Vivid are my earliest recollections, which take be back to the time when I was nine, living with my family in our native country of Saudi Arabia. I was the only child; and being a girl during a time of war, I was one alone in the world. It was hard-very hard indeed…and yet my mother would never fail to provide, on special occasions, a surprise for me, in the shape of some treat. I can still remember my enthusiasm when, on one birthday, I heard that we were going to celebrate by going to the stable- a luxury that only happened once a year. I had been riding several times before, but this would be the very first time I would fall off.

He was unimpressive; a small stallion with a coat that was a patchwork of several different colors. But I still felt unspeakably happy beside my mother, her one arm tenderly enclosing my waist and the other handing me her black riding cap from when she was a little girl. “Look, he’s so happy to be seeing you again. Go on, he’s anxious to be ridden,” my mother said, as she helped me climb onto its strong back, that familiar comfort.

Abu had been my mother’s horse from when she was just a girl living in the countryside. As soon as I mounted, I became very grave and attentive, eager to commence, moved for one of the few times in my life by the call of Adventure. Together we rode on into the dense forest where the trails I was quite acquainted with lay, but to me- it was still as much of an exploration. I marveled at the rich, late-morning sunlight that filtered in through the openings among the high trees that towered before me, as well as the bright persona of life that hummed all around.

As the day began to set, and Abu and I were on our way back to the stable I remember hiding my face in my hands when the sound of three distinct gunshots suddenly pierced through the air. And with the passing of seconds, they came on stronger and closer, several at a time. Before I could even comprehend what exactly was happening, I found myself crashing onto the rough floor of the forest; Abu disappearing off into the distance. And at that second of time, before I was consumed entirely by unconsciousness, I remember hearing my screams echo as they penetrated the thick air: and with them I released all of the grievances that had been aimed at me and accumulated within my empty heart ever since the beginnings of my existence. I will always remember that night.
When my body was uncovered among the thickets and brought to the hospital, I was living in a haze. I remember being laid onto the stretcher, the bright light above blinding my vision. I could trace out the figures of several hushed faces that were hovering over me, and the ones that gasped as they happened to pass by. Only when I had uncovered enough of my mind to realize, that the red pit in my body was actually a gaping wound that ran the entire length from the beginning of my stomach to the bottom of my leg- did I realize- I was truly lucky to be alive.

Us being an educated, well-off family during this time of political unrest with my father working in government affairs, my mother and I had always stood out. But with my new impairment, my mother had begun to be chastised everywhere she went; and even when she wheeled me to the mosque for service every Friday, we got a typical round of shaken heads and hard glares in our direction. Despite having grown up as a peasant in the countryside, my mother had been educated, and with her remained a will of a warrior. My father was an English translator for the Saudi Arabian government; but having traveled much when I was a young girl, we were two against the world. My mother and I had been called our fair share of names; we had been questioned as being “rebels”, and with learning that I had been horse riding- there were added snickers of us supposedly, “cursing the Muslim community.” To the neighborhood women, we were to be disregarded at all means.

Due to my needed time for rehabilitation, my mother took up the task of teaching me at home. I was glad for this, for just like the mothers, the children had also always shunned me. And so, for those solitary days of my childhood, I remained at home most of the time- going out only for a weekly prayer, and when I healed, to the neighborhood playground and market with my mother. Although it was quiet- I was occupied. Being a voracious reader, my life was immersed within the adventure I gained from fantasy- transporting myself to all corners of the globe. One day as I sat reading on the back deck, my mother asked with a smile, “How would you like to go out and try to play with the other little girls in the courtyard?”

“Oh,” I replied, “I should prefer to continue on my voyage across the Mediterranean as the pretty lady does who plays the part of the queen in this story. One day I shall go out and do great things as well, and my voice will make a difference.”

My mother muttered that I was her silly little dear, and never suspected that it was that idea that would ultimately guide me throughout my life. I knew thatthere would come my time. For now, I just had to wait.

By the time I was eighteen, my family and I had immigrated to England due to the danger that had arisen with the political unrest plaguing Saudi Arabia. I was accepted to Cambridge where my father also worked as an English professor. It was during my first year there that I meant by best friend Dalma. Dalma was bold. How exactly we two meshed together- being complete opposites- was the pure work destiny. I do remember though how we first met. It was a delightfully warm day during that fall, when I was enjoying a memoir of  Maha Akeel-a favorite of mine among all books, and one which I had already read countless times. Waiting for my father on a bench outside of his office, I remember being surprised as I noticed a girl walking past me stop in her tracks. We met eyes and she waved. I admit that I was to an extent, pretty stunned by the warm gesture, as she took the seat next to me and began to talk. On that little bench underneath the dogwood tree, we sat together in deep conversation for what seemed like only one pure moment of joy at the time. We had actually been there for three hours. It was the first time in my life I had felt the satisfaction of saying what was on my mind to someone who genuinely cared. During the journey home, I kept repeating her head in my name and promised myself to remember that feeling of delight brewing within me because I had a friend. We were two in the world.

Dalma was everything I had always wanted to be. She was brave. She was daring. She was fearless. Dalma was also from Saudi Arabia, and had come to Cambridge with a scholarship to study abroad as well as pursue her dream of becoming an Olympic equestrian. When I was with her, nothing could shake me and everything that I had to say didn’t have to get bottled up. Together we took classes on political science, psychology, and literature- and within me a newly found love for learning was fostered. The accepting, yet demanding atmosphere continually pushed me deeper: to think, to understand, and most importantly- to question. That’s when Dalma and I discovered our newly found interest in women’s rights.
“Did you even consider my feelings when you thought it would be a good idea to bring me here?” I asked Dalma; immediately looking away, secretly worried to look into her eyes to see that I may have lost my first and only friend as I slammed the door of her car. That very night before crawling submissively into bed, I lifted up the bottom of my shirt- revealing the scar left over from when I had fallen off of Abu. Dalma had taken me to the stable at Cambridge for my nineteenth birthday- a reminder of the terror I had worked so hard this previous year to put behind me.

Dalma and I made up soon after that, but I proceeded onward with a noticeable confined behavior. As we passed our first and second years of undergraduate, we became more and more involved with advocating for women’s rights. We attended seminars and rallies and soon we began to speak at them- focusing on the restrictions of females in the Middle East. And when our partnership finally began to build up steam, it was over. Everything we had worked for, every word we had ever said with all the compassion in our hearts hadn’t meant a thing. And before it had gotten anywhere, it was over. According to Muslim tradition, Dalma was to get married. There was nothing we could do about it. Custom had won again.

“Medina, do you still remember the day we first met?” asked Dalma, her eyes still shining strong although the bags underneath showing a sign of defeat.

“Of course I do. I love to remember that evening,” as my lips began to quiver.

“As long as you never forget, I promise I never will. And if we do exactly that, our friendship will never fade.” I couldn’t get myself to say anything back before I gave over to weakness and tears poured out of my eyes.

“How will you ever accomplish your dreams if you have to go back to Saudi Arabia? Isn’t there something we can do?” I asked her, longing for the comforting words she never ran out of.

“Things will play out as destined by fate. My parents need me to go back home to get married. They’ve already allowed me to come to England for three years now. It’s more than I could’ve ever imagined they’d give me. But it’s becoming too much of a burden for them. It’s been three years without a win for me. They can’t pay for me any longer, and I don’t have any money. I’m going to get married,” Dalma replied her eyes wandering off into the sunset. It was a warm evening that I remember sitting next to her, as we said our goodbyes. She asked me if I could play the rababa for her once more. I tightened my bow of the instrument which used to be my most prized possession, and filled the night that had turned cold, with the warmth of music.

The last glimpse I ever had of Dalma was at her wedding, two weeks after she left Cambridge. She was as beautiful as always, with her long black hair flowing from beneath her headscarf. I had gone back to Saudi Arabia to accompany her, and before she left off with her husband that she did not get to meet before the wedding- I remember catching her sweet face. That moment still remains strong in my mind. Her face was strong and composed but characterized by another feeling that I couldn’t pinpoint at that moment.  It was not until it was too late that I realized her expressions were silently signaling: help. It was directed at me.

The date of Dalma’s funeral was precisely two months after the date of her wedding. Dalma had gotten involved with an underground athletic league in which she continued her pursuit of becoming an equestrian. Soon after though, it was uncovered by the Saudi government and marked as an illegal practice. There were three bullet wounds taken to her head. The government filed her death as a means of “putting down a struggle after refusing to be arrested”.

But I know the truth. That one late evening when I first heard those gunshots, it was also the Saudi Arabian government. Had I not been a minor, the government would have said the same thing about my passing. But when Abu had flung me to the floor, it was not because he was running off to save himself. I realized when recalling that day, that he had knocked me off so that I wouldn’t have gotten hit. He had taken the shots. Abu had saved my life. 

For the past ten years after committing the greatest regret of my life, I have directed myself solely to finishing what Dalma and I had started those many years ago when we were both just young, innocent women in college with a dreams to aspire for. Now, I am head of the Human Rights Watch Committee and my words have reverberated all throughout the Middle East. Just last month, I spoke at the TED conference, where I have told this story. And with much support, Saudi Arabia is now required to be sending female athletes to the next Olympics in London. Although my days of horse-riding are much over, I will be attending as the first women Saudi official-- in tribute of my lost friend.

Just as everyone, I have had my low periods- those times when you feel just as if everything is about to fall apart and your dreams reach a higher level of impossibility. But I never forget my motive. I always go back to that warm, autumn day when I met Dalma and feel the warmth that stirred within me when I knew that I had met my first friend. Who would have thought that she would be the one to permanently alter the course of my life? I love to remember that day.

Medina, being my first name, meaning: the prophet’s city; I was destined to shake the continuum of time, and I know that my impact has been felt. However, I have not come as far as I am standing here today- without blessings. One of them, being a girl during a time of terror within a nation otherwise so beautiful, was nurture and teaching by a family in which a million thanks could not suffice; and a second is the gift of a friendship that still endears and empowers me today.