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Part I

April 1978

Chapter 1

A string of vehicles pulled into the circular palace driveway, disappearing one by one as their engines and headlights cut off. I watched silhouettes emerge and approach the main entrance of the palace.

“Neelab, they’re here,” I whispered.

“How many cars?”

“Fifteen, maybe. It’s too dark out. Hard to tell.”

“We’re going to have to go soon,” Neelab warned.

Mother must have seen the cars approach too. Her voice echoed from down the hall. The palace buzzed as it did on those special occasions when its grandest rooms filled with the most important guests.

“Sitara! Where are you?”

I could not hide my disappointment. I looked at Neelab, sitting on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest. The lamplight cast a yellow glow on her cheeks.

“It’s a weekend,” I groaned.

“They want all the little children in bed when they open that box downstairs,” Neelab said, repeating what her mother had told her. “You might as well go to her before she finds you.”

But surrender had never been my style.

“What about you? I bet your mother is looking for you too.”

Neelab shook her head.

“No way. I’m a young woman now. The rules have changed.”

This amused me. “You’re barely a full year older than me. And you’d have to wear heels to look me in the eye.”

“Go ahead and tease, but if I wanted to, I could throw on one of my dresses and join them downstairs and no one would say a thing,” Neelab declared, arms folded across her chest. I loved her too much to point out to her how flat it still was.

“Is Neelab with you?” Mother called, as if she’d forgotten that Neelab and I had been inseparable since I had learned to walk. “It’s past time for her to turn in too.”

Neelab avoided my eyes then. She hated to be wrong almost as much as I relished being right.

My best friend and I had ducked into the presidential library so I could thumb through a text I’d discovered last week. The Book of Fixed Stars was written a thousand years ago by an astronomer named al-Sufi. Like me, he’d been fascinated by constellations, stories written in a pen of light. I’d drawn the velvet curtains so I could match the constellations on the page with the stars of the night sky. One by one, I found them and marveled that time hadn’t stolen a single flickering gem.

“I’m here, Madar,” I replied, glancing at the pages splayed before me. Al-Sufi had sketched the serpentine tail of Draco, a fork-tongued dragon, circling Ursa Minor. I had read, but had yet to confirm through observation, that it was visible all year long from Kabul’s latitude.

Our months were named after constellations, and soon it would be the month of Saur, or Taurus. I drew lines between stars and saw the bull’s swordlike horns piercing the sky. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to picture the giant beast leaping down from the heavens and galloping on this land.

Mother poked her head between the French doors of the library.

“There you are. It’s getting late, girls,” she chided, gently. “Sitara, I need you to stay with your brother so I can go downstairs. They’re serving dinner soon, and it won’t look right if I’m not at your father’s side.”

“But Kaka Daoud told us we could—”

The man I called Uncle Daoud was Neelab’s grandfather. For the past five years, he also happened to be the president of Afghanistan, and he granted us almost unlimited access to the presidential library with its irresistible floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

In truth, there was no blood relation between my father and President Daoud, but our families were so close that Neelab and I had been raised as cousins. My father was the president’s most trusted adviser. We often stayed overnight in the palace, especially when the president hosted evening functions. Neelab and I would find a corner of the palace to hide in on those nights and talk until we fell asleep, the sound of music streaming up from the garden. We exchanged secrets that bound us together more profoundly than blood would have. Neelab knew of the time I had taken one of my mother’s pearl rings and traded it with a classmate for a doll with eyelids that opened and closed. And only I knew that General Jamshid’s pimply-faced son had penned a love note to Neelab, song lyrics on a sheet of lined notebook paper.

Over the years Neelab, her brother Rostam, and I had explored every square foot of Arg, the name for the presidential palace. We would walk the perimeter, summoning moments from history and inserting ourselves into them. While Neelab and I fired imaginary bullets from our fingertips, Rostam pretended to be an invader trespassing the deep trench that was now filled in with green grass.

We conjured the silky voices of the king’s concubines in the building that was once a harem, then popped into the structure once used for army barracks and marched, high-kneed and saluting. Rostam read stories of Genghis Khan’s conquests in this land while we sat in a vacant turret, our eyes tracing the sawtooth mountains that guarded Kabul like palace walls.

If we could have moved through time, we would have visited every decade of Arg’s history to see how accurate we’d been in reenacting the signing of treaties, the betrayal of trusts, the never-ending fight for our country’s independence from foreign invasion.

One day we sat in a copse of trees in the orchard with one of Boba’s history books. Rostam had watched me thumbing through the pages in search of a conflict or period we had yet to stage.

“Whoever wrote this must have gone through his days with his eyes closed!” I’d said as I slammed the book closed and searched the spine for the author’s name.

“Here we go. And what’s wrong with this one?” Rostam had asked, one eyebrow raised. Neelab had been lying on the grass, one leg crossed over the other. She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand.

“Think of all the people in the palace,” I’d said, waving at the grand buildings in the distance. “Are there only men in there? Or in Kabul?”

“What are you getting at?” Rostam asked.

“There are no women in the book,” Neelab had said, taking pleasure in explaining to her older brother something so obvious.

“Be reasonable. You cannot blame the book,” Rostam had argued. “Men are the kings and advisers, the warriors and the explorers. They make decisions and execute plans and make history. The books are a record of that. Last week, I picked the 1842 defeat of the British, remember? Both of you had to play the parts of men or you would have had no roles at all.”

It was one of our best performances because we did not simply revisit the Afghans driving the British and the sepoys out of the country. We re-created the tea parties and Shakespearean plays performed by British officers and their wives just before the fighting began. We used every word of English we’d learned from our tutors.

“Sitara will explain to you now,” Neelab said as she adjusted the imaginary top hat on her head and waddled parallel to a row of shrubs. She was channeling the stodgy, bespectacled British emissary with aspirations to colonize Afghanistan.

“Rostam,” I’d said, with the impatience of an overworked teacher, “a British poet warned soldiers they were better off dead than facing the wrath of Afghan women. If you think women are not creatures of action, you’ve got pumpkin seeds for brains.”

Rostam did not apologize, nor did he become indignant. But I know that he heard me, because he never excluded women from history again.

[no ornament]

“You can return to the library tomorrow,” my mother offered. “But this is an important night, and I need your help. Faheem’s been terrified of sleeping alone lately. You don’t want him to wake up and find himself alone, do you?”

“It’s not fair. I always have to look after him,” I protested.

“Better not complain. I’d rather look after sweet Faheem than have Rostam looking after me,” Neelab said with a shrug.

Now that Rostam was thirteen years old, he didn’t want to be seen playing with girls. That suited my mother just fine, since soon people would read much more into our time together, ignoring the fact that we’d been playmates all our lives.

Even Neelab would suggest that she and I could become real sisters if I could just stomach marrying her brother. I hated when she made those comments, but more because I had started to look at Rostam a little differently. He didn’t carry himself like a child anymore. I missed his company and wondered if that meant I liked him more than I should. Though I shared every little thought with Neelab, I kept this one to myself.

“Girls, girls,” Madar admonished.

I released the curtain from its tasseled tieback and, sighing loudly enough for her to hear, slid the Arabic book back into its place between other Dari, English, and Cyrillic titles. I understood just how awful it was to be gripped by fears, even irrational ones. My fear of the dark drew me to the twinkle of stars.

“I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open anyway,” Neelab said. “Sweet dreams, Sitara. Good night, Auntie.”

“Good night, Neelab. Get some rest. Sitara will be up bright and early looking for you.”

Neelab circled her arms around my mother’s waist and squeezed before slipping into the hall.

I turned away then so Neelab wouldn’t give us away with a pert smile. Once she’d left, my mother turned her attention to me.

“Let’s hurry. You know,” Mother whispered conspiratorially, “your Kaka Daoud can’t butter his bread without your father’s input.”

“And Boba can’t butter his bread without yours. Maybe you should have an office next to Kaka Daoud’s as well.”

Mother beamed, her smile the finishing touch on her elegant appearance. She wore a navy blue dress, belted at her trim waist. The hem fell just past her knees and the sleeves flared slightly at the wrists. My father had purchased the material, a delicate brocade, during his most recent trip to Lebanon. The design was my mother’s own, though the stitching had been done by the same seamstress who had made her wedding dress and every other gown she owned. She’d paired her shift with tan sling-back heels and a simple necklace, a calligraphy of Allah in eighteen-karat gold. She had her hair pulled back in a twist and had softly teased her crown to add an extra inch of height. I touched my mother’s face, marveling at the way her hazel eyes shone from beneath the inky liner she’d used on her eyelids. Was it envy, vanity, or just a surfeit of love to want to be as beautiful as one’s mother?

“Sitara, what is it?” my mother asked. She smoothed her hair, betraying a flash of insecurity. “Is something wrong?”

“No, Madar-jan. Not at all. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” she asked.

I stole a kiss from my mother’s cheek. According to my father, the Qur’an teaches us that heaven lies at the feet of mothers. I roamed the palace feeling anchored by my mother’s presence nearby.

“When are we going home?” I asked, missing the indulgent mornings when Faheem and I would sit on our parents’ laps in our pajamas. We came to the palace too often to feel like guests, but that still did not make our room here feel like home. “I think Faheem’s grown homesick.”

“After the weekend,” my mother assured me. “Your father’s been so tied up in meetings the past few weeks, but things will get better soon.”

“Is it very bad?” I asked. The meetings had been getting longer and longer for a time. Then they became very short, and some ended with the slamming of a door and feet pounding down a hall.

Mother cupped my face in her hands.

“Everything will be fine. Tonight is about celebrating our country’s past with people important for our country’s future.”

“The Russians will be here?”

“And the Americans, the Indians, and the French too. And maybe some others.”

“But our tutor taught us that the Americans and Russians do not like one another. Will there not be fighting?”

“No, my love,” Mother replied, smoothing my hair. “Food and art are very capable peacekeepers. And besides, they should know better than to have their schoolyard scuffle in our home. Our people have seen enough. We finally have the peace we deserve.”

I knew the history to which she was alluding. I could recite Afghanistan’s record of fighting off conquerors and knew that every changing of the guard came with turbulence. Most people in my world adored President Daoud Khan. But out in the public gardens one day, I had heard a man singing a popular song. He’d replaced the lyrics with ones that haunted me and lodged in a corner of my brain with the power of rhyme:

My brother turned martyr by your dark night,

Sleep lightly, dear President, sleep light.

“Perhaps I should join the event? I might be able to write about it for the newspaper,” I suggested in my most erudite voice.

Mother pursed her lips.

At the end of the last school year, our principal had announced a writing contest for the graduating eighth-graders in our school.

How can the people of Afghanistan best celebrate our nation’s Independence Day?

Though I was only in the fourth-year class and not much of a writer, my brain churned with discussions I’d had with my parents over dinner about the three times Afghans had to fight off the British. I penned an essay that began with a verse by the British poet Rudyard Kipling.

When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,

And the women come out to cut up what remains,

Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.

The world read Kipling’s poem, I explained, and saw Afghan women as butchers, whereas these women were defending their homes and families from invaders. Afghans could best celebrate Independence Day by recording our history in our own words.

I had slipped my carefully written paper into the principal’s box. On the final day of classes, the principal called me into her office. I was terrified that a teacher had reported me for daydreaming or poor penmanship.

Ask your parents to pick up this Thursday’s newspaper, Sitara. Your essay won the contest and will run in the paper.

My father came home with half a dozen copies, and my parents beamed to see my byline. President Daoud even joked that I might have a place in his cabinet before I graduated from school.

“It’s far too late for you to be up,” Mother said. “Ask your father for a personal debriefing another day. He’ll certainly oblige.”

I could tell from the tone of her voice that she would not be swayed.

“I’m too tired anyway. Go on and have fun. I’ll rest with Faheem now.”

My mother closed the doors of the library behind us and followed me into our guest room across the hall, a room I could find with my eyes closed from anywhere in the palace. I knew the wallpaper patterns by heart, including where the paper was starting to lift at the corners. I knew how many bulbs were in each chandelier and which windows to open to invite a fragrant breeze.

Our own home on the other side of the Kabul River was a fraction of the palace in size but warmer in every way that mattered. I shared a bedroom with my brother, an arrangement that suited me fine. Because I was seven years older than him, I was usually responsible for him when Madar was tied up in the kitchen or with guests.

I changed into the pajamas my mother had laid out for me. Faheem’s small foot tapped against the mattress in a steady, restless rhythm. Sliding into the low bed and kissing his temple, I pulled the bedsheet over my shoulder and lay facing Faheem. His legs grew still, and he exhaled deeply.

“Sleep well, my sweets.”

“Good night, Madar-jan.”

I feigned a yawn, careful not to overdo it. I listened to the fading click of her heels, imagining her moving down the hallway, past my father’s office and Kaka Daoud’s office. The president’s living quarters were on the opposite side of the second floor. That was where Neelab slept, so there was little chance of bumping into her in the middle of the night by accident.

Before she’d left the room, I heard my mother whisper one word of thanks under her breath—shukur.

My mother was ever grateful. People who had suffered generally were. When my parents were first married, my father was one of eighteen students granted a scholarship to study engineering in the United States in a place called Oklahoma. A handful of universities wanted Afghans to study engineering and agriculture so they could go back and work alongside the American companies building dams and towns in Afghanistan.

I wished I knew more about Oklahoma, but they never spoke much about their time there. I only knew that the land was so flat that they thought the sun could take a seat on the horizon. Roads seemed to stretch into forever, and the city looked like it could swallow Kabul whole. Though few people they met in town could have found Afghanistan on a map, they were friendly. One neighbor welcomed them with a pie and a jar of pork sausages that my father passed along to an American classmate. He immersed himself in his studies, determined to become valuable to Afghanistan’s future. Though my mother wasn’t there for her studies, she learned to drive and became fluent in English by taking classes at a library and watching television shows and repeating the lines aloud.

She also gave birth to my sister, who lived and died before I took my first breath. Everything I knew of my sister fit in the palm of my hand: one photograph of my mother holding her swaddled in a blanket and one of her propped on my father’s knee, an American birth certificate, and a beaded silver bracelet with an evil eye charm.

The charm had failed to protect her, though. Shortly after my parents returned to Afghanistan and introduced my sister to cooing aunts and uncles, she was struck by an unrelenting fever. She was gone in a matter of days, leaving my parents’ arms empty and their hearts broken.

I wish I could have seen my two daughters side by side, Boba sometimes said. But she will never be far from our thoughts. I have picked a star in the night sky and imagine that is her in the heavens, forever our light.

With a kind of magic I didn’t fully appreciate as a child, my parents spun grief into gratitude. I knew my mother was thinking of my long-gone sister as she watched Faheem nestle close to me. We were, she never tired of telling us, the greatest comforts God could have given her. Being a child, I took this to mean we had suffered our allotted tragedy.

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