Source: ABC.net.au
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"My name is Latifa. I am Colonel. I am an active helicopter pilot in the Afghan Air Force.
I wish to become a very good pilot and train other women to become pilots.
I have a five-year-old daughter who has been flying with me since she was two months of age. This is because there is nobody to look after her in the Air Force. I am trying to convince them to have a kindergarten, so women can be calm and do their job very well.
My message to other women in the world is that they should work hard to achieve their goals. They should be ambitious and have confidence in themselves. They should stand by Afghan women and share their experiences with Afghan women."
Latifa Nabizada
All I can see is an eye. The guard squints at me through the peep-hole of a heavy steel gate. He opens it cautiously, making way for me to walk through. He has an AK-47 assault rifle slung over the shoulder of his heavy coat. The guard doesn't search me because I'm female. He opens a second gate, designed to protect the restaurant from suicide bombers, and I'm escorted inside.
The restaurant is in a converted house with big windows, paintings on the wall and 1970s angular furniture with coloured cushions. It's clean and light-filled. I wonder which family lived here in better times, before the bomb gates and the guards. I sit on a sofa in the corner of one of the rooms, watching Afghans and foreign aid workers chatting quietly over lunch.
Latifa Nabizada arrives and the first thing I notice are her feet. She's wearing hiking boots speckled with the grey mud from outside. It's not the usual footwear for women in Kabul, who typically trudge around icy puddles and ditches in thin court shoes and socks. Latifa is dressed to keep warm, not to keep up with fashion - there's something practical and confident about her.
Her five-year-old daughter Malalai holds her hand. She's a small, quick-eyed girl with dark hair and a small birthmark near her eyebrow. It's a strange thing to say but it kind of suits her she's a different sort of kid. When I ask Malalai what she wants to drink, she confidently replies that she'd like a coffee. It's not the answer I'm expecting from a five-year-old but Latifa nods that it's okay. It's not long before Malalai is wriggling next to me, inspecting my hands and pressing the buttons on my digital running watch.
Malalai has seen more of Afghanistan than many of the white-bearded men who run this country. She's been travelling in the cockpit of military helicopters since she was two months old; her mother is an Afghan army pilot. The military didn't provide any childcare because there are so few female pilots. So Malalai has tagged along with her mum on missions across the country. If the Afghan military had a frequent flyer program, Malalai would be a platinum member.
"I am always worried about my daughter," Latifa says. "I want to fly very calmly. I don't want Malalai to get dizzy and suffer a lot. I have told them many times that we need a kindergarten for the military ladies but they did not take any action."
Latifa and Malalai are not just mother and daughter - they are friends, senior and junior. Latifa speaks gently to her daughter, in the same tone she uses with adults. They both wear jeans and boots. Latifa has a chequered scarf to cover her head. Malalai adjusts it if she sees it slipping off.
Latifa grew up in the 1970s, when the thought of being a female military pilot was still a fantasy. She and her friends used to sit on an old water drum and pretend they were cruising the skies.
"When I saw the birds fly in the sky, it was a dream for me. I wondered if it was also possible for me to fly some day," Latifa says.
Latifa lived a middle-class childhood of jeans and sneakers, she followed the hairstyles and fashions of Iranian celebrities. The family endured the arrival and eventual departure of Russian troops and the bitter political and ethnic battles that followed. But the days of the Taliban were still a long way off.
"The women used to wear short skirts. They were not covered. I remember that. There was a lot more liberty for women.
"I used to go to the beauty parlour. I was 14 or 15 years old at that time. I used to wear a hat to hide it. At that time, there was a famous Iranian pop singer called Googoosh, I wanted to look like her. While cooking in the kitchen, I used to sing the songs and act like her."
Latifa and her younger sister Laliuma were determined to become military pilots. Their father had just returned home from six years in jail after being accused of being a member of the Mujahadeen. He was thin and brittle from his time in prison. But as a former government official, he valued education. He wanted to see his daughters soar.
The military wasn't so welcoming. Latifa and her sister were refused entry. The army doctor told them they had heart and hearing problems, even though they didn't.
"They failed us on our medical examinations three times."
The sisters passed a civilian doctor's medical check and fought their way in as the first women admitted to the Afghan military flight school in 1989.
"I was happy but very, very angry. We went with lots of anger, we had a very big fight with them. When there is competition, men never want women to be higher than them."
Some of the male trainees threw small stones and insults at their new female classmates. Latifa and Laliuma sheltered in the library between lessons and were escorted to the classroom, only after the teacher had arrived.
"We were the only girls in that class and there were 72 boys. We were very scared. The boys were very badly behaved, I thought they would eat us in five minutes. But we studied hard."
There were no uniforms for female pilots so Latifa and Laliuma sewed their own tunics and trousers. Despite the discrimination and intimidation from their male classmates, they topped the class.
"During exams, the boys were examined by the teachers but we were examined by a committee of teachers. They used to ask lots of questions to convince themselves that a woman could be a pilot and score higher than the boys. They were embarrassed that a girl could be more intelligent than them. I was very happy on graduation day and I hoped all my difficulties had ended."
It was December 1989; Latifa and Laliuma shared rooms and ambitions. Later, when an opportunity came up for Afghan pilots to do some training in neighbouring Pakistan, the sisters volunteered.
"My sister Laliuma got up and said, 'If you want to send the pride of Afghanistan then send us, because we are women and we are pilots. We work hard and can show them what an Afghan woman can do.'
"But the General said, 'You should be happy just to be sitting in front of me. My daughters are still in the village, they are illiterate - they don't even know about lipstick.'
"At that time I was not dreaming of flying. At that time I was only thinking about getting food and staying alive. Surviving was more important."
"I was very angry. In Afghanistan, men feel they are very powerful. This is the culture. Men think they have the right to control everything. I say to those women who want to be pilots now - be strong.
"We were the first women who faced all of this. If we could, then you also can. Nobody can stop you."
In 1996 the rights of Afghan women slipped even further. Latifa and her family fled to the northern city of Mazar-i-Sharif only a week before the Taliban captured Kabul. The sisters shared a government apartment but their sanctuary was short lived. One of their former colleagues left the Air Force and defected to the Taliban. He arrived at their door and delivered a letter warning they had 24 hours to leave or they would be killed.
Latifa, Laliuma and their family joined thousands of others escaping across the mountains to Pakistan. They left with what they could carry, and put themselves in the hands of guides and smugglers to reach safety. Latifa was no longer a pilot, she was a refugee. She sat in a dark, dusty workshop in Peshawar with dozens of other women, weaving carpets for a few dollars a month.
"At that time I was not dreaming of flying. At that time I was only thinking about getting food and staying alive. Surviving was more important.
"There were six of us girls and we used to weave very long carpets. It would take us three months.
"There was a little boy working with us and his fingers did not grow well because of the weaving. Life was like this. We had no other option and no hope."
By the end of 1996, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees estimated there were 1.2 million Afghan refugees in Pakistan. The exodus became part of the story of many Afghan families. For Latifa, it was lost time but she knew she needed to keep quiet. There were whispers around the refugee camp that the Taliban was looking for the famous sisters who flew helicopters. Old pictures of Latifa and Laliuma also appeared in the local paper but they kept quiet to stay alive.
There was some comfort in the clouds. Latifa was back in the cockpit, flying Russian-built Mi-17 helicopters. She transported supplies, soldiers, hospital patients and VIPs across Afghanistan. She was doing what she loved.
"When you get further away from Kabul it becomes more beautiful. The mountains, forests look very beautiful."
There was no childcare available at the military base, her husband was working and her mother lived a long distance away so Latifa brought her baby daughter, Malalai, with her in the helicopter.
"I made a bed for her in the cabin. My daughter used to sleep on my shoulder. It was quite tiring for me.
"It is the government's duty to provide facilities for all women. I couldn't do my job very well because I had to look after my child. I did not give birth to any other children because I did not want another one to suffer like this."
"Once, I went to a rural area. When one of the soldiers saw that I was a woman pilot he beat his rifle into the ground and said, 'In Afghanistan, a woman is a pilot but I am still illiterate.'
"I felt very sorry for him. I told him not to be depressed, I told him, 'You are still young and you can study.'
"Education is the basic thing for the development of a nation. If illiteracy was not here in Afghanistan and everyone was educated, nobody would want to destroy this country.
"I want Malalai to attend school, to learn computers and English. In the future, if she wants to become a pilot, I would love her to be an astronaut and be the first woman from Afghanistan to go to space.
"When anybody asks Malalai whose daughter are you, she never says her father's name. She says, I am the daughter of Latifa the pilot."
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