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 Dedication

For Amin, my eternal flame

 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Dedication

Prologue

Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32

Part II
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Epilogue
Author’s Note

Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Nadia Hashimi
Copyright
About the Publisher
 Prologue

Until now, my history has remained buried in me the way

ancient civilizations are hidden beneath layers of earth and
new life. But people insist on digging into the past, poking at
relics of yesterday to marvel at the simplicity of extinct
creatures. We display the evidence of our superiority in glass
cases, housed in grand buildings sometimes half a world away
from where they were found.
In London, I saw the Elgin Marbles, lifted from the
Parthenon, the Gweagal Shield stolen from Aboriginal
Australians, and the brilliant Koh-i-Noor diamond. In the
language of my childhood, Koh-i-Noor means Mountain of
Light, a name that obscures the diamond’s dark history.
But I cannot be too critical. Not while I have my own
plundered treasure in a box, far from where it was unearthed.
How it came to be with me is the story that I have never
wholly told, not to the woman who helped me flee a country
on fire, not to the woman who raised me as an American, and
not to the man I almost loved.
Were it not for the day my buried life appeared before me
unannounced, I might have kept it all hidden forever. And I
might not have asked those questions I’d stifled to preserve
this unexamined life.
What are you? I have been asked as I pay for my coffee, as I
check out a book at the library, as I explain to my last patient
of the day how I will remove the tumor growing inside him.
As if I am a species, not a person. People throw identities at
me and look to see if one will stick: Greek, Italian, Lebanese,
Argentinian, Eastern European. I trigger a railroad switch and
divert their questions away from crates of ammunition and
streams of pity and preserve for myself the first and only
peaceful decade of my life.
But untold histories live in shallow graves. Some nights, the
cold wakes me and I find I’ve clawed my way out from under
the covers. I count the stars to catch my breath.
Once upon a time, a little girl with velvet ribbons in her hair
crouched deep in the belly of a palace, tucked behind copper
pots and urns and cartons heavy with treasures of a lost world.
Each time she was shaken by the urge to scream, she plunged
her teeth into the soft flesh of her forearm. She knew only that
she should remain perfectly silent and prayed no one would
hear the thin echo of the song her father would sing when he
found her awake well past her bedtime.
While I slumber, you are open-eyed
I am naïve but you are ever wise

Because of him—in spite of him—she did not wail in the

dark.
Meters above her, soldiers wandered, some solemnly and
others less so, through the warren of hallways. Walls were
marked with crimson splatters—the fingerprints of revolution.
A general, feeling presidential, slid into a plush Victorian sofa
and traced the curves of its lacquered arms. His chest puffed to
think that people would soon come to appreciate the sacrifices
he’d made tonight for the greater good. He stood and walked
across a hand-knotted burgundy carpet, delicate white flowers
laced through an elephant’s foot motif. He checked the sole of
his left boot, then his right. He needn’t have worried, though.
An Afghan carpet, perhaps by design, conceals blood just as
well as it conceals spilled tea.
The city, a halo around the palace, waited on an
announcement from the president to explain the sight of
Sukhoi jets and the sound of gunfire. American diplomats
stationed in Kabul, some still fuzzy from cocktails, wondered
what bizarre conflict had befallen their peaceful and exotic
post. One silver-haired American woman, teetering from the
effects of a stubby cigarette she’d purchased off a hippie
couple, tried to touch the paper airplanes that soared over her
head. She applauded the flash of fireworks, as Americans do.
Never, that little girl in the palace knew with brutal
certainty, had any child in history been more alone.
On that night, giants were felled. A dizzying void
swallowed all that had once been. But the trembling little girl
could not succumb. She would be brave because her father had
once told her that the world lived within her. That her bones
were made of mountains. That rivers coursed through her
veins. That her heartbeat was the sound of a thousand
pounding hooves. That her eyes glittered with the light of a
starry sky.
I am that girl, and this is my story.
 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.

“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
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