Intertwined portraits of courage and hope in Afghanistan and Pakistan
Najmah, a young Afghan girl whose name means "star," suddenly finds herself alone when her father and older brother are conscripted by the Taliban and her mother and newborn brother are killed in an air raid. An American woman, Elaine, whose Islamic name is Nusrat, is also on her own. She waits out the war in Peshawar, Pakistan, teaching refugee children under the persimmon tree in her garden while her Afghan doctor husband runs a clinic in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan.
Najmah's father had always assured her that the stars would take care of her, just as Nusrat's husband had promised that they would tell Nusrat where he was and that he was safe. As the two look to the skies for answers, their fates entwine. Najmah, seeking refuge and hoping to find her father and brother, begins the perilous journey through the mountains to cross the border into Pakistan. And Nusrat's persimmon-tree school awaits Najmah's arrival. Together, they both seek their way home.
Known for her award-winning fiction set in South Asia, Suzanne Fisher Staples revisits that part of the world in this beautifully written, heartrending novel.
Under the Persimmon Tree is a 2006 Bank Street - Best Children's Book of the Year.
|Publisher:||Farrar, Straus and Giroux|
|File size:||343 KB|
|Age Range:||12 - 18 Years|
About the Author
Suzanne Fisher Staples, a former UPI correspondent, is the author of many acclaimed books for young readers, including Shiva's Fire, Dangerous Skies, and the Newbery Honor Book Shabanu. She lives in Nicholson, Pennsylvania.
Suzanne Fisher Staples
It’s been many years since I left my newspaper job for the somewhat less predictable world of writing books. Still, most mornings I wake up and thank my lucky stars that I no longer have to pull on pantyhose, only to fight traffic on the way to the bureau; that I can walk the dog in the orange grove after lunch and finish the newspaper; that I spend my days making up stories and talking with children, not dealing with irascible news editors, slippery politicians, and oily flacks.
I grew up loving books. My grandmother read to us every day and bribed us with stories to help in her rock garden. There, among the bleeding hearts and irises and peonies, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I’ve always written: journals, letters, school papers, essays, and, when I grew up, news reports.
But I could never imagine writing a novel. Whatever could I write about that would sustain anyone’s interest for two hundred or more pages?
The answer never occurred to me until I went to Pakistan. There was something about the camels, the ancient stories and blue-tiled mosques, and people who build shrines where a beautiful poem was written, that set my heart to singing. And there was something about our ignorance here in the West about Islamic people that made me know a story about this place needed to be told. And so my writing career began with Shabanu and Haveli.
After I left Pakistan, I wondered whether I would ever find anything that fired my soul as the people of the Cholistan Desert had. I returned to America somewhat apprehensive. It’s easy to be sparked by the exotic places of the world. But what about finding inspiration in the familiar?
And then I settled in a small and beautiful corner of Virginia’s Eastern Shore. There on the Chesapeake Bay, the mud and the pines and the grasses and the water and all the things that live in and among them spoke to me like characters in a book. I began to see the exotic everywhere.
While I was living in Asia, I thought of the United States as a place where the phones and the political system work, and people are tolerant of each other. When I came home I found that some things here were worse than all the poverty and sickness and intolerance I’d encountered in Asia. I met two children who lived on the farm next to our property on the Eastern Shore, one black, one white. Their friendship was based on fishing and swimming and exploring the woods and the creeks. As they approached adolescence, their families began to steer them away from each other. From then on, their stories fell into two distinct patterns. The white boy went to a private school. The black boy was later killed during a dispute over drugs. For all the beauty of the Eastern Shore, racism was one of its healthiest institutions. People were so familiar with it they couldn’t see how heartbreaking it was. And that was the genesis of Dangerous Skies.
My husband, Wayne, and I live in the hills of Tennessee, where we love to hike and canoe and watch the eagles soar over valleys that are shrouded in pale blue mist. I know now that the world is wondrous and wide, and I hope I will never cease to be moved by places and people who give rise to ideas for stories. Because stories are the most important thing in the world. They teach us how to live, how to love, and, most important, how to find magic wherever we are.
Suzanne Fisher Staples was born in 1945 and grew up beside a lake in the hilly farmland near Scranton, Pennsylvania. She worked as a news reporter in Asia for twelve years, serving in Hong Kong, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, and Sri Lanka with United Press International. She also worked in Washington, D.C., as an editor at The Washington Post.
Read an Excerpt
Under the Persimmon Tree
By SUZANNE FISHER STAPLES
Farrar, Straus and GirouxCopyright © 2005 Suzanne Fisher Staples
All right reserved.
Chapter OneNAJMAH Golestan Village, Kunduz Province, Northern Afghanistan October 2001
The day begins like every day in the Kunduz Hills, following the rhythms of the sun and moon. Before first light-even before the first stars begin to fade-my mother tugs at my quilt.
"Get up, sleepy one," she says. "It's time to light the fire!" I feel as if I've just gone to sleep. How can it be time to begin another day so soon after the last one has ended?
Mada-jan leans then over my older brother, Nur. To him she says, "Get up, sleepy one. It's time to get water so that I can make tea!"
Nur grumbles, and the quilt rustles as he turns over. But Mada-jan does what she always does when we try to ignore her: she yanks the quilt up from the bottom and tickles his bare feet with a piece of straw. The quilt makes a popping sound as Nur kicks out. But Mada-jan is quick to get out of the way-despite her belly, which is enormous with my unborn brother. I am sure it's a brother because my mother has been well and happy throughout her pregnancy. I have named my unborn brother Habib, which means "beloved friend." I know Habib will be my friend, unlike Nur, who teases me mercilessly.
Before Nur goes out the door, he picks up the nearly empty water tin andflicks a few drops into my face. It's icy and chases away any thought I might have of sleeping a few minutes longer.
"If the rooster is up, so must the hen be up," he says, and his hand sloshes again in the water.
"Nur, stop playing!" Mada-jan says. "Najmah, get up!" She tugs at my quilt again. "After you fetch firewood you must feed this bukri," she says, motioning to the brand-new baby goat that stands on quivering, sticklike legs near the head of the cot where I sleep. She was born yesterday, and her mother won't feed her.
I hold out my hand to the kid, who nuzzles the underside of my fingers, butting my palm with her nose. Then I throw back the quilt and reach for my shawl. The autumn morning air is chilly, and I savor the cool, knowing how hot it will be before noon.
"Baba-jan is already milking the goats, and when he gets back he'll want his breakfast," says Mada-jan, folding my quilt so that I can't change my mind and crawl back under its warmth. At the thought of the milk my father will bring, my stomach grumbles.
Outside, Nut finds the pole and ties the ghee tins to either end of it with goat sinew. He hoists it to his shoulder and waits for me to walk with him to where the path leads down the hill to Baba Darya, the little stream at the bottom. Baba means "old man" as well as "father." We call it "Old Man River" because its thin ribbons twist together like the wisps of an elder's beard.
"I saw a leopard's pug marks in the dust here last night," Nur says, just as we reach the fork in the path that will take me to the woodpile and Nur to the Baba Darya. I hesitate where the two paths split.
"Nur!" Mada-jan says, her voice low with warning. Knowing Nur very well, she has stepped outside the door to listen. "Stop trying to scare her! Najmah, you know there are no leopards here. Now hurry, you two!" Still I hesitate.
"Really!" Nur whispers. "They were this big!" He holds his fist up so I can see it in the creeping light of the sunrise. "It must be a very large leopard." Then he turns his back and walks, humming, down the hill toward the Baba Darya, the tins bouncing from the ends of the pole across his shoulder.
My heart hammers, and I want to run back to the house, but I know Mada-jan will be angry. I turn and run as fast as I can, all the way to the woodpile. There I spread my shawl on the ground and pile several armloads of wood on top. I feel a tingling along my spine the whole time. I think I see yellow eyes gleaming in the dark to the side of the woodpile. I'm sure I hear a low growl.
"Nur was only teasing," I mutter under my breath. "Nur was only teasing." But I really am convinced a large animal with long, pointed teeth is waiting to pounce on me. I am terribly afraid of leopards, although I have never seen one in my life. Mada-jan reminds me of this every time I complain that Nur has told me he's heard one roar. When the shawl holds as much wood as I can carry, I bind up its corners into a knot and heft the bundle onto my head, then hurry back up the path under the heavy load.
Usually Mada-jan fetches the wood, leaving me to make naan inside our mud-brick house, because she knows I'm afraid. But Habib, who will arrive in just a few days, keeps her off-balance when she walks along the steep, narrow paths. My father worries that she'll tumble down to the bottom of the hill, and so he has asked me to put aside my fear to help my mother. I feel proud that I can do it, even though I am afraid.
I sit outside the curtained front doorway and make a small pyramid of kindling inside the mud oven. Mada-jan brings out the basket that holds the pads of dough she's made and skewers each piece on a hook that she suspends through a hole in the top of the oven. The goat kid butts insistently at my shoulder, wanting to nurse. A few minutes later I hear Nur huffing under the weight of the water as he climbs the last few feet from the Baba Darya.
And only a moment later Baba-jan comes whistling down the path that leads from the pens that hold our sheep and goats at the base of the foothills of the Hindu Kush. He carries a large pail of milk. The light is a pale green behind the snowy mountain peaks that hover over us, and a few morning stars still float there, waiting for the sun to send them on their way.
"We're going to have to take the sheep and goats farther up to feed," Baba-jan says, sitting down cross-legged in one fluid motion. "The hills are parched, and there isn't enough for them to eat." Usually the rains come in spring and summer, and the hills lie curled on themselves, soft and brilliant, like giants sleeping under a green carpet. Now they seem flatter, gray and misty with dust, just as they do in the dead of winter.
But still our farm feeds us. Twice a week Nur and I make many trips carrying the ghee tins up and down the hill to the Baba Darya, which now moves slowly like a baba, too, since there is little water in it. We carry them to the plot where my father grows vegetables and fruit for the market, and flowers for my mother. Baba-jan carefully pours tin after tin of muddy water in a thin stream between the neat rows of apple, apricot, and almond trees.
We shiver in our shawls as we sit on the dark red Turkoman rug outside the curtained front door of our house, eating gruel with goat's milk and bread and sweet green tea. As I eat, I dip my finger into a cup of milk and hold it out for the kid to suck at greedily. The sun rises, and Baba-jan asks Nur to come with him to the plot.
"You can look after the flock yourself, can't you, my little sugar beet?" Baba-jan asks me. His face is scored with lines from working in the hot sun and worrying about the parched crops and grazing lands. I don't want to say that I am afraid to go into the hills by myself, so I nod dumbly. "Good," he says. "Nur can carry water more quickly than you can, and I don't want your mother up in the hills when the baby could come at any time."
I want to tell him that I can carry as much water as Nur, who is not much bigger, and as quickly, too. I am tall, like Mada-jan, and strong like Baba-jan-Nur is thin like Mada-jan and short like Baba-jan. But I bite the inside of my cheek and say nothing.
Mada-jan and I pick up the remains of the food and store it in baskets. We roll up the rug where we sat to eat and bring it inside. Full of milk, the kid curls into a little pile of fur and bone and sleeps just inside the doorway. After we have swept out the house-chickens scattering in a frenzy of angry clucks before our twig brooms-Mada-jan hugs me to her awkwardly, because Habib comes between us.
"You are a good and brave girl," she says, stroking my face. I don't feel brave, but I don't trust my voice to speak, and so I nod as I did to Baba-jan. Mada-jan tucks a sack of dried apricots and small sulaiman raisins and almonds into my pocket, smiling her gratitude even as she nudges me out the door. "I will look after your little bukri for you," she says. "She'll be fat by the time you return."
I lead the sheep and goats up the path to the hills behind the village. Wooden clappers make gentle thunks and plinks against the insides of the bronze bells tied around their necks.
We live simply but we have plenty to eat: apples, nuts, apricots, pomegranates, and persimmons from the orchard, vegetables from the garden plot, wheat for bread, eggs, goat's milk-and honey, too. For special occasions Baba-jan slaughters a goat. And the hills are peaceful, although Afghanistan has been at war since Baba-jan was a boy. The mujahideen control the northern part of Afghanistan, and they leave us alone. We give them wheat and vegetables because Baba-jan says they need help to keep the Pashtun talib out of Kunduz.
Usually I spend my days tagging after Nur as we watch the animals graze among the hills. Every year during the hot season, when the sun burns the grass to the roots, we take the flock higher into the hills, so far up that eventually it is too far to come back, and we sleep there under the stars at night. Baba-jan taught us to find al-Qutb, the star that never moves, at the end of the handle of the water ladle. He told us that al-Qutb means "hub," like the hub of a wheel, and the other stars move around it. He knelt by my side and told me to make a fist, and then to point the second knuckle at the star.
"As long as you know the stars, you will never be lost," he said. The Koran says that Allah gave us the stars to be our guides. "Everything depends on the stars. From them you can tell time and distance and you can find your way home." He told us many stories and showed us the shapes of animals and warriors and mythical beasts among the stars. Nur and I retell Baba-jan's star stories over and over again to pass the nights away from home. Baba-jan loves the stars so much that he named me Najmah, which means "star." He also gave Nur his name, which means "light," and we have learned to love the stars as much as Baba-jan loves them.
This is the first time I've gone with the flock alone. Walking up the hill, I am still afraid, but with the sun shining I find it easier to believe there are no leopards in our hills.
From the top of Koh-i-Dil, which overshadows our village of Golestan, people walking along the dirt tracks below look like insects. The donkeys, which carry rocks to repair the road in sack-lined baskets strapped across their backs, look like ants moving in a line.
Although it's been dry for months that never seem to end, the sky holds a promise of rain. Gray clouds have rolled in over the hills to the west, and they dance across the sun. A cool breeze blows. I rest on a large rock, watching the sun and shade play over the sheep and goats, when I hear a rumbling from below. At first I think it's thunder. I walk to the other side of the hill, away from the village, and from there I see a line of pickup trucks-a dozen or more-snaking their way among the rocks and ruts in the dirt tracks far below.
We do not often see automobiles and trucks. The mountain tracks are barely passable, except for camels and donkeys and horses, and people on foot. Our village is very far from a real metaled road such as the one that runs along the Kunduz River.
But everyone recognizes the black Datsun trucks as the vehicles of the Taliban. Everyone is frightened of the Taliban and the heartless Pashtun talib who enforce their rules. We have heard how they lock the people of entire villages inside their houses and burn them to the ground and how they slaughter men like goats, slitting them open and leaving their blood to soak into the ground. There are lists of things that are forbidden by the Taliban, playing music, laughing out loud, keeping a bird to hear its song in the morning, putting pictures of beautiful scenes on the walls, reading books, flying kites. We have heard that women wearing henna on their fingertips have had their fingers chopped off.
The Taliban have said the only thing people can do to enjoy themselves is to walk in the garden and smell the flowers. But ever since the Taliban came to power five years ago, there has been drought. It's as if Allah has banished flowers to punish the Taliban for the evil things they do to people.
I think of running down to warn the people of Golestan, but I'm not certain I can reach the village before the trucks. I turn to see that the sheep and goats are grazing peacefully below me, and decide in an instant. I half run, half tumble down the hill to the village.
When I am within shouting distance, the trucks are within hearing, and Mada-jan stands in front of the purdah draped over the doorway, shaking out laundry and hanging things over the legs of our overturned cots to dry in the sun. Each morning we drag some of the cots outside to make room in the house. The little goat kid nudges against her skirt, looking for more milk. When she hears the trucks, she straightens her back and arranges her blue chadr so that it covers her face against the gaze of the men in the passing vehicles.
Excerpted from Under the Persimmon Tree by SUZANNE FISHER STAPLES Copyright © 2005 by Suzanne Fisher Staples. Excerpted by permission.
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