A novel of love during a time of war by NBC's Afghanistan correspondant
This is an absolute must read not just for teens but for anyone who has lived during the time of America's War in Afghanistan.
"[The Secret Sky is] a tale of the indomitable Afghan spirit of hope and love. Among the many novels set in Afghanistan for young people or for adults, The Secret Sky stands alone. Unputdownable. Unforgettable." –Trent Reedy, author of Words in the Dust
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Go into this one knowing that there are the following themes. Freedom vs. Parental Abuse, Molestation, and Murder. This one also has word usage but there is a glossary in the back.
"All opinions are 100% honest and my own."
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"[The Secret Sky is] a tale of the indomitable Afghan spirit of hope and love. Among the many novels set in Afghanistan for young people or for adults, The Secret Sky stands alone. Unputdownable. Unforgettable." –Trent Reedy, author of Words in the Dust
This title will be released on September 2, 2014
Review Copy-Print ARC
About the Author
Atia Abawi is a foreign news correspondent who was stationed for almost five years in Kabul, Afghanistan. She was born to Afghan parents in West Germany and was raised in the US. She currently lives in Jerusalem with her husband, Conor Powell, and flies around the globe, reporting for NBC News.
My Review-4 Stars
Worth the Read
I really did love this book. I thought that parts of it were a little slow. But, it is still worth the read. I think this would be a great book for High School as it gives a very good look at the hardships that people over seas go through. It would also be a great book for woman's rights. As it shows how woman are treated. This one is split between three POVs and it works out great. I loved Fatima and Samiullah but really hated Rashid. You could say that this book is a remake of Romeo and Juliet (don't worry not completely) as Fatima and Samiullah fall in love they struggle with not only their families but with their religion and tradition. In a time when they are not even allowed to hang out without a chaperone is just unbelievable for some. I had my almost 10 year old daughter read parts of this and she asked me if this was true and I told her yes. That if we lived there she wouldn't even be able to go to the park. Its just so different from what we have grown up with here in the US. Its a book that will make you open your eyes and think about how you live and how you treat people. It was a wonderful moving story.
Go Into This One Knowing
"All opinions are 100% honest and my own."
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Excerpt
Chapter One
Fatima
I know this worn path better than I know myself. As I walk through the nut-colored haze, I can taste the salty bitterness of the parched ground meeting the air and then meeting my mouth. Since I was a child, I’ve always tried to walk in front of everyone, so the dirt wouldn’t hit my clothes. There’s nothing worse than the smell of earth on your clothing when you are lying on your mat and trying to sleep at night. It lingers, making its way into your dreams.
But still, the path brings me comfort. It’s something I am familiar with. I don’t know the new curves on my body the way I know the bends on the footpath.
I look down and am glad that I can hide myself under an oversized payron. I’m jealous of my three-year-old sister, Afifa. She doesn’t have to worry about becoming a woman. At least, not yet. I turn and see her behind me, jumping onto the footprints I’ve made, carefree like I used to be.
“What are you doing, crazy girl?” my best friend, Zohra, asks my little Afifa.
“I’m jumping so I don’t drown!” she says with determination, sticking her tongue out to the side as she lands on another print.
“Drown in what? We’re walking on dirt.” Zohra shakes her head.
“No, it’s a river!” Afifa responds. “And Fato’s footprints are the rocks I need to jump on so I don’t drown!”
“Okay, you dewanagak,” Zohra says, laughing. “Fatima, your sister has a lot of imagination. I don’t think we were that colorful when we were her age.”
“I think we were,” I say. “At least I was. You were always so scared of everything, including your own shadow.” I can’t help but laugh.
“What do you know?” Zohra pouts, just as I thought she would. The best part about teasing her is that she is horrible at pestering back. She’s my best friend for many reasons, and that is definitely one of them.
I keep chuckling, and eventually Zohra starts to giggle too. She’s never been able to stay mad at me, even when I deserve it.
We’re nearly at the well when we both see the tree log. It’s a log we pass almost daily, and every time, it brings back memories of what life used to be like, when all the kids from the village spent the days playing together. My mother says that it’s no longer proper for a girl of my shape to go out and play, that it will be seen as indecent. But even if she did let me play outside, I don’t have anyone left to run in the fields with. Most of the girls around my age aren’t allowed to leave their homes, and the boys have begun helping their fathers in the fields and shops.
Zohra and I are still allowed to see each other, but even time with her isn’t the same as it used to be. She doesn’t want to run around anymore; she would rather sit and gossip about the village, sharing all the information she hears from her parents while braiding my hair.
For the first time in my life, I feel alone. Lonely. Even though my little brothers and sister are always around, it seems like I no longer belong in my family—at least not the new me—the bizarre, curvy, grown-up me. This feeling of nowhereness makes me empty inside in a way that I can’t explain to anyone, not even Zohra. She seems to be embracing all the changes that I can’t.
I wish I could be like that log. It’s always been the same—able to fit the tiny backsides of a dozen or so children, squeezed tightly together. We’d sit there taking breaks from running around the village, sharing treats if we had them, munching the nuts and mulberries we’d picked from the nearby woods.
“What are you smiling at?” Zohra breaks my train of thought.
“Nothing. I was just remembering how we used to play around that log,” I say as my smile fades. “It looks so sad without us there.”
“You’re the one who looks sad over a piece of wood,” Zohra says. “Besides, I don’t think we could all fit on that thing anymore. If you haven’t noticed, our backsides have grown a bit.” She smirks. “I remember when Rashid found that thing in the woods while we were picking berries and we all had to roll it up here. I think my back still hasn’t forgiven me!” Zohra dramatically puts one arm on her back and slouches like an old bibi, and in fact, she looks a lot like her own grandmother when she does it.
I remember that day so clearly, even though it was a lifetime ago. Rolling that chunk of timber, all of us together as a team. It was a grueling task, and we didn’t think we could make it, but Samiullah, whose family owns the well and the fields beyond it, he knew we could. Every few feet of progress, one of us would want to stop. But Samiullah wouldn’t let us. He kept encouraging us to keep pushing.
He was always the leader out of our little gang of village kids. Some families didn’t allow their children to play with us because we were a mixed group—Pashtun children playing with Hazara children—but our parents didn’t mind. We were connected through the land and through our fathers—Samiullah’s Pashtun father is the landowner, and our Hazara fathers are the farmers.
After we moved the log to its current spot, we all sat on it, picking out on another’s splinters. We couldn’t believe we’d done it, just like Samiullah said we would.
“Did you hear that Sami’s back?” Zohra cuts off my thoughts of the past.
“What?” I don’t think I heard the words correctly. Samiullah had left for religious studies—he was supposed to be gone for years. There was no way he was back.
“Yeah, I heard he’s back from the madrassa, at least that’s what my father told my mother and grandmother last night. He heard it from Kaka Ismail,” she adds, throwing her empty plastic jug up in the air before catching it again, sending Afifa into a fit of giggles.
“Sami’s father told your father?” I ask, still confused.
“Yeah, didn’t your father tell you? Apparently he spoke to them when he came by to check on the fields.” This time she misses the jug after her toss. “He didn’t last long did he?” She picks it up and slaps the dirt off the plastic.
“What do you mean?” I can’t seem to process anything Zohra is saying right now. How is Samiullah back? Why haven’t I seen him yet? Why didn’t I know he’d returned? We used to be best friends, Sami and I. Could he be around here? We are near his house right now. He could be anywhere on these grounds.
“Most boys don’t come back until they’re adults with their scraggly beards, telling us all what bad Muslims we are,” Zohra says rolling her eyes. “Thank God he left early. Apparently Rashid is still there. Kaka Ismail said he’s coming home soon, too, but just to visit. Knowing Rashid, once he finishes at the madrassa, he’ll want to hang all of us for being infidels just because he can.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What? We both know he’s always been a little dewana.” Zohra shrugs her shoulders before crossing her eyes.
I cluck my tongue at her in disapproval while grabbing her jug. Samiullah’s cousin has always been a bit rougher than the rest of their family, but he’s not crazy. He was a part of our childhood. He was a part of what made us us.
As I walk down the path, My heads spins with Zohra’s news. Is Samiullah really home? When he left three years ago, I thought I’d lost my friend forever. Could he really be back?
I look through the trees that guard their house from the well, and a stampede of questions race through my brain: Is he there? Can he see me right now? Is my dress clean? Why didn’t I let Zohra braid my hair today? Why does it matter if I let Zohra braid my hair today?
But I know the answer to that last question. I know why it matters.
I always thought that by the time Samiullah came back, I wouldn’t be allowed to see him anymore—that we would be at the age where a man and woman can’t visit each other unless they’re related. I figured they would find him a wife and marry him as soon as he arrived home. And I’d probably be married by then too. To someone else. My stomach stings at the thought.
Sami was always different from the rest of the boys. He saw me for who I was, not just as Ali’s little sister. And he took care of me . . . but I guess he took care of everyone.
As we fetch the water from the well, I realize I’m conscious of my every movement, wondering if he’s watching. It’s so stupid. I know he hasn’t missed me the way I’ve missed him. But I can’t resist stealing glances past the foliage at his family’s home.
I drop the bucket back into the water. When I feel the weight filling the plastic tub, I begin pulling the rope. I follow one tug with another. When the bucket makes it to the edge of the well, I pull it up and pour it into our containers, only to drop the bucket down again, repeating the tedious process.
Fatima
I know this worn path better than I know myself. As I walk through the nut-colored haze, I can taste the salty bitterness of the parched ground meeting the air and then meeting my mouth. Since I was a child, I’ve always tried to walk in front of everyone, so the dirt wouldn’t hit my clothes. There’s nothing worse than the smell of earth on your clothing when you are lying on your mat and trying to sleep at night. It lingers, making its way into your dreams.
But still, the path brings me comfort. It’s something I am familiar with. I don’t know the new curves on my body the way I know the bends on the footpath.
I look down and am glad that I can hide myself under an oversized payron. I’m jealous of my three-year-old sister, Afifa. She doesn’t have to worry about becoming a woman. At least, not yet. I turn and see her behind me, jumping onto the footprints I’ve made, carefree like I used to be.
“What are you doing, crazy girl?” my best friend, Zohra, asks my little Afifa.
“I’m jumping so I don’t drown!” she says with determination, sticking her tongue out to the side as she lands on another print.
“Drown in what? We’re walking on dirt.” Zohra shakes her head.
“No, it’s a river!” Afifa responds. “And Fato’s footprints are the rocks I need to jump on so I don’t drown!”
“Okay, you dewanagak,” Zohra says, laughing. “Fatima, your sister has a lot of imagination. I don’t think we were that colorful when we were her age.”
“I think we were,” I say. “At least I was. You were always so scared of everything, including your own shadow.” I can’t help but laugh.
“What do you know?” Zohra pouts, just as I thought she would. The best part about teasing her is that she is horrible at pestering back. She’s my best friend for many reasons, and that is definitely one of them.
I keep chuckling, and eventually Zohra starts to giggle too. She’s never been able to stay mad at me, even when I deserve it.
We’re nearly at the well when we both see the tree log. It’s a log we pass almost daily, and every time, it brings back memories of what life used to be like, when all the kids from the village spent the days playing together. My mother says that it’s no longer proper for a girl of my shape to go out and play, that it will be seen as indecent. But even if she did let me play outside, I don’t have anyone left to run in the fields with. Most of the girls around my age aren’t allowed to leave their homes, and the boys have begun helping their fathers in the fields and shops.
Zohra and I are still allowed to see each other, but even time with her isn’t the same as it used to be. She doesn’t want to run around anymore; she would rather sit and gossip about the village, sharing all the information she hears from her parents while braiding my hair.
For the first time in my life, I feel alone. Lonely. Even though my little brothers and sister are always around, it seems like I no longer belong in my family—at least not the new me—the bizarre, curvy, grown-up me. This feeling of nowhereness makes me empty inside in a way that I can’t explain to anyone, not even Zohra. She seems to be embracing all the changes that I can’t.
I wish I could be like that log. It’s always been the same—able to fit the tiny backsides of a dozen or so children, squeezed tightly together. We’d sit there taking breaks from running around the village, sharing treats if we had them, munching the nuts and mulberries we’d picked from the nearby woods.
“What are you smiling at?” Zohra breaks my train of thought.
“Nothing. I was just remembering how we used to play around that log,” I say as my smile fades. “It looks so sad without us there.”
“You’re the one who looks sad over a piece of wood,” Zohra says. “Besides, I don’t think we could all fit on that thing anymore. If you haven’t noticed, our backsides have grown a bit.” She smirks. “I remember when Rashid found that thing in the woods while we were picking berries and we all had to roll it up here. I think my back still hasn’t forgiven me!” Zohra dramatically puts one arm on her back and slouches like an old bibi, and in fact, she looks a lot like her own grandmother when she does it.
I remember that day so clearly, even though it was a lifetime ago. Rolling that chunk of timber, all of us together as a team. It was a grueling task, and we didn’t think we could make it, but Samiullah, whose family owns the well and the fields beyond it, he knew we could. Every few feet of progress, one of us would want to stop. But Samiullah wouldn’t let us. He kept encouraging us to keep pushing.
He was always the leader out of our little gang of village kids. Some families didn’t allow their children to play with us because we were a mixed group—Pashtun children playing with Hazara children—but our parents didn’t mind. We were connected through the land and through our fathers—Samiullah’s Pashtun father is the landowner, and our Hazara fathers are the farmers.
After we moved the log to its current spot, we all sat on it, picking out on another’s splinters. We couldn’t believe we’d done it, just like Samiullah said we would.
“Did you hear that Sami’s back?” Zohra cuts off my thoughts of the past.
“What?” I don’t think I heard the words correctly. Samiullah had left for religious studies—he was supposed to be gone for years. There was no way he was back.
“Yeah, I heard he’s back from the madrassa, at least that’s what my father told my mother and grandmother last night. He heard it from Kaka Ismail,” she adds, throwing her empty plastic jug up in the air before catching it again, sending Afifa into a fit of giggles.
“Sami’s father told your father?” I ask, still confused.
“Yeah, didn’t your father tell you? Apparently he spoke to them when he came by to check on the fields.” This time she misses the jug after her toss. “He didn’t last long did he?” She picks it up and slaps the dirt off the plastic.
“What do you mean?” I can’t seem to process anything Zohra is saying right now. How is Samiullah back? Why haven’t I seen him yet? Why didn’t I know he’d returned? We used to be best friends, Sami and I. Could he be around here? We are near his house right now. He could be anywhere on these grounds.
“Most boys don’t come back until they’re adults with their scraggly beards, telling us all what bad Muslims we are,” Zohra says rolling her eyes. “Thank God he left early. Apparently Rashid is still there. Kaka Ismail said he’s coming home soon, too, but just to visit. Knowing Rashid, once he finishes at the madrassa, he’ll want to hang all of us for being infidels just because he can.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What? We both know he’s always been a little dewana.” Zohra shrugs her shoulders before crossing her eyes.
I cluck my tongue at her in disapproval while grabbing her jug. Samiullah’s cousin has always been a bit rougher than the rest of their family, but he’s not crazy. He was a part of our childhood. He was a part of what made us us.
As I walk down the path, My heads spins with Zohra’s news. Is Samiullah really home? When he left three years ago, I thought I’d lost my friend forever. Could he really be back?
I look through the trees that guard their house from the well, and a stampede of questions race through my brain: Is he there? Can he see me right now? Is my dress clean? Why didn’t I let Zohra braid my hair today? Why does it matter if I let Zohra braid my hair today?
But I know the answer to that last question. I know why it matters.
I always thought that by the time Samiullah came back, I wouldn’t be allowed to see him anymore—that we would be at the age where a man and woman can’t visit each other unless they’re related. I figured they would find him a wife and marry him as soon as he arrived home. And I’d probably be married by then too. To someone else. My stomach stings at the thought.
Sami was always different from the rest of the boys. He saw me for who I was, not just as Ali’s little sister. And he took care of me . . . but I guess he took care of everyone.
As we fetch the water from the well, I realize I’m conscious of my every movement, wondering if he’s watching. It’s so stupid. I know he hasn’t missed me the way I’ve missed him. But I can’t resist stealing glances past the foliage at his family’s home.
I drop the bucket back into the water. When I feel the weight filling the plastic tub, I begin pulling the rope. I follow one tug with another. When the bucket makes it to the edge of the well, I pull it up and pour it into our containers, only to drop the bucket down again, repeating the tedious process.
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