When the Moon Is Low (4 page)
In the skies my wings soaring free
Sifting through river sand slowly
And drinking of waters so holy
In the mornings, I watched my sisters put on their uniforms, steel gray and modest. They would hike their socks up and hastily buckle their shoes, afraid of being late but even more afraid of appearing unkempt. The teachers took both issues very seriously. Every day I resented seeing them rush off while I stayed home. I envied their bags full of papers, pencils, and stories. I knew I was just as smart as my sisters—maybe even smarter.
My brother had always done well, maybe not top of his class, but well enough that my father and grandfather did not complain. I’m sure he could have excelled if he’d tried, but he rushed through homework assignments to get on with other business—soccer with the neighborhood boys, climbing the orchard trees, and bicycling down the streets near our house. As a teenager, he endured his most awkward phase, with his spotty skin and unpredictable voice. Once on the other side of puberty, his voice was that of a confident man who wanted to be out in the world.
I had broached the topic of school with my father in the past. His tired answer was always that KokoGul needed my help at home with the younger children but now this excuse was wearing thin. Mariam, my youngest sister, was seven years old and in primary school herself. There were no babies in the house.
We’d cleared the dinner dishes when I approached my father again. I was thirteen years old and determined. I knew girls who hadn’t gone to school usually married earlier, and I did not want to be married. Every year put me further away from a chance at schooling and one step closer to becoming a wife.
“Padar-
jan
?” He looked up at me and smiled gently. He turned a dial and shut off the radio, his evening news program over. I placed a cup of hot green tea next to him, two sugar cubes quickly dissolving. He always took his evening tea sweet.
“Thank you, my dear. Just what I needed after such a good dinner,” he said, patting his stomach and exhaling deeply.
“
Noosh-e-jan,
” I replied, a wish his appetite be satisfied. “Padar-
jan,
I wanted to ask you something.” My father raised an eyebrow as he took a cautious sip of his tea.
“Padar-
jan,
I want to go to school like my sisters.”
“Oh, this again,” he said, sighing. KokoGul, bent over her crochet needles, paused at my mention of schooling.
“I can still help at home, since it’s only for a few hours. All the other girls go, and there are no little ones left in the house now. I want to learn the things they are learning.” That was as much as I could get out before the cascade of tears. I lowered my head, cursing myself for not being able to get more out without my voice breaking. I waited for the knot in my throat to release or for my father to speak. I wasn’t sure which would come first.
“Fereiba-
jan,
I thought that by now you didn’t care about schooling anymore. Your sisters all started when they were younger. You’re now a young woman and you’ve not attended a single day of classes.” He grew pensive, his brows furrowed. I pursed my lips, focusing my frustration.
“I know that,” I said simply. KokoGul resumed her needlework at full speed, satisfied that the outcome of tonight’s discussion would be no different from any other.
“Is it that you want to read? Maybe Najiba can spend some time
with you to help you learn how to read. Or even Sultana—she’s doing very well in her writing and loves to read poetry.”
I’d never before felt so angry with my father. I was hurt by his patronizing suggestion and resented his warm smile. I didn’t want my younger sisters to teach me how to read. My sisters came home quoting their teachers daily. Their voices reinforced all that I was missing out on.
Moallim-
sahib
says that my penmanship is improved. Moallim-
sahib
says we should drink a glass of milk every day to stay strong and healthy.
I didn’t want to look at my younger sister as my
moallim
. She might have been able to instruct me on the basics of the alphabet and sounding out words but she couldn’t be a true teacher, standing in the front of the classroom, pushing me to memorize multiplication tables, monitoring my progress. I wanted more.
“No, Padar-
jan
.” I could feel my windpipe reopening, my voice returning with new resolve. “I don’t want to learn from a student. I want to learn from a teacher.”
My response must have surprised him. He must have thought my aspirations were childish, fanciful ones. He must have thought I wanted to don the school uniform and escape some of the housework. But I wanted much more than I could put into words, and I knew only that I was running out of time. My father considered me carefully, the corners of his mouth turning down.
“It would not be easy for you. You would have to start from the beginning, in a class with children.”
“He’s right. You’ll be a giant sitting among babies. It’s a terrible idea. Like a chicken trying to climb back into an egg!” KokoGul cautioned.
“It won’t bother me,” I promised.
A necessary lie. This was the first time I’d seen my father consider my wish in a real way.
“Let me talk with the principal of the school. Let’s see what they say. Although I’m sure your mother will miss you being around during the day.”
“Isn’t this all a bit silly? Why would she want to bother with school now? She has everything she needs here at home.” KokoGul was clearly surprised at the direction this conversation had taken.
“I’m not promising anything. Let me talk with the school and see if they’ll consider it,” he said. Ever noncommittal, my father left both KokoGul and me feeling hopeful.
Much to his surprise and KokoGul’s disappointment, the school agreed to enroll me provided I start from the beginning. I entered the first grade six years behind schedule. The night before my first day, I ironed the austere skirt and blouse, wanting to make a good impression on Moallim-
sahib
. Mauriya and Mariam, my two youngest sisters, were tickled to see me in uniform for the first time as we left the house together in the morning.
Najiba and Sultana, the older two, seemed a bit more concerned about what others would say to see an adolescent walk into a first-grade class. On the walk to school, Najiba tried to prepare me.
“Moallim-
sahib
will check to make sure that you have a pencil and a notebook. And she will probably ask you to sit in the back of the room, you know, since you’ll be taller than the other students.”
I appreciated the delicate way Najiba phrased her prediction. Sultana nodded in agreement, but less diplomatically.
“Yes, no one would be able to see over your head.” Najiba shot her a look and Sultana focused on her shoes, her steps slowing.
“You’ll be moved soon. You mostly know the alphabet already. You’ll be reading quickly.”
I gave Najiba a grateful smile. My sister and I were not very close, but there was sincerity in her words and on this particular day I needed it.
“If Sultana could learn it, then I’m sure I’ll have no problem.”
Sultana huffed, glared straight ahead, and quickened her steps. I hadn’t meant my comment to be biting. Ashamed, I turned around to check on Mauriya and Mariam trailing behind us. They walked hand in hand, bags slung over their shoulders.
My sisters distracted me from the trepidation of my first day of school. Najiba pointed me in the direction of my classroom once we passed the school’s wrought-iron gates. Sultana quickly disappeared into her own classroom. Mauriya and Mariam waved me off cheerfully.
I entered slowly, my eyes scanning the room. I wasn’t sure if I should find a chair or walk to the front and introduce myself to the teacher first. The other students were filing in and busily taking their seats. I decided I’d best make my presence known, rather than have the teacher notice me and make a scene. I was almost more a woman than a girl, yet here I sat beside children. In another setting, I could have been their caretaker. Here, I was their peer.
“Welcome, dear. I had heard you would be joining us. You’ll sit in the last row, on the end. It’s the last empty seat we have. Here, take this book. This is what we’re learning from now. Do you know your letters?”
My first teacher was a firm but kindhearted woman who took an instant liking to me, thank goodness. She spoke to me differently than she did to my classmates and did not make me feel as awkward as I must have looked to sit among such young children. Grateful and determined, I worked fervently. I had listened while my siblings mastered the alphabet, so the letters rolled off my tongue easily enough.
Within two months, I moved into the second grade. I was happy to be advanced but sad to leave my teacher behind. And that was before I’d met my next
moallim
. My second-grade teacher seemed put out to have such an oversized pupil in her class. She called on me often to read aloud and took great pleasure in watching me fumble the words. When my classmates snickered, she would facetiously chastise them.
“That’s enough! Remember, students, don’t be fooled by Fereiba’s size. She is new to second grade.”
I worked even harder and, after passing the competency exam, she had no choice but to move me along to third grade. Every afternoon, I came home from school and got started on the chores I
couldn’t escape. Since I’d promised that I would still help KokoGul and I didn’t want her to complain to my father that I was lagging in my housework, I still beat the dust from the carpets, laundered, and tended to the animals in the backyard. Only after the chores were finished and the family had eaten did I sit down to my studies. I toiled into the late hours. Padar-
jan
noticed.
“Fereiba-
jan,
you’ve been studying harder than your sisters ever did. The proof is in the marks you’re getting. Are you managing well enough?”
“Yes, Padar-
jan
. I just want to catch up to where I should be.”
“And what of your classmates? Are you getting along well enough with them?” I knew what he meant. He was asking if I, the teenaged third grader, was drawing too much negative attention.
“They’re fine. They don’t bother me and, anyway, I’m hoping to move out of this class soon.”
Satisfied, he left me to complete my assignments. We would repeat the conversation every so often until I’d moved into the fifth grade and sixth grade, when the subjects required more focus and learning. Reading had come easily to me, but mathematics was different.
Simple math I’d learned from the marketplace. If the man on the corner quoted me a price for a single yard, I knew how much it would cost us for five. I could figure out the price of a quarter or a half kilogram of raisins given the price of a whole kilogram. Geometry and algebra were tougher but I managed.
I memorized by candlelight. I recited as I dusted the living room. My finger traced invisible words and paragraphs onto my leg as we ate dinner. I stole moments where I could to absorb all that I needed to learn.
I managed to catch up. I was sixteen years old in eleventh grade, with girls of the same age. I would be graduating in only one year. I was proud, as was my father. He read each of our school progress reports carefully. He leafed through the numbers and comments and looked up at me. I saw in his eyes what he couldn’t put into words.
The corners of his mouth turned up in a sly smile, although he tried to sound nonchalant in his assessment.
“Well done.”
My grandfather listened in from the corner, with a pillow propped under his elbow and his back against the wall, nimbly moving the beads of his
tasbeh,
his rosary. The look on his face told me he wasn’t in the least bit surprised.
DESPITE THE FASTING FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET, RAMADAN WAS A
joyous month. I was typically so consumed by schoolwork and chores that the hungry days passed quickly and painlessly. During the day, stomachs growled, but after sunset, we indulged in foods we’d spent all day preparing, special dishes to reward our stoicism.
My brother, Asad, often became grouchy and spiteful in Ramadan’s afternoon hours. One afternoon, Asad had come into the living room where I was propping a pillow behind Boba-
jan
’s back. Without a word, he had thrown one of his shirts at my back. I turned around, surprised.
“Asad! What are you doing?” I said. It was a long-sleeved shirt that I had recently laundered.
“Asad,
bachem
. Why would you do such a thing?” Boba-
jan
admonished.
“Boba-
jan,
I need this shirt cleaned, but it still has a stain on it. She was supposed to get the stain out!”
“What stain?” he asked.
“It was the juice of mulberries.”
“Ah. So it is understandable then. You should not expect to wash the mulberry juice from the shirt. And do you know why?”
“Why, Boba-
jan
?” I had no idea either.
“Sit down so I may tell you. It is a good way to pass the hours until
iftar,
when we can break our fast and the restlessness that comes with it. So there was and there wasn’t, under a battered sky . . .” And with the “once upon a time” line of Afghan storytelling, Boba-
jan
began his tale.
“There was a fair young maiden . . .”
He told us about the girl and archer who met by chance in the jungle. When the beautiful maiden heard the guttural growl of a tiger from the trees, she panicked and her nose began to bleed. She fled immediately, leaving her bloodied head scarf behind. Her beloved, finding her crimson-stained head scarf and spying a tiger crouching in the distance, assumed the very worst. Heartbroken and wanting to avenge his love’s murder, he charged after the tiger who killed him effortlessly. When the young maiden worked up the courage to return to the jungle, she cried at the sight of her mauled and lifeless hunter. She collapsed beside a bush of poisonous berries and, in her abysmal grief, reached over and brought a toxic handful to her mouth, willing her soul to reunite with her beloved’s in the next world.