Call Her Freedom: A Novel

by Tara Dorabji

Overview

A “rich and beautifully crafted multigenerational epic” (Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Daughter) following one woman’s struggle to protect her culture and her family amidst the backdrop of a military occupation.

In the foothills of the Himalayas, the picturesque mountain village of Poshkarbal is home to lush cherry and apple orchards and a thriving community—one divided by a patrolled border. Aisha and her mother Noorjahan live on the outskirts—two women alone in a world dominated by men. As the village midwife, Noorjahan teaches Aisha how to heal using local herbs and remedies. Isolated but content, Aisha is shocked when Noorjahan decides it is time for her to attend the village school as few girls do. Despite the taunting of her classmates and the teacher’s initial resistance to having her in the class, Aisha becomes a star student, destined for college.

When Aisha’s hand is bequeathed to a local boy in the village, she is forced to abandon her dreams of college. She comforts herself by staying on her ancestral land, creating a nourishing life with her children and husband. But her mother’s secrets come back to haunt her and her marriage and the growing military presence in Poshkarbal force Aisha to make impossible choices in order to save her family and preserve the independence Noorjahan fought for. What follows is a family saga brimming with life, love, and humor, about sacrifice and honor, and fighting for your home and culture in the face of occupation.

A deeply moving novel about one woman’s love for her family, this is an epic investigation of colonialism, militarization, and the loss and innocence on the journey to creating home. Spanning 1969 to 2022, Call Her Freedom is a love story that untangles family secrets and heals generational wounds, announcing Tara Dorabji as a thrilling new voice in fiction.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781668051658
Publisher:	Simon & Schuster
Publication date:	01/21/2025
Pages:	320
Product dimensions:	6.30(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.20(d)

About the Author

Tara Dorabji is the author of the novel, Call Her Freedom, winner of the Simon & Schuster Books Like Us first novel contest. She is the daughter of Parsi-Indian and German-Italian migrants. Her documentary film series on human rights defenders in Kashmir won awards at over a dozen film festivals throughout Asia and the USA. Tara’s publications include Al Jazeera, The Chicago Quarterly, Huizache, and acclaimed anthologies: Good Girls Marry Doctors and All the Women in My Family Sing. She lives in Northern California with her family and rabbit.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1: Aisha

AS A CHILD, Aisha opened the carved wooden shutters each morning, letting light stream in. Strings of dried fish hung from the ceiling, glass jars filled with healing herbs sat on the shelf, and a mortar, yellowed with turmeric, lay next to the stove. She bent over the stove to light it. Flames burst forth, reaching toward her as if she were kerosene to feed on.

“Aisha.” Her mother’s voice made her jump. She hadn’t heard her enter the room. “You will go to school today. I’ll finish the breakfast.”

Aisha turned toward her mother in shock. Her cousins were returning to school after the winter closure, but she’d assumed that she’d stay with her mother. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You’d just worry yourself thinking about it.”

Her parents had always fought about school. It was the fight that caused the fire. Aisha was sure of it. Her mother’s shrill voice rose above her father’s. Her father insisted that Aisha was too young for school.

Her father was right. A year after the fire, at eight years old, Aisha still wasn’t ready for school. She should stay with her mother. She’d already learned how to mix herb tonics. When her mother delivered babies, she was there with the blankets, thermometer, whatever her mother needed. Still, there were times her mother left her alone at the house, saying she was too small to come along. Aisha would beg her mother to take her with her, but her mother only said, “You are too young to sit with death.”

How did her mother know who would live and who would die?

Aisha grew curious about the face of death, how it might look when it entered the room. She’d asked her mother once, expecting to be reprimanded. “Death is a smell you learn to breathe in,” her mother said. “I prefer not to see it, but we all find our own way with it.”

School, too, seemed far away, a blurred image.

“Fetch some drinking water,” her mother said.

Aisha could not move. Her feet sunk into the ground. The argument rang in her ears. Her father had said she wasn’t ready. The fire somehow petrified his words, encased them like glass.

“Go,” her mother said firmly.

Aisha grabbed the water jug and headed out the door away from the orchard. The rising sun cast the field in yellow. The mountains surrounded them on all sides and the cottonwood trees, growing along the river, swept up to kiss the sky. Canals dotted their land, small eddies that siphoned water from the river to flood the rice paddies that terraced the hill. Walnut and apple trees grew near the house, with mulberries at the borders. Above the rice fields, the arid soil gave way to a blanket of pine trees. Up this steep trail there was a fertile swath of land where her mother grew poppies, not the few that were mixed in with their vegetables, but a field that bloomed in summer, stretched between the folds in the mountain. A place she never spoke of. Aisha only went up there when she was sure her mother was far away.

She climbed over a fallen log and then hopped over a remaining patch of snow, arriving at the spring where the water bubbled up. Her reflection stared back, her long brown hair hung around her face, still messy from sleep. She had her mother’s full lips and father’s dimpled chin. She stood up tall, spreading her lanky arms so her reflection reached the other side, then filled the jug to the top and turned back toward home.

The wind blew gently as she crossed through the apple trees. The branches swooped toward her, daring her to climb up into them as she always had with her father. During the harvest, he’d lifted her up into the branches so she could climb to the top and get the apples. The sour taste exploded in her mouth as she ate the ones with wormholes, tossing the best ones into baskets. He’d taught her to recognize the signs of moths nesting in the leaves and how to prune in the fall so the trees wouldn’t get sick.

They’d always fished in the river together. Her father taught her to cast into the eddies, where the fish gathered in the evening. In the mornings, they clustered in the still water. Once, Aisha had landed a fish all by herself. Her father unhooked it and squeezed the belly of the fish, causing a stream of translucent eggs filled with red-eyed fish to pop out. They had caught the mother. Her father threw her back in the water and said, “Better let this one go, and eat the children when they grow up.”

Every time Aisha caught a fish in the river, she knew it was one of the babies, all grown-up, something her father left behind for her. But now the fish were getting harder to catch. There were fewer and fewer of them. Soldiers on both sides of the border caught the mothers, as if they’d never learned the right way to fish, or how to care for a river.

She closed her eyes, attempting to push away the image of her father’s face—the crinkle that formed at the corner of his eyes when he laughed, the bristle of his beard against her cheek when he hugged her.

Aisha was forbidden from mentioning her father and the fire. She’d spoken of him once and could still feel the sting from her mother’s slap. “He will never come back.” His absence settled around them, bright like the sun at noon, something that illuminated everything, but couldn’t be directly looked at.

Aisha went inside the house and found a gift from her mother waiting on her sleeping mat: a perfectly white dupatta. There was also a winter cloak, the gray wool tightly knit with lotus flowers along the sleeves and neck.

“Thank you, Mom.” Her mother did not look up but continued sweeping. Aisha did not want to touch the gifts, afraid that her fingers would leave marks. She felt taller and smarter as she dressed. Her mom brushed Aisha’s thick brown hair, which came to a peak on her forehead, just as her mother’s did. Usually her mother used the white plastic comb with the missing tooth to rip the knots out of Aisha’s hair, but today she used the tortoiseshell brush, adding the smallest bit of oil so that the knots came out with ease. Even the oil smelled sweeter. Aisha wrapped her new dupatta over her head and around her neck and carefully pinned the fabric by her ears.

Her mother rubbed her back. “You must pay attention at school. Education can never be taken away.”

Maybe school wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe the other children would be kind. Maybe her mother was right.

Her mother handed her the final gift: shoes. They were not heavy winter shoes, but shiny black leather with the most delicate straps. Aisha wanted to grab them, but instead she reached for the round middle of her mother and buried her face in the folds, breathing in her scent of cardamom.

Her mother hugged her back. “Put on your shoes.”

It took three tries before Aisha could buckle them. Her mother towered above her, impatient, but Aisha was determined to do it on her own. The shoes were stiff and a size too big. As they went down the hill, a blister formed on her baby toe.

The houses around them grew closer together and larger in size as they descended. A herd of goats grazed under poplar trees, near a smattering of spring snow. For every one of her mother’s steps, Aisha took three, counting them in her head. No mud splashed on her shoes.

Instead of following the path to the center of town where the fabric store, private school, mosque, and market were, they went toward the mountain that led to the government school. On the mountain across the way, the army outposts marked the border.

Some days gunfire erupted, but today the clouds hid the other side, leaving only the closest guards visible. The soldiers came from far away. They were short and squat, with flat noses and guns. Mother kept her away. They rarely walked on the paths where the soldiers were.

The dirt path led to the school, a huge gray building with paint peeling off. Just before entering, her mother grabbed Aisha’s wrist. “At school, stay away from the boys, understand?”

Aisha nodded.

“Never look at them or go near them. God is watching and will know if you disobey.”

Surely, boys must be terrible if God himself were watching to make sure that she stayed away. Besides, she already avoided the other children so that they wouldn’t make fun of her. She inhaled deeply and entered the classroom. She was late. All the other children were seated.

“Welcome, I am Mr. Malik.” The teacher wore a shirt that buttoned down the center, and dark pants instead of a traditional cloak. His face was narrow and clean-shaven, with thick-rimmed glasses.

A boy pointed at her and said, “It’s the mute girl.” The whole class laughed. Aisha felt her cheeks turn red. She wasn’t mute. She just didn’t talk to people other than her mom.

“Silence,” said the teacher. His dark hair was thin and parted at the side. Aisha had seen him at the mosque before but had never spoken with him.

This was a bad idea. Why was her mother doing this? She held her hands behind her back as she glanced around the room. The children toward the back were bigger, some as tall as the teacher. They were all boys, except for three little girls up front by the window, one of whom was her cousin Mina. Please, let Mina be nice today. Ever since her father left, Mina had turned on her, saying ugly things and pinching her. But maybe today would be different. Maybe at school Mina would defend her from the other kids.

The teacher pointed to an empty desk in front of Mina, next to a girl with a missing front tooth and white leather shoes. Mina stuck her tongue out. Her auburn hair slipped out from under her cream dupatta. Aisha wanted to go home, but instead, she sat on a wooden chair, folding her sweaty hands into her lap.

“Come, sit.” Murad Malik hadn’t anticipated a new student today. Aisha was a miniature replica of her mother, Noorjahan, the same full, dark hair and heart-shaped face. Noorjahan was supposed to meet with him in advance of having Aisha join the class. But Noorjahan always wanted to do things her way.

“You are wearing black boy shoes,” Mina whispered, and the missing-tooth girl giggled. Aisha glanced around. The other girls were wearing white shoes. The missing-tooth girl pressed the white tip of her shoe into Aisha’s calf. Her scar burned. Aisha pulled her legs away and tried to conceal her shoes, placing her right foot on top of the other, leaving a ribbon of mud on her shoe’s shiny black surface.

A few more students trickled in, including Omar, the tall boy who lived three houses down. He was surprised to see Aisha. His mother had told him to be kind to her, but other kids said that Noorjahan got possessed by the evil eye and that’s why her parents were dead. When Noorjahan came to treat his mother when she was sick, Aisha played outside with his cat but refused to speak to him. Strange people.

The teacher tapped a baton on his desk. The students quieted. “We have a new pupil joining us,” he said, looking to Aisha. “Please, introduce yourself to the class.”

Aisha’s heart beat into her ears. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Why did her mother make her go to school? She knew that she couldn’t speak to anyone else. Her father had known that it wasn’t right.

The missing-tooth girl leaned over so her lips were right against Aisha’s ear. “Just say your name.”

Thirty pairs of eyes stared at her as if she were stupid. She opened her mouth. No sound came out. Aisha slouched at her desk for the rest of the class, wishing herself invisible.

Murad shook his head. Poor child. How could Noorjahan have sent her daughter to school if she didn’t even speak? It was hard enough teaching girls, but this was absurd.

The morning passed slowly. When lunch finally came, Murad told the class, “In three months, we will have our exams for this term. At the end of the tests, you will bring your father to collect your results.”

The blood drained from her face. She had no father to come with her. Aisha felt the sting of her mother’s slap when she’d asked where he was. She knew if she were good enough and worked hard enough, her father would surely return.

At lunchtime, Aisha sat by herself under a cottonwood tree. She couldn’t see the path that led back to her house because of the thick trees.

She opened her lunch tins. The lentils were still warm and the rice let off a bit of steam. She ate, relieved at being unnoticed, until her gangly neighbor Omar approached her. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and his nose arched off his face like a mountain. His brown hair grew thick around his head. “Why don’t you talk?” he asked, putting his face up to hers. “Is it because your mother is a witch?” Omar pinched her arm. “Say something.” He grabbed under her dupatta and pulled her hair.

Aisha howled, jumped up, and rammed her head right into his stomach. Omar screamed and released her. She ran toward the schoolhouse. He tried to grab hold of her dupatta, but it slipped through his muddy fingers. He had surely just stained it. Just like her shoes, everything was ruined.

Editorial Reviews

"A rich and beautifully crafted multigenerational epic that takes us into the heart of a war-torn family and into the soul of a people fighting for liberation, Call Her Freedom is a searing, atmospheric debut by a talented new voice in fiction."
—KRISTIN HARMEL, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Daughter

“A compassionate account of endurance.”
—KIRKUS REVIEWS

"A stirring debut... Book clubs will enjoy this character-driven drama."
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

"Ultimately, Dorabji invites readers to explore deep family love and the battle for liberation amid a ruthless militaristic reign."
—BOOKLIST

"In her brave debut novel, Tara Dorabji tells a story of one family under a brutal military occupation. In the foothills of the Himalayas, three generations—a mother, a daughter, a great-niece —draw strength from a matriarchal legacy as healers, warriors, and survivors. Based on real accounts from an ongoing struggle, Call Her Freedom gives voice to women we otherwise would not hear."
—EVELINA GALANG, author of When the Hibiscus Falls and Lola's House

"A striking, essential read set against an ongoing military occupation and pulsing with empathy and beauty. Dorabji balances the political and personal with moving portraits of characters who find love and redemption on a ceaseless quest for freedom, despite every unthinkable, unspeakable cruelty hurled in their paths."
—PARINI SHROFF, author of The Bandit Queens

"Powerful and evocative. . . A novel that enables us to examine the longing for freedom within our own hearts, and in solidarity with occupied peoples worldwide."
—AYESHA MATTU, author of Love, InshAllah and Salaam, Love

"A novel that evokes the scent of cardamom, rose water, pine needles, and freshly fallen snow. A treat for the senses and a balm for the soul, Call Her Freedom takes readers up into the heart of the Himalayas, where they’ll meet Aisha, a young, sensitive, yet headstrong protagonist, and her mother, Noor Jahan, a complicated woman and a flawed parent—whose presence and legacy are imbued through these pages like red poppies on a hidden mountainside. With dexterity and exquisite empathy, Dorabji maps the heartbreak of a region torn apart by greed, betrayal and conflict onto a vivid cast of characters—each of whom are unforgettable, cathartic and breathtakingly real."
—NAHEED PHIROZE PATEL, author of Mirror Made of Rain

"This is a dazzling and beautiful debut. Tara Dorabji introduces us to a singularly unique protagonist and a cast of indomitable characters living, loving, and fighting for their homeland in a landscape scarred by violence and the bitter legacy of colonialism. The result is a novel both intimate and panoramic about resilience, family, and unwavering hope."
—ALEX ESPINOZA, author of The Sons of El Rey

"Call Her Freedom is a mythic tale of one woman's family surviving inside another culture of massive, brutal power. The story parallels conflicts in Guatemala, Nazi Europe, and the Confederate South. Set in South Asia, its prose reads both dreamily faraway and realistically close—a beautiful strength that can only be attributed to Dorabji's impeccable talent."
—DAGOBERTO GILB, author of New Testaments and The Magic of Blood

“A deeply felt and triumphant tale, urging us to brave the despondency of our times. Tara Dorabji paints a world of strong, passionate women and their men, loving and living in the face of increasing military occupation."
—ATHER ZIA, author of The Frame and founder of Kashmir Lit

"In Call Her Freedom, Tara Dorabji guides us on a profound and transformative journey through the experience of war with warm characters and elegant prose that expose the immensity of loss, torture, and grief, yet reveal the meaning of freedom, the enduring power of love and everything worth living for."
—ELBA IRIS PÉREZ, author of The Things We Didn't Know, inaugural winner of the Books Like Us Simon and Schuster Contest

“Call Her Freedom is a powerful chronicle of one woman’s life set against the brutality of one of the longest conflicts in the world. It tells the powerful story of what it means to survive the unthinkable while attempting to retain love and liberation. This is a must-read.”
—NAYOMI MUNAWEERA, author of Island of a Thousand Mirrors and What Lies Between Us

From the Publisher

2024-11-09
The human costs of factionalism and occupation haunt a family through several generations in this debut novel.

Inspired by the stories of people from the embattled region of Kashmir, Dorabji traces one family’s struggles from the 1970s through the near future of 2030. Aisha first appears as a young, socially isolated child living in the small mountain village of Poshkarbal with her mother, Noorjahan, a midwife. They live alone, and Noorjahan instructs Aisha in some of her traditional practices, but the girl lives under a cloud of uncertainty and silence concerning the circumstances of a long-ago fire at the family’s home and the whereabouts of her father, who has “left.” Noorjahan insists that Aisha attend a local, government-run school, despite the child’s great fears and the fact that few girls go to school. Over the years, Aisha develops into the star pupil of her class while also developing an awareness of the dangers presented to her by occupying forces—and the males within her own community. As members of Aisha’s family grapple with the realities of life under occupation and Aisha herself advances from childhood into marriage, motherhood, and greater knowledge of her family’s history, she is surrounded by points of decision: What is the value of education for women in a traditional society? In the face of increasing military activity, when is leaving your homeland the right decision? When is it best to abandon a long-held family enterprise in the covert cultivation of poppies? What right does one have to self-determination (or even happiness) amid terrible social and political upheaval? The true horrors of the region’s occupation are revealed in graphic accounts of torture and sexual assault experienced by Aisha and her kin as they bear the unbearable.

A compassionate account of endurance.

Kirkus Reviews