While on my . drove bicycle along the coastal path I felt the warm breeze brushing through my hair.
moved from Pakistan to the Pacific Northwest for work in 2021, seeing women cycling gives me a sense of happiness and satisfaction.
But the pleasure I feel riding next to them is bittersweet. It’s hard to imagine that women in my home country can enjoy such basic pleasure without being harassed or called cat.
I grew up in Pakistan around many misogynist stereotypes so deeply ingrained in the culture that I didn’t even recognize them until I was in my late twenties. Unfortunately, the stigma still surrounds women who participate in activities that men dominate.
The representation of women in sport in Pakistan is significantly less than that of men, as are the physical training opportunities. According to a report by the Pakistan Bureau of Statistics, only 25% of the total 48.7% of Pakistani women make up the country’s workforce.
Among the many things that are frowned upon, cycling is one of them.
It is not common to see a woman riding a two-wheeler in Pakistan, whether for: commutingexercise or recreation.
The act is culturally unusual, so much so that female passengers on motorcycles don’t ride with their legs apart. Instead, they keep both legs on one side of the bike, increasing the risk of falling.
I grew up in a liberal and educated family and my parents never encouraged the misogyny that plagued our society. But they never challenged it either.
From simple things like learning to swim or ride a bike, to strictly not talking about my monthly menstrual cycle with every male member of the family, even as a child I faced many limitations.
I never doubted it at the time. I’ve never had any role models to look up to, nor have I seen many women riding a bicycle.
I came face to face with the bitter reality of the culture I grew up in when I was 26 International women’s Day in 2018. It was then when the first-ever Aurat march took place in Karachi – a peaceful gathering of women to fight patriarchal society.
I joined the march out of curiosity, as it was a first of its kind public gathering of women in the country where they set out to demand equal rights in society.
We came together from all walks of life with banners and banners in support of our rights in Pakistan.
Among the sea of people, one banner in particular caught my attention: ‘Normalize women on bicycles,’ it said.
It was as if a light bulb had been lit and my head was filled with questions.
Why didn’t women drive in Pakistan? Why did I never learn to drive when I was young? And what kept me from learning such a basic skill?
That day reality hit me like a brick. I was left horrified, searching for answers to questions I never thought I’d ask before.
Angry and confused, I started searching the internet for motivation. While researching, I came across Zenith Irfan on Instagram – believed to be Pakistan’s first woman to ride solo across the country on a motorcycle.
Her videos of riding alone in the wilderness of mountains in the far reaches of the country inspired me to travel further someday a bicycle – and female altitude cyclist Samar Khan made headlines by putting in an astonishing feat of riding to the base camp of K2, the second highest mountain in the world.
These women inspired me to learn to ride against all odds. “How hard can it be?” I wondered optimistically. My goal at the time was to challenge the stereotype for my own satisfaction, not to remain part of an absurd cultural norm.
But standing up to a deep-seated stigma wasn’t easy at all.
I practiced with some friends in the early morning hours on a bike I borrowed from my cousin on an empty street, so I didn’t attract much attention, but I did get some looks from passers-by.
Supportive smiles, thumbs up and confused looks I received on good days; on bad days, I was often called names and sometimes even laughed at when I struggled to keep my balance or fell on my face.
Initially, my family and friends were quite surprised by my decision, but throughout my learning journey they were very supportive and encouraging.
It took me about a week of regular practice to finally maintain my balance and ride effortlessly. But the day I finally learned to ride without swerving or tripping, I felt strong and powerful.
To take the challenge to the next level, I learned to ride a motorcycle. A male friend lent me his bike and taught me how to ride it. Within a month I was able to drive smoothly and safely in traffic. I applied for a driver’s license after training and drove in public after getting one.
Before moving to Canada last year, I often rode my motorcycle for commuting and recreation. I also inspired my sisters to ride and trained them on my bike.
My journey from collect the courage to drive, learn it and finally be able to drive free was a nerve-wracking but exhilarating experience.
I got a lot of curious looks on the road. There were times when I was followed, or harassed by guys who deliberately drive recklessly around me to scare me off.
But instead of stopping me, it just encouraged me to keep going. I wanted to inspire more women.
Driving for women in Canada is the exact opposite. No one turns a blind eye, yells or harass the female riders here. They are instead treated like any other rider or driver on the road.
After seeing how normalized it is in Canada for women to cycle or motorcycles, I feel more determined than ever to bring about this change in Pakistan when I go back.
I won’t give up on destroying these misogynistic gender stereotypes with one pedal stroke at a time.
Anticipating a day when cycling and motorcycling will become normalized for women in Pakistan feels like a climb. However, I’m still hopeful that if more women muster the courage to challenge such cultural norms, we can roll them back for good.
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