This is part one of Mama Asia, a long-form journalism series in which Sally Sara meets 12 inspirational Asian women.

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.

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.

Liberty for women

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.'

"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.

I will always keep working and try to achieve my goals ... I want to be known as one of the best pilots in Afghanistan.

Life behind the burka

By 2000 the family decided to leave the misery of the camps of Peshawar behind and return to Afghanistan. A lot had changed in the four years they had been away. Taliban rule was now in place. Women were not allowed to leave their home without a male relative. But women with infant sons were able to go out in the street because a baby boy had a higher status than his mother. The infant was regarded as a 'protector' for an adult female.

Latifa saw her city through the filter of a burka. She was forced to cover up because of fears about being beaten by Taliban enforcers. She felt frustrated, hopeless and angry.

"It is very difficult to see with that mesh across your face. I could only focus through one hole.

"I am not that ugly that I needed to hide my face. It was very depressing. Even inside a woman's bus at that time - buses were separate for women and men - the Taliban would not allow the women to lift up the burka. If one of them did that, they would come and beat all the women. So, we would not allow each other to lift the burka up."

The first sounds of change came from the sky a year later. On October 7, 2001 the US and its allies launched missile strikes as part of their response to the September 11 attacks only a few weeks earlier. The explosions shook Kandahar, Kabul and other sites across the country.

Educated Afghans knew military action from the US was imminent. But many others, without access to newspapers or television, heard the sound of the missiles long before they ever heard about September 11. Some still don't know what happened on September 11. The television pictures of the Twin Towers in New York City, seared into the memories of many Americans, didn't reach some Afghans living in poverty and isolation.

"I am very sad about the situation in Afghanistan. If we didn't have wars, we could have developed a lot. We would not be as poor as we are now. We are spending too much money on fighting. We have to spend more on education, on health, but we are not doing that."

Latifa wanted to dedicate her life to flying but her parents had their own wishes. Her mother gave her a picture of a doctor's aide named Mohammed Homayon; a marriage was arranged in 2004. Latifa soon found out the photo had been taken when her husband was much younger. But she didn't mind; she thought he was brave to wed a female pilot.

"He had the courage to marry me. He was very calm and quiet and I used to talk a lot."

A husband was also arranged for Laliuma. The sisters continued to fly after their marriages.

In 2006, Laliuma and Latifa became pregnant within a few weeks of each other. They hid their pregnancies from their commanders so they could continue flying for as long as possible.

"Two is always better than one. If my sister was not there, I could not have fought for my rights. I had lots of courage because she was with me," Latifa says.

Lifelong lottery

Giving birth is one of the most dangerous experiences in an Afghan woman's life, because of the high number of maternal deaths. Most women don't have access to medical care during pregnancy and delivery. Up to 86 per cent have no trained help when they give birth. It's a lifelong lottery - mothers have a one in 11 chance of dying each time they deliver. On average they will give birth six times in their lifetime.

Laliuma and Latifa were lucky. They were highly educated and had access to the best medical care in Kabul. But even that wasn't enough. Laliuma underwent a Caesarian section.

Life in Afghanistan Population 28,150,000

(UN 2009) GDP per capita $US456

(UN 2009) Female labour force participation 33 per cent

(UN 2009) Internet users per 100 people 3.6

(UN 2009) Population aged 0 – 14 years 45.9 per cent

(UN 2010) Life expectancy at birth

(2010-2015) 45.5 years

(UN est.) Live births per woman 6.3

(UN est.) Lifetime maternal mortality risk 1 in 11

(UNICEF 2008) Civilians killed in conflict

(Jan-Jun 2012) 1,145

"She was operated on by an inexperienced doctor. The doctor cut her abdominal arteries and she lost lots of blood. Her blood group was O-negative. The blood is rare. They brought lots of blood for her and even NATO forces helped.

"The doctors did not tell me she was dying. But when they removed the oxygen masks and drips, we felt something was wrong. The doctors just went away. We were very shocked."

Laliuma died. She was 34 years old. Despite her brilliance in the skies, her determination and courage, she fell to a danger that takes so many women in Afghanistan. She lost her life while she was bringing new life into the world. Her newborn daughter Mariam survived.

"Sometimes the woman dies and sometimes the baby dies. We hope and wish that someday all Afghan women have good health and no one will die from giving birth," Latifa says.

Latifa also gave birth to a daughter, Malalai. She did her best to care for both newborns. Malalai and Mariam were nursed together.

"I looked after my sister's baby, I breastfed her. I was very sad and I was thinking a lot. It was quite difficult to feed them and look after them. They used to sleep together and cry together. I would cry sometimes and ask, how did this happen."

Eventually it was too much. Latifa couldn't breastfeed both babies. Her tiny niece, Mariam, was looked after by her grandmother, who lived far away.

Latifa returned to work a few months later, still deep in grief. It was the first time she'd been without her sister, Laliuma. She had to fight the discrimination of her commanders on her own.

"I was very sad. Every day when I went to the office, I had to sign-in an attendance book. Her name was above mine. Whenever I saw her name, I would feel like fainting."

Latifa Nabizada became Afghanistan's first female military helicopter pilot. ( ABC News: Sally Sara )

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."

Now Malalai is only a few months away from starting school. She loves flying with her mother and already says she wants to be a pilot.

"She sits in the cockpit. She sits very quiet and calmly and sometimes asks questions about everything. She is just like me."

Latifa shakes her head when I ask what Afghanistan will be like when Malalai finishes school.

"After foreign forces go, if the government doesn't pay attention Afghan women will fall down again."

Enacting change

Latifa is deeply religious, which almost seems contradictory. Islam shapes her beliefs and behaviour. It has given her a lot of comfort and guidance in difficult times. Despite her dislike for the burka, she wears a head scarf by choice and is proud to do so. She doesn't see any reason why Islam and women's rights can't co-exist.

"In Islam, there is no rule that a woman cannot become a pilot, she can do it with her body covered.

"I love my religion. I want women to be able to choose any profession but stick to their religious values. I love the head scarf and I always say prayers.

"Sometimes people warn me not to go to a particular place because the situation is not good. But I fly there and change the situation. I will keep trying my best until my last flight before retirement. I want to be known as one of the best pilots in Afghanistan."

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.

Malalai wriggles around on the sofa as Latifa and I talk. She's followed up her coffee with a big glass of Pepsi. The caffeine is kicking in. Malalai sits next to me, giggling while I take photos with my phone. Her name comes with a lot of meaning and history in Afghanistan. Malalai of Maiwand was a young Pashtun woman who rallied local fighters in a battle against British troops near Kandahar in 1880. It's a name of strength and courage.

We finish talking and Latifa and Malalai put on their coats, ready to go back out into the December cold. We shake hands.

Latifa and I were born only a few weeks apart in 1971, me in Port Pirie, South Australia and she in Kabul. Her life has been folded in the deep creases of conflict and uncertainty of Afghanistan. But she has hope for the future.

"We should be confident that we are not only women, we are human beings. We have all the abilities like a man and we should believe in ourselves and trust in our abilities. We should work hard and achieve our goals.

In pictures: Sally Sara's Afghanistan Sally Sara's photos capture the faces and places of Afghanistan from her two-year stint as the ABC's correspondent in the war-torn country. View gallery

"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."

Sally Sara is an award-winning ABC journalist who has reported from more than 30 countries, including Afghanistan, Iraq, Sierra Leone and Zimbabwe.

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Latifa's story is the first of 11 articles in Sally Sara's Mama Asia series.

Next month, meet Venerable Bhikkhuni Dhammananda, who left behind her high-profile lifestyle as an outspoken academic and television presenter to become a pioneering Buddhist monk.

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