My Name Is Parvana

by Deborah Ellis

  “Here is the kindergarten room,” she said, opening the door into a small, bright, colorful room with mats on the floor and a few toys along the side. “Children up to the age of six are in this room. They will learn songs, how to wash their hands, basic counting, how to write their names, things like that.”

  “Will they learn how to pray?” a man in the back of the group asked.

  “Um, yes, they will.” Parvana was surprised by the question and did not have a smooth answer ready. “They will also get three meals a day, prepared in the school kitchen …”

  “And who will teach them to pray?” The man at the back barked the question at her.

  “We have excellent teachers on staff.”

  “Women! Women will teach them to pray?”

  “Um … we will invite the imam to come to teach them,” Parvana replied, but she didn’t feel good about her answer. It felt like she was agreeing with the man, that women teachers were not good enough.

  “We will also be teaching first-aid and simple nursing,” Parvana said. “Real medical professionals will be teaching us. The plan is that every girl will have good knowledge of basic health care by the time she graduates. It could help her get a job and will be good for her family and community.”

  They moved on to another classroom.

  “We have grades one to three in this room,” she said.

  This was the class her sister Nooria was going to teach. It had three big tables for the students to sit around to do their lessons. The tables could be pushed to the side to make room for games and exercises and story time.

  “They will learn to read and write and do simple arithmetic. They will learn about the animals and plants of Afghanistan, the names of the provinces and about other countries, and how to be a good citizen.”

  Parvana knew all this because Nooria had talked of little else for months, poring over every education book she could find and having long discussions with their mother.

  “We’re starting from scratch,” Nooria would say. “Everything that was here before is no good now. It all led to war and those terrible years. We have a chance to create a system that will raise a new type of Afghan child, a child with high expectations and with the confidence to rebuild the country.”

  She would go on and on about it, like she was making a speech — particularly when there were dishes to be washed or water to be fetched. But that was Nooria. Years of war had not made her act less bossy or feel less superior.

  Parvana found it annoying, but she was also a little relieved. In a world where everything could fall apart very quickly, Nooria being bossy was almost comforting.

  “Right down the hall is the middle-grade classroom,” Parvana said, and they looked into the room that was for grades four, five and six. “We’re calling the classes grades, but really they are age groups. It’s likely that everyone will be starting at the same level since all the schools have been closed for so long.”

  After that, Parvana led the group to the dining hall, which also held the few shelves of books that made up the school library. This would be the room where Parvana and the few other girls her age would study. They had different levels of education. Some had only got to the second grade, but they would feel better if they learned with girls their own age, rather than with the little kids.

  “What are these books?”

  The same man was complaining again. He held up a tattered copy of Alphabeasts, a picture book with the letters of the English alphabet represented by animals.

  “We don’t have many books yet,” Parvana said. “We have some that were donated. Most of those are in foreign languages.”

  She remembered the excitement everyone had felt when the boxes of books came in on an army truck, donated by some people in Canada. Her favorite so far was a collection of American poetry. The language was simple, so she could understand the words even if she couldn’t understand the poem. And the poems were short. She could usually get through a whole poem before her mother yelled at her to stop reading and get back to work. Parvana had helped to set up their tiny library, and had arranged each book on the shelf as if it were made of the finest china.

  “We hope to get books in our own language soon.”

  “Look at these pictures! Disgraceful!”

  He was holding the book open at one of Parvana’s favorite pictures in the whole book, M is for Mandrill. It was of a monkey waiting for a phone call.

  “We are lucky to have any books at all,” one of the other parents said, taking the book from him. “I never went to school, and now my daughter is going to this fine place. And I’ll be sure to tell her to look at this book. It will make her laugh, and I want her to laugh.”

  He replaced the book carefully on the shelf.

  The tour continued. Parvana showed them the kitchen and explained that all the students would take turns helping to prepare the meals and keep the school clean.

  “And this is the Wall of Achievement.”

  It had been Parvana’s idea to turn the large, blank wall in the dining hall into a place where girls could post pictures and stories about Afghan women and girls doing great things. Parvana had taken complete charge of it, going through the newspaper each morning and clipping out stories about girls winning science competitions or women joining the police force. In big letters she copied out phrases from the new constitution that protected women’s rights.

  In the center of the board was a photo and article about Mrs. Weera, her old friend from Kabul who had just been elected to the new Afghan parliament.

  “When classes get going, girls can put up their calligraphy or a map they have drawn well or a perfect arithmetic paper. Anything they have worked hard on and done a good job with,” Parvana told the group.

  “Doesn’t that just encourage them to be proud?” the complaining man asked.

  “Yes,” Parvana said.

  The next stop was the playground.

  “Everyone will get at least one hour of exercise each day,” she said. “Plus recess and games. We have basketball, volleyball and football, although our yard is too small for real football games. The little ones will have lots of running games.”

  “Girls should not do this,” the man said. “It is immodest. It is forbidden.”

  Parvana held her tongue and led the group across the yard to the workshop at the back.

  This was Asif’s territory.

  He was sitting at his workbench, sharpening some old tools that had been donated. He had changed out of his good shalwar kameez and had his work apron over his regular clothes. He picked up his crutch and stood respectfully when the group entered.

  Parvana introduced him.

  “This is Asif. He teaches carpentry, machine shop, car repair — all mechanical things.”

  The complaining man launched into a rant about how these were not appropriate things for girls to study. But he was cut off by Asif, who said politely, “Perhaps you would prefer to send your daughter to another school.”

  “My daughter will never go to school!” the man exclaimed. “Her place is in the home.”

  “This is a day for the parents of students,” Asif said. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”

  The man glared at Asif for a long moment. Then, with a huff, he swept himself out of the workshop.

  Asif continued as if nothing had happened.

  “Eventually we will be doing small repairs for people in the community,” he said. “We want to give students work experience and also say thank you to the village for letting us have a school here.”

  He wrapped up his talk. Parvana showed the parents the vegetable garden that she had already spent hours digging and planting, and the latrines, which were whitewashed and spotless. She had also spent hours digging these outhouses, making them extra deep to cut down on the flies and the smell.

  S
he led the group back to the party just in time to help serve pieces of cake.

  A representative from a French charity was among the foreign guests. Parvana made her way over to him with her tray of desserts. She waited patiently for him to finish his conversation with the government man. It was a long wait.

  Finally, the government man was led away to meet another foreign guest. Parvana moved in.

  The Frenchman took a piece of cake and looked surprised when Parvana didn’t leave.

  “Are there really lavender fields in France?” she asked him.

  “Lavender fields? Yes, of course. The most beautiful places! All purple. And the scent! So sweet!”

  “Have you ever seen them?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Parvana felt foolish asking her next question, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “Have you ever seen a little girl sitting in one? Well, she wouldn’t be a little girl anymore. She would be my age. I know you probably haven’t. But have you?”

  He hadn’t.

  Even if her friend Shauzia had made it out of Afghanistan, there was little chance she had gone all the way to France. And even if she had and had found a lavender field to sit in, she probably wouldn’t still be sitting there, years later.

  But Parvana could see it in her mind — Shauzia, just as she last saw her when they said goodbye in Kabul. She would be sitting among the purple flowers, with the sun shining and everything quiet.

  Parvana could only hold that picture in her head for a moment before it disappeared, and she wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, what had happened to her friend.

  When the reception was over, the chairs back in place, the guests and students gone, Parvana sat at one of the dining-hall tables with her family — her mother, her sisters and her two adopted brothers.

  Everyone was busy with some little project. Mother was working on the finances. Nooria was working on her lesson plans. Maryam was drawing pictures of dresses she would like to wear when she became a singing star. Asif was trying to teach Hassan how to write his name.

  It was peaceful. Everyone was all right.

  Maybe Shauzia is in a lavender field in France, Parvana thought, but it couldn’t be any nicer than right here, right now.

  “I don’t want to be anywhere else,” she said out loud.

  “What are you babbling about?” Asif asked.

  Parvana almost hugged him.

  FIVE

  They made Parvana stand for a very long time.

  Her back was two inches from the wall, and whenever she appeared to be leaning against it, they would yell at her to stand up straight. She had to keep pretending not to understand. When they got tired of yelling, they would move her away from the wall themselves.

  The man and woman in uniform kept staring at her as she stood. Every now and then they would ask, “What is your name?” and “What were you doing in that school?”

  She didn’t answer, and the periods of silence grew longer and longer.

  To pass the time, the man started to clean his weapon. Parvana watched him take apart the gun, polish it up and put it back together again.

  Asif could do that better than you, she thought, although he wouldn’t have wasted his time on guns. Engines were his thing. He had started learning about engines in the refugee camp he and Parvana had ended up in. He hung around the clinic and helped take care of the truck. Every foreigner he met, he asked about their car, asked to see under the hood and asked if they needed someone to keep the car clean. He even managed to earn a little bit of money that way.

  And he learned to read.

  Parvana remembered the conversation they had about it.

  They were sitting on a small hill overlooking the camp.

  “Your mother says if I’m going to be part of your family,” Asif said, “I have to learn to read.”

  “That sounds like something Mother would say,” Parvana replied.

  “You probably think you’re really special, with all that reading and writing you do.”

  “You should try it,” Parvana said.

  “You say that because you think I won’t be able to, don’t you? You’d love it if I tried and couldn’t do it. You want to keep all the reading and writing for yourself. You’d probably hate it if I could read and write as well as you do.”

  Parvana waited. She knew what was coming.

  “I’m going to learn,” Asif said. “Just to annoy you.”

  He stood up right then and went back down to the camp to find Parvana’s mother and get his first lesson.

  A soldier brought food into the little room and gave it to the major and the interpreter. Parvana could smell the grilled meat from the hamburgers they bit into. They didn’t offer her any.

  “Talk,” the man said. “Talk, then eat.”

  Parvana kept silent. She’d been hungry before.

  The questions started up again after they finished eating.

  “What is your name? Who are your friends? What were you doing in that school? Why won’t you talk to us? What are you hiding?”

  Parvana closed her ears. She tried to send her mind somewhere else. She tried to think about how exciting it was to wake up early each morning at the school and find a quiet place to read before her mother got up and the work started. She tried to think about how much she loved seeing the students come to school every morning. She would often stand at the gate with Mr. Fahir, the chowkidar, and say hello as they arrived, all clean and brushed, their white chadors washed overnight and pressed under their mattresses.

  The girls would sometimes come on their own in a group, walking together for protection against the stares and insults. Usually they came with an adult — a mother or father or aunt or uncle — whoever was taking care of them. The parent would watch them go through the gate and keep watching long after the girl had gone inside.

  Parvana knew without asking — she just knew — that the parents were wishing they could go to school, too. And why wouldn’t they? Inside the school gates everything was clean. Students cleaned it every day, washing the dust off the windowsills and the footprints off the floor. There was always the scent of cooking or nan baking. The place was bright, painted with the cheeriest assortment of colors Mother could find. The students had helped with that, too, since knowing how to paint was a skill that might earn them money one day.

  No one yelled inside the school, unless it was to cheer someone on at games. There was always the sound of singing, and the walls were quickly covered with the students’ art work.

  Parvana both wanted and didn’t want the parents to come in and be a part of it all. She wanted them to have the opportunity. Between the Soviet occupation, the civil war and the Taliban, probably none of them had ever gone to school.

  But adults were unpredictable. They liked to make trouble, and Parvana had already had a lifetime of that.

  “I know you are starting to feel some pain,” the major said. “It’s hard to stand in one place for a long time. Your back is aching. Your legs are getting sore and probably starting to swell. You probably need a latrine break, too. And I want you to have one. I want you to have a good meal and a good rest and no more worries. All you have to do is talk to me.”

  He moved closer so that his face was just two inches from Parvana’s. She kept her eyes down but she could feel his breath on her. It was sour. She could smell the onions that had been on his hamburger.

  He dropped his voice to a whisper. The interpreter moved in close and whispered her translation.

  “Tell us we’ve made a mistake,” he said. “Tell us you don’t know anything. Speak one word. Just one! Any word you want, and you can rest and eat. And if you can’t talk, then rap your knuckles on the wall.”

  He tapped the wall next to Parvana’s head.

  “I know you can hear me,” he whispered.
“I’m pretty sure you understand me. Now I need you to talk to me. One word. Say ‘stop’ or ‘flower’ or ‘puppy’ or ‘grenade.’ Say just one word. Talk to me, and I’ll let you rest.”

  Parvana kept silent. She tried to breathe shallow to avoid the smell of sour onions.

  And then he yelled, right into her face.

  “Talk to me!”

  It was a loud yell, a parade-ground yell, a yell designed to scare the enemy.

  It scared Parvana. Her body jumped.

  And then she’d had enough.

  She closed her eyes, leaned back against the wall and fainted dead away.

  SIX

  “Is that all you’ve done?”

  Mother stood beside Parvana’s chair and looked down at her worksheet. It was supposed to be covered with fractions. Instead, there was one unfinished equation at the top of the page. The rest of the page held a map of the town Parvana would build if she ever got the chance, full of streams and bridges and hidden parks where a girl could get away by herself and not be bothered by anyone. She had forgotten that she was supposed to be doing arithmetic.

  “Hanifa has done three worksheets. Sharifa has done four. And they have never been to school before.”

  Mother’s voice had found its nag again after being silenced by the Taliban.

  “You, who have been to school and had a teacher for a father, can’t be trusted to complete a simple sheet of fractions. Stay in at recess. If you put your mind to it, you could have all those questions answered before the bell rings.”

  Hanifa and Sharifa smiled smugly and left the dining hall with Mother. They were two of the other teenaged girls in the school, and all they did all day — besides their schoolwork — was look at Parvana and smirk.

  Parvana sat alone in the dining hall. The sound of children playing came in through the windows.

  She slumped in her chair and banged the pen on the table. Then she threw the pen across the room.

  Mother had no right to talk to her like that, especially not in front of the other students! She had worked so hard, helping to build the school. How was she to know that actually going to school would be so difficult?