Baba and my brothers. They came home every evening at the same time from their shop. Tonight, however, was special. When we opened the door we jumped with glee. I could already see them through the plastic bag, and from what I could tell, one pair was definitely red. Being my favorite color, they were destined to be mine. As they sat down and opened the bags, it happened; our dream became reality right before our eyes. We both got a pair. Mine, of course, were red, and Meeno’s were black and silver. We were enraptured. We didn’t attend dinner, nor did we care to have any. No, we were satisfying a much deeper hunger. We put them on and tried to stand, and we did just that: try. This was something we had never done before, and us not even knowing how to ride bikes drew a steep learning curve on our new shoes with wheels. Anyhow, Baba decided to skip dinner and help us try to stand and maybe, if we were lucky, roll a couple of inches.
If we had our way, Meeno and I would have stayed up all night playing in that little hallway, but Mom had us in bed by midnight. While I took mine off and placed them neatly by my pillow, Meeno refused to take them off; effectively making them part of her pajamas for the night. The following morning, I woke up to Meeno’s cries. Her tears were for her rollerblades. The sight of her bare feet made her fear the worst had happened, but she soon realized that they were right beside her, and that was reason enough for her to smile.
We wanted to put them on and just start riding first thing in the morning, but in the world of the adults, things had to be done according to a schedule, and that schedule had very little room for recreation, no matter how shiny and red. Mom was sure to remind us of our daily obligations. We had to freshen ourselves up and clean the house, followed by lunch and Quraanic Studies. Finally, in the afternoon, we were free to practice our blading skills for exactly one hour. Until then, they were to stay locked in the closet. Time unraveled and showed how long a day could be when what you want most lies at its end. All we could think of was when five pm would come. That was when we would make our escape. We would roll away and leave the routine world behind us without even leaving the house.
Perfecting household chores and being able to complete them with maximum efficiency is a necessary skill for every Afghan girl. Waking up late, complaining about chores, or taking illness seriously were all unwanted qualities in a woman. This we had been told since our birth. At one point in our lives education was considered important, but things changed quickly. Now that Taliban had closed schools and our family was fleeing for our lives, education was a distant memory, especially for girls. Our mother had hoped that we would become educated women, but now we were just maids in training. She used to cry watching us sleep, fearing for our future. She was charged with leading us into the brightest possible version of the dim tomorrows ahead of us. The only future a girl has is to be married, and since no one cared for education, a wife equals little more than a live-in servant. We were too young to really care about all that because at this moment, we were among the lucky few to own rollerblades: rollerblades enchanting enough to make the future disappear and its implications immaterial.
Finally, it was five, and mother decided to unlock the closet, but before we were handed the rollerblades, it was time for another motherly lecture. First, she reminded us that we were girls, as if we didn’t know. Rollerblades and sports in general were for boys, she said, because girls were physically weak and the danger of falling and hurting oneself would make a girl useless. Baba, however, didn’t agree with that, so he decided to get us rollerblades, and no one could say no to Baba. Even Mom, who didn’t agree with Baba on most subjects, would never dare say it to him, so we were the main targets of her venting. She reminded us that rollerblading injuries could cause us to lose our virginity if we tripped or spread our legs too far apart. Lastly, she informed us that being a great rollerblader was not a quality that people looked for in a good wife. These blades were not to affect the quality of our chores, and of course, we were not allowed to use them outside. Outside was never an option because girls had to stay at home anyway, but she felt the need to address it regardless. Meeno and I eagerly agreed to every condition without question because we just wanted mom to finish her lecture; the longer she continued, the less time we would have to play. We also knew that if we broke a rule, Baba would be there to help us out. At last, we had half an hour of rollerblading in the hallway in front of the living room. This half hour was probably the most physically painful one of our lives. It consisted of constant falls, scrapes, scratches, and bleeding, but also endless laughs. This was heaven. To me, these rollerblades were more than toys; they were freedom.
Unbelievably, in one month and an area of 24 square feet, we learned not only how to rollerblade, but even a few tricks. Now, we were professionals. Our cousin, a boy, would come over and get lessons from us. This was a success beyond all measure, but Mom grew unhappy as we started falling behind on our Quranic studies. Our one hour of play time was soon increased to two hours; Baba advocated that, but only as long as we completed all of our chores. This didn’t sit well with my mother and the rest of the women in the family.. They bickered and complained about us not cleaning properly or not paying attention to cooking and laundry. For us, all this was normal, so we didn’t pay too much attention to it.
Days went by, and we kept falling more in love with our rollerblades. It was very rare for us to go out anywhere. Meeno, since she was younger, would sometimes accompany Mom to the bazaar or go hiking in the nearby mountains with Baba. For me, home was it. I used to dream of becoming a rollerblading champion and the first Afghan woman to do so. But I wouldn’t dare tell anyone because not only was it impossible; it would also make me sound flippant and whimsical. My duty, now that I was twelve, was to master the art of cooking, cleaning, sewing, and learning the Quraan. I enjoyed none of those things, but I had no choice, so I accepted my place and feigned passion about them all.
More and more, family members complained about our occupation with the rollerblades. The complaints ranged from, the rollerblades being loud or un-Islamic to the fact that people were talking. We grew weary of the constant morality lectures and continued warning of us jeopardizing our futures with our ability to roll around in shoes on wheels.
Our play days were cut back to only Fridays, and this time Baba couldn’t do much because the entire family wanted that. We knew that the day was close: the day when they would be taken away from us forever. After our increasingly rare play sessions we would stare at them, not knowing if we would ever get to see them again. Our dream was fading away. It would be just like when our other toys were taken away from us. Now, these would go away soon and what remained was homemaking, fine needle work, and endless lectures. We grew resentful of our brothers and male cousins. They got everything we didn’t. They could go outside, take English classes, ride bikes, and play sports, and the list continued. Girls had to memorize the Quraan and follow Islam, while men had the authority to enforce the rules of Islam on girls, even if they themselves didn’t know anything about Islam. While all this seemed extremely wrong, we somehow understood why it was like that. Whether our understanding came from our helplessness and defeat or simply resignation and acceptance of the pitfalls of this life, we will never know.
As we had predicted, the day eventually arrived. One morning our mother decided to sit us down for yet another lecture. This time it was about packing our rollerblades to be given away to our male cousin. The moment finally came, and while we wanted to cry, we knew there was no point. Part of growing up in that world, or any world, was taking the ups and downs with maturity. We tasted freedom, and although we wished it would last forever, we understood that our training had to continue. And so they rolled out of my life forever, never to be seen again, but always leaving a taste of liberty in my heart.
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