My Name Is Parvana (3 page)

FOUR

P
arvana stood in the hot sun with the other students, listening to the government man drone on and on.

“The opening day of a new school is a grand new beginning for all of us,” he was saying. “The hard work we have done has paid off in this glorious accomplishment.”

The hard work we have done? Parvana had never seen that man before in her life, and here he was, claiming credit for work that wasn’t his.

Her family had done the work. All the crazy members of it — those who had been born into it and those who had joined.

She had been the one to find the building. She found it when she was out on a walk to escape for a short while from the camp for internal refugees she had landed in. Her mother had been the one to decide they should take it over, and raised such a ruckus with local officials and the military that they gave her the ruined building just to shut her up. Nooria was the one who connected with organizations that could give them funding to turn the rubble into a school. Asif repaired the old water pump and found a broken generator that he also fixed. Even Maryam helped clean, and Hassan helped put things on shelves.

They
had built this place, with the help of many other hands.

The government man hadn’t lifted a finger.

Mother must be furious, Parvana thought, and she looked over at the tall woman with the straight back and the head held high. She was sitting on the platform with the guests from the military and the foreign agencies that had given them money.

If her mother was feeling any anger at the government man, she certainly wasn’t showing it. She looked happy and maybe just a little nervous that her students wouldn’t behave properly.

Nooria would certainly be annoyed. Parvana’s older sister was always crabby about something.

Her sister was sitting with the other teachers, all wearing the dark blue chador that marked them as staff. They were all young women who had taken a crash course on how to be a teacher. Nooria, too, looked happy and not angry.

Of course she’s happy, Parvana thought. She has a whole classroom of kids to boss around now, instead of just Maryam and me.

Maryam was Parvana’s youngest sister. She was standing in the first row of students, directly in front of Parvana, wearing the white chador that all the students wore.

Maryam was a squirmer. She couldn’t sit still for more than two minutes, always bopping around to some pop tune in her head. Mother said she was contrary, just like Parvana. Parvana thought it more likely that Maryam still had energy inside her that couldn’t come out when she was kept inside their small apartment during the time the Taliban was in charge.

Parvana was supposed to keep an eye on her, but she had mostly given up on that. Maryam would settle when she was ready to settle, and not a moment before.

Parvana kept moving her eyes until they landed on Asif, sitting with the other school staff, looking like he was actually listening to the government man’s silly speech. He no longer looked like the angry boy Parvana had found in a cave a little over four years before. They had wandered Afghanistan together, filthy and hungry.

Today he was wearing his good snow-white shalwar kameez. His dark hair was shining and curling around his ears. His face had filled out, no longer hollow-eyed from hunger.

He was still more fun to argue with than anyone Parvana had ever known.

On Asif’s lap sat Hassan, the little boy Parvana had found in the bombed-out village. Hassan had been a baby then. Now he was ready for kindergarten. He was sitting tall and still. Only Asif could get him to behave so well.

There were two other school staff — Mr. Fahir, the chowkidar who kept control of the gate, and Mrs. Zaher, the cook.

Parvana thought about all these people, and forgot about being angry.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of applause. The government man had finally stopped talking. Mother, as the headmistress of the new school, stepped forward. Together they unveiled the sign with the school’s name:

LEILA'S ACADEMY OF HOPE

Parvana blinked to get rid of the tears she felt in her eyes. It had been her idea to name the school after the tiny girl with the big imagination. Parvana and Asif were going to plant a flower garden in her memory, too.

Maryam took two steps forward from the group and sang the Afghan national anthem, clear and true. She was always singing along to the radio, and when the radio wasn’t on, she sang Afghan and American pop songs from memory. She sang the national anthem as if she was more proud of her singing ability than she was of her country, but so what? Her little sister could count on her voice. Afghanistan still had to prove itself.

Maryam finished strong, everyone applauded, and photographers took her picture. The formal part of the ceremony was over.

While tea was prepared, Parvana took a group of parents on a tour of the school.

“Here is the kindergarten room,” she said, opening the door into a small, bright, colorful room with mats on the floor and a few toys along the side. “Children up to the age of six are in this room. They will learn songs, how to wash their hands, basic counting, how to write their names, things like that.”

“Will they learn how to pray?” a man in the back of the group asked.

“Um, yes, they will.” Parvana was surprised by the question and did not have a smooth answer ready. “They will also get three meals a day, prepared in the school kitchen …”

“And who will teach them to pray?” The man at the back barked the question at her.

“We have excellent teachers on staff.”

“Women! Women will teach them to pray?”

“Um … we will invite the imam to come to teach them,” Parvana replied, but she didn’t feel good about her answer. It felt like she was agreeing with the man, that women teachers were not good enough.

“We will also be teaching first-aid and simple nursing,” Parvana said. “Real medical professionals will be teaching us. The plan is that every girl will have good knowledge of basic health care by the time she graduates. It could help her get a job and will be good for her family and community.”

They moved on to another classroom.

“We have grades one to three in this room,” she said.

This was the class her sister Nooria was going to teach. It had three big tables for the students to sit around to do their lessons. The tables could be pushed to the side to make room for games and exercises and story time.

“They will learn to read and write and do simple arithmetic. They will learn about the animals and plants of Afghanistan, the names of the provinces and about other countries, and how to be a good citizen.”

Parvana knew all this because Nooria had talked of little else for months, poring over every education book she could find and having long discussions with their mother.

“We’re starting from scratch,” Nooria would say. “Everything that was here before is no good now. It all led to war and those terrible years. We have a chance to create a system that will raise a new type of Afghan child, a child with high expectations and with the confidence to rebuild the country.”

She would go on and on about it, like she was making a speech — particularly when there were dishes to be washed or water to be fetched. But that was Nooria. Years of war had not made her act less bossy or feel less superior.

Parvana found it annoying, but she was also a little relieved. In a world where everything could fall apart very quickly, Nooria being bossy was almost comforting.

“Right down the hall is the middle-grade classroom,” Parvana said, and they looked into the room that was for grades four, five and six. “We’re calling the classes grades, but really they are age groups. It’s likely that everyone will be starting at the same level since all the schools have been closed for so long.”

After that, Parvana led the group to the dining hall, which also held the few shelves of books that made up the school library. This would be the room where Parvana and the few other girls her age would study. They had different levels of education. Some had only got to the second grade, but they would feel better if they learned with girls their own age, rather than with the little kids.

“What are these books?”

The same man was complaining again. He held up a tattered copy of
Alphabeasts
, a picture book with the letters of the English alphabet represented by animals.

“We don’t have many books yet,” Parvana said. “We have some that were donated. Most of those are in foreign languages.”

She remembered the excitement everyone had felt when the boxes of books came in on an army truck, donated by some people in Canada. Her favorite so far was a collection of American poetry. The language was simple, so she could understand the words even if she couldn’t understand the poem. And the poems were short. She could usually get through a whole poem before her mother yelled at her to stop reading and get back to work. Parvana had helped to set up their tiny library, and had arranged each book on the shelf as if it were made of the finest china.

“We hope to get books in our own language soon.”

“Look at these pictures! Disgraceful!”

He was holding the book open at one of Parvana’s favorite pictures in the whole book, M is for Mandrill. It was of a monkey waiting for a phone call.

“We are lucky to have any books at all,” one of the other parents said, taking the book from him. “I never went to school, and now my daughter is going to this fine place. And I’ll be sure to tell her to look at this book. It will make her laugh, and I want her to laugh.”

He replaced the book carefully on the shelf.

The tour continued. Parvana showed them the kitchen and explained that all the students would take turns helping to prepare the meals and keep the school clean.

“And this is the Wall of Achievement.”

It had been Parvana’s idea to turn the large, blank wall in the dining hall into a place where girls could post pictures and stories about Afghan women and girls doing great things. Parvana had taken complete charge of it, going through the newspaper each morning and clipping out stories about girls winning science competitions or women joining the police force. In big letters she copied out phrases from the new constitution that protected women’s rights.

In the center of the board was a photo and article about Mrs. Weera, her old friend from Kabul who had just been elected to the new Afghan parliament.

“When classes get going, girls can put up their calligraphy or a map they have drawn well or a perfect arithmetic paper. Anything they have worked hard on and done a good job with,” Parvana told the group.

“Doesn’t that just encourage them to be proud?” the complaining man asked.

“Yes,” Parvana said.

The next stop was the playground.

“Everyone will get at least one hour of exercise each day,” she said. “Plus recess and games. We have basketball, volleyball and football, although our yard is too small for real football games. The little ones will have lots of running games.”

“Girls should not do this,” the man said. “It is immodest. It is forbidden.”

Parvana held her tongue and led the group across the yard to the workshop at the back.

This was Asif’s territory.

He was sitting at his workbench, sharpening some old tools that had been donated. He had changed out of his good shalwar kameez and had his work apron over his regular clothes. He picked up his crutch and stood respectfully when the group entered.

Parvana introduced him.

“This is Asif. He teaches carpentry, machine shop, car repair — all mechanical things.”

The complaining man launched into a rant about how these were not appropriate things for girls to study. But he was cut off by Asif, who said politely, “Perhaps you would prefer to send your daughter to another school.”

“My daughter will never go to school!” the man exclaimed. “Her place is in the home.”

“This is a day for the parents of students,” Asif said. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”

The man glared at Asif for a long moment. Then, with a huff, he swept himself out of the workshop.

Asif continued as if nothing had happened.

“Eventually we will be doing small repairs for people in the community,” he said. “We want to give students work experience and also say thank you to the village for letting us have a school here.”

He wrapped up his talk. Parvana showed the parents the vegetable garden that she had already spent hours digging and planting, and the latrines, which were whitewashed and spotless. She had also spent hours digging these outhouses, making them extra deep to cut down on the flies and the smell.

She led the group back to the party just in time to help serve pieces of cake.

A representative from a French charity was among the foreign guests. Parvana made her way over to him with her tray of desserts. She waited patiently for him to finish his conversation with the government man. It was a long wait.

Finally, the government man was led away to meet another foreign guest. Parvana moved in.

The Frenchman took a piece of cake and looked surprised when Parvana didn’t leave.

“Are there really lavender fields in France?” she asked him.

“Lavender fields? Yes, of course. The most beautiful places! All purple. And the scent! So sweet!”

“Have you ever seen them?”

“Yes, of course.”

Parvana felt foolish asking her next question, but she couldn’t stop herself.

“Have you ever seen a little girl sitting in one? Well, she wouldn’t be a little girl anymore. She would be my age. I know you probably haven’t. But have you?”

He hadn’t.

Even if her friend Shauzia had made it out of Afghanistan, there was little chance she had gone all the way to France. And even if she had and had found a lavender field to sit in, she probably wouldn’t still be sitting there, years later.

But Parvana could see it in her mind — Shauzia, just as she last saw her when they said goodbye in Kabul. She would be sitting among the purple flowers, with the sun shining and everything quiet.