The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  “Fereiba-jan. In the darkness, when you cannot see the ground under your feet and when your fingers touch nothing but night, you are not alone. I will stay with you as moonlight stays on water.”

  I blinked and he was gone. I looked around, expecting to see him walking away through the trees, but there was nothing. I replayed his words in my mind, hearing his voice echo. I whispered them to myself to make them linger. Seldom had my name been said so lovingly.

  “Fereiba!” KokoGul called out to me from the house. She had grown impatient.

  Hastily, I grabbed as many mulberries as I could, my fingers purple with their ripe juice. I scurried back to the house, shooting an occasional glance over my shoulder lest the old man reappear. My hands trembled as I put the bowl down in front of KokoGul, who sat overseeing my sisters as they worked diligently in their notebooks. She started in on her snack. I stood before her, unmoved.

  “What is it? What’s happened to you?” she snapped. “Madar-jan, I was outside—under the mulberry tree.”

  “And?”

  “It’s that, while I was there . . . I saw an old man. He came from light, from roshanee. He said my name and he told me that I was not alone. He said he would stay with me.” As I said the words, I could hear his voice in my head.

  “An old man? So where did he go?” KokoGul squinted and leaned forward pointedly.

  “He disappeared. He came so suddenly; I felt his hand on my shoulder. As soon as he finished what he had to say, he disappeared. I didn’t see where he went—he just vanished! I don’t know who he was.” I was breathless but not frightened. I waited for KokoGul to interpret what I’d seen.

  “B’isme-Allah!” KokoGul exclaimed, praising God. “You have seen an angel! That’s who he was, you simpleminded girl! Oh, not to recognize an angel when he taps you on the shoulder and promises to watch over you!”

  An angel? Could it be? Grandfather had told us stories about angels and their celestial powers when he recited suras with us. How blind I had been not to recognize an angel before me! KokoGul went on, ranting that I did not appreciate this unearthly encounter. My sisters looked on wide-eyed. Her sharp voice faded as the angel’s words echoed in my mind.

  He would watch over me. My guardian angel would bring roshanee to the path ahead. I would never be alone.

  The following Jumaa, Friday, we waited for my father to return from the masjid. KokoGul had instructed my father to pray that she and her daughters would also receive a visit from a guardian angel. My father hadn’t said much about my encounter. I didn’t know what or how much he believed.

  KokoGul and I believed together. In this, we were united. She saw small changes in me, and I saw what those changes did to her. I walked taller. I followed her instructions but didn’t quiver before her as I once had. I wandered in and out of the orchard boldly, day and night. I half expected my angel to reappear and offer soft words of comfort.

  KokoGul was beside herself. To her friends, she boasted that I, her daughter, had been visited by an angel. The visit was a herald of good fortune, and she hoped to absorb some of that light. She began to examine her dreams with more diligence, looking for clues that the heavens were communicating with her too. I heard her newly charged supplications when she prayed at home. She spoke to me a little more sweetly, with a gentle hand stroking my hair.

  My sisters were curious about the whole matter but unable to grasp KokoGul’s yearning to meet the man I’d seen in the orchard. Najiba, closest to me in age, was most puzzled by KokoGul’s reactions.

  “What did the angel look like, Fereiba? Were you scared of him?” she asked curiously. We were sitting cross-legged on the floor, shelling peas from their pods.

  “He just looked like an old man, like somebody’s grandfather.” My words felt far too simple, but I didn’t know how else to answer.

  “Whose grandfather? Our grandfather?”

  “No, not anyone we know. Just a grandfather,” I paused, wanting to do him justice. “He glowed and he knew my name.” I tossed a handful of peas into the bowl between us.

  Najiba was quiet, considering my explanation. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t see him. I think I would have been scared.”

  I might have said the same had I not been there to see his blue-gray eyes. His gentle voice had filled the darkness and left no room for fear. Still, Najiba made me feel brave.

  KokoGul didn’t quite see it the same. She began to absorb my encounter as her own, vicarious experience. I heard her talking to two friends over tea one day.

  “And then he disappeared? Just like that?”

  “Did you expect, a horse and carriage would come and carry him off?” KokoGul said in her trademark snarky way. Unless they were the target of the sarcasm, her friends were typically entertained by it.

  “God must be watching over her to have sent an angel to her,” said one.

  “You know, the poor thing, her mother’s spirit in heaven watches over her. Must have had something to do with it,” said the other sympathetically.

  The reference to my mother inspired KokoGul’s imagination. “I asked Fereiba to go to the orchard that night. I rarely get such cravings for the mulberries, but something mysterious had come over me. My tongue began to tickle for those sweet berries. I tried to ignore it but I couldn’t help myself. As if something in those trees was beckoning me, I wanted to run out there. But I was busy helping the girls with their homework so I asked Fereiba to pick a few for me. She’s such a good daughter, she went off into the orchard for me. So I’m not sure who the angel was supposed to meet. Maybe that craving was his way of calling me. But I sent Fereiba-jan in my stead, so we’ll never know.”

  The women didn’t seem too impressed with KokoGul’s theory, but they didn’t challenge her. I entered the room, carefully balancing a tray with three hot cups of tea in one hand and carrying a bowl of sugar in the other.

  “Afghan carpets were made with Fereiba-jan in mind,” KokoGul announced. “Thanks to their red color, you would never know how much tea gets spilled on them.” There was light laughter, and my head stayed lowered. I smiled politely as I placed a cup before each woman and offered sugar cubes. I could feel myself being scrutinized.

  “Afareen, dokhtar-jan,” KokoGul commended. Well done, dear daughter. I retreated to the kitchen with the empty metal tray. Today I was her daughter.

  In truth, most days I was her daughter. Because I wasn’t attending school, I spent a lot of time at home with KokoGul. Indeed, the weight of the household fell mostly on my shoulders, and she reprimanded me severely when things weren’t done to her liking. But I was with her the most. We spent hours together preparing meals, cleaning the house, and tending to the animals. Her sharp tongue needed an audience—or a target. I loved going to the bazaar with her. Inspecting a pile of bruised tomatoes, she asked the vegetable vendor if his hefty wife had mistakenly sat on his produce. At the housewares shop, she asked if the overpriced dishware was from the king’s private collection. KokoGul’s wit either rubbed the wrong way or scored a chuckle and a discount.

  We were allies when we bargained our way through the things we needed: the meats, the vegetables, the shoes. I mimicked KokoGul’s brazen demeanor and negotiated the best price I could. She would nod approvingly. In the market and the chores, my younger sisters could not do anything as well as I did.

  “Najiba, look at this,” she would complain. “This shirt still turns the water brown. How can you think this is clean? Have you seen how your sister makes a good lather? How many times have I told you—you can’t expect a shirt to clean itself! Thank goodness I at least have one daughter who can actually help me around the house.”

  These were moments when I felt connected to her, this woman who was my mother, without being my mother.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANK YOU TO MY PARENTS WHO gave me the tools to write about a girl who deserves the world. I am yours, always. To Zoran and Zayla, you made this
story important to tell—I love you. Thank you to my husband, Amin, for your ideas, discussions, and faith in me. You’ve made my dreams come true. To my street-smart, wise-cracking brother, Fawod, my first and forever fan, thank you for your absolute confidence. Fahima, my muse, the spark that ignited this story and my first reader, how grateful I am for your support, every day! I am thankful for the legacy I’ve inherited, the creativity and traditions from the greats and grands in my own family, and hope to pay tribute to them through this story.

  A great big hug to my agent, Helen Heller, who took my draft and ran with it. Thank you for your confidence and guiding ideas through this process. A special thanks to my editor, Rachel Kahan, for taking this story on and never letting go! Your input and feedback has been invaluable and I am so glad to be with you. Much appreciation to the entire team at William Morrow—marketing, design, editing, publicity, everyone!!—for turning a draft into a real thing! No list of thanks would be complete without acknowledging the impact that teachers and coffee shops have on realizing dreams. My gratitude to Tahera Shairzay, who provided invaluable firsthand insight into the workings of the Afghan parliament and for her contribution to progress in Kabul. My appreciation to Louis and Nancy Dupree for their contributions to documenting Afghanistan’s culture and history. Their works have been an invaluable resource.

  This story is loosely based on historical figures in Afghanistan as well as contemporary citizens. It is a work of fiction and I have taken great liberties, but I have no doubt that more of it is factual than we would hope. A special acknowledgment to the daughters, sisters, mothers, aunts, and teachers of Afghanistan, and to those individuals and groups who work so tirelessly to make that world a better place. To the daughters of Afghanistan, may the sun warm your faces as you forge your paths.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the author

  * * *

  Meet Nadia Hashimi

  Q&A with Nadia Hashimi

  About the book

  * * *

  The Story I Had to Tell

  Read on

  * * *

  Questions for Discussion

  About the author

  Meet Nadia Hashimi

  Photo by Chris Carter Photography

  NADIA HASHIMI was born and raised in New York and New Jersey. Both her parents were born in Afghanistan and left in the early 1970s, before the Soviet invasion. Her mother, the granddaughter of a notable Afghan poet, went to Europe to obtain a master’s degree in civil engineering, and her father came to the United States, where he worked hard to fulfill his American dream and build a new, brighter life for his immediate and extended family. Nadia was fortunate to be surrounded by a large family of aunts, uncles, and cousins, which kept the Afghan culture an important part of their daily lives.

  Nadia attended Brandeis University, where she obtained degrees in Middle Eastern studies and biology. In 2002 she made her first trip to Afghanistan with her parents, who had not returned to their homeland since leaving in the 1970s. It was a bittersweet experience for everyone, as the family found relics of childhood homes and reunited with loved ones.

  Nadia enrolled in medical school in Brooklyn and became active with an Afghan-American community organization that promoted cultural events and awareness, especially in the dark days after 9/11. She graduated from medical school and went on to complete her pediatric training at NYU/Bellevue hospitals in New York City. On completing her training, Nadia moved with her husband to Maryland, where she now works as a pediatrician. She’s also a part of the “Lady Docs,” a group of local female physicians who exercise, eat, and blog together.

  With her rigorous medical training completed, Nadia turned to a passion that had been ignored for too long. Her upbringing, experiences, and interests came together in the form of stories based in the country of her parents and grandparents (some of whom even make guest appearances in her tales!). Her debut novel, The Pearl That Broke Its Shell, was released in May 2014. She’s putting the finishing touches on her second novel, about the often tragic plight of Afghan refugees across Europe.

  She and her husband are the beaming parents of three curious, rock-star children and an African gray parrot.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Q&A with Nadia Hashimi

  IN THIS INTERVIEW WITH Bookreporter.com’s Alexis Burling, Hashimi opens up about her childhood as a first-generation American, how impressed she was by her Afghan cousins’ dedication to their education, despite obstacles, and why she feels “somewhat hopeful” for the political and social future of Afghanistan. On a lighter note, she talks about sassy Afghan women and how lucky she feels to have time in her life to be a writer and a pediatrician, in addition to being a mother.

  You were born in the United States and grew up in New York and New Jersey. Your parents are from Afghanistan and came to America in the early 1970s. Describe what it was it like growing up as a first-generation American with parents from a different culture. How did they balance new and old traditions in their household?

  As an adult, I look back on my childhood as a first-generation American and don’t think my experience was all that different from that of my neighbors. (It’s harder to see that through adolescent eyes, of course!) America is such a salad bowl of cultures, and New York boasts exceptional diversity. Every household celebrates its own culture in some form. I was fortunate to grow up with a large extended family and we fasted together during Ramadan and welcomed the first day of spring as the start of our New Year. Our Afghan heritage was kept alive through stories and customs. We also, along with our neighbors, had turkey dinners on Thanksgiving and even celebrated Christmas sometimes with an exchange of gifts or a nominal tree. My parents were happy to be part of the American community and taught us that adopting new traditions did not negate old ones.

  You took your first trip to Afghanistan in 2002. This was also the first time your parents had been back since they moved to the United States. What was this experience like for you? How did it inform the inspiration for and the writing of The Pearl That Broke Its Shell?

  My trip to Kabul with my parents was both emotional and exciting for me. On a personal level, it was my chance to meet uncles, aunts, cousins, and distant relatives for the very first time. I’m close to my family here in the United States and I wondered, looking at my female cousins in Afghanistan, what our relationship would have been like had we grown up together.

  I was impressed, too, with how determined my cousins were when it came to their education and goals. Some of them had lived as refugees in neighboring countries and then returned to Kabul. Despite the obstacles, they had attended schools and were committed to making something of themselves. I also visited a couple of local schools that had reopened. Seeing the spirited schoolgirls smile brightly as they lined up to start their school day, I was struck by how much Afghan girls valued education. Classrooms were reorganizing and recovering with much enthusiasm at that time. Even the youngest girls and boys understood not to take their education for granted. I had no inkling at the time that I would be writing The Pearl That Broke Its Shell, but seeing these young students definitely shaped my impression of girls growing up in Afghanistan.

  The book is about two generations of women who were once disguised as, and lived part of their lives as, boys. Does this practice still exist in Afghanistan?

  Yes, it does. Unfortunately, we don’t know just how prevalent the bacha posh practice is because no one is tracking numbers. It’s something that families do quietly and without much fanfare. The bacha posh tradition is not rooted in religion, but rather in the cultures of Afghanistan and neighboring Pakistan. There are theories that it came from a need for boys or men to fight in times of war but evolved to fill a different “void.” It’s not happening in every household, but nearly every Afghan I’ve spoken to knew of a bacha posh in his or her neighborhood. It was common enough that it did not much register as an issue until famil
ies migrated to the United States and examined the custom from afar. The custom is clearly driven by rampant gender inequality. Devaluing of women happens everywhere, even here in the United States, but Afghanistan has a strong misogynistic culture. I hope there comes a time in the near future when girls won’t have to change their identities to experience the respect and liberty that boys enjoy.

  Shekiba and Rahima lived during two different time periods in Afghanistan—the first in the early twentieth century, when the country was under Amanullah Khan’s rule, and the second just after the fall of the Taliban. In writing the book, how did you differentiate between time periods when describing the setting? How do these differences reflect the political and physical changes that have taken place in real life?

  Setting a story in a foreign country is tricky, but going back in time is even more challenging. It’s like trying to bring a yellowed postcard to life. When I was creating Shekiba’s world, I had to consider the everyday technology of the time as well as key events (like the cholera epidemic). I read accounts from people who’d traveled through Afghanistan in those years and looked at old photographs of landmarks like the presidential palace. Shekiba lives in an Afghanistan on the verge of independence and progress, which she tastes when she reaches Kabul.

  Rahima’s Afghanistan is very different. It’s a war-ravaged country with poor local economies, little opportunity, and a weak central government. The nation’s larger situation trickles down into the homes of the people living in areas outside the major cities. The widespread opium trade, for example, has created addicts out of fathers and mothers. Conveniences like televisions and an organized infrastructure have not reached some areas of the country. Rahima is stunned by Kabul because she sees a world so unlike her home. Kabul is a bustling city with more cosmopolitan views. There’s a gradient between major cities (where change comes first) and the villages. Both Shekiba and Rahima feel the difference as their lives take them to Kabul and they begin to see how the political scene shapes their worlds.