The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

Shekiba was born at the turn of the twentieth century, in an Afghanistan eyed lasciviously by Russia and Britain. Each would take turns promising to protect the borders they had just invaded, like a pedophile who professes to love his victim.

The borders between Afghanistan and India were drawn and redrawn from time to time, as if only penciled in.

People belonged to one country and then the other, nationalities changing as often as ...

For Great Britain and the Soviet Union, Afghanistan was the playing field for their “Great Game,” the power struggle to control Central Asia. But the game was slowly coming to an end, the Afghan people ferociously resisting outside control. Ches...

she too was afraid of the babaloo, the creature that frightened every Afghan child in the night.

Thousands died that year. Her family’s losses were notches on the epidemic’s belt.

People who are beset by tragedy once and twice are sure to grieve again. Fate finds it easier to retrace its treads.

We were north of Kabul and hadn’t seen any fighting in about four years but from what we heard, Kabul was besieged. People in our town shook their heads in dismay at the news but our homes were already pockmarked and turned to rubble. It was time for the privileged in Kabul to taste what we had survived.

“There’s a legend that walking under a rainbow changes girls into boys and boys into girls.”

We drank in spirits and played in fields Enamored of Indigos, saffrons and teals There was fog in the space Between them and I Colors reach to touch God in the sky I envy the arc, stretched strong and wide As one brilliance blends into another Colors bow deeply to welcome a brother We humble servants, meekly pass under Rostam’s bow changes girl to boy, makes one the other Until the air grows dry and tires of the game And the mist opens its arms, colors reclaimed

Shahla’s eyes widened in a declaration of innocence.

“She is a good worker and will serve the palace well. Is there not a way to make an honorable gesture of her?” Shekiba, the gesture. Shekiba, the gift.

My husband took from me what he wanted, did to me what he wanted and left the rest of my existence in his mother’s hands.

These other countries come in here and throw a few bombs around. Friends today with yesterday’s enemies. They just change their hats and all of a sudden, they’re allies to these western countries.

I wanted to see all the places I had read about.” That was her escape, I realized. Where her body couldn’t take her, her mind went.

There is some kiss we want with our whole lives, The touch of Spirit on the body. Seawater begs the pearl to break its shell. And the lily, how passionately it needs some wild Darling! At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come And press its face against mine. Breathe into me.

Part of her had expected her grandmother to live on forever, pickled in her own bitter juices.

how she’d escaped her husband only to be found again and beaten, punished for running away. “Poor girl. She ran out from under a leaking roof and sat in the rain.”

I am thankful for the legacy I’ve inherited, the creativity and traditions from the greats and grands in my own family,