{"product_id":"tali-girls-isbn-9781953861665","title":"Tali Girls","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn intimate look at the lives, loves, horrors, and dreams of girls and women in an Afghan mountain village under Taliban rule\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA heartbreaking tragedy in the vein of \u003ci\u003eThe Kite Runner \u003c\/i\u003efrom a major English-speaking Afghan figure famous for his books and long career in politics\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSiamak Herawi brings Afghan women centerstage and takes us deep into the heart of his motherland to witness the reality of their lives under the Taliban’s most extreme interpretation of Islam. Based on true stories, the result is a sobering and harrowing tale that relates the current ethos of a country under occupation by one power or another for more than half a century.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTold in a direct, conversational prose, this chorus of voices offers us a vivid picture of the endless cycle of the suffering of girls and women in the grip of the Taliban authorities, of the imbalance of power and opportunity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe central figures illuminate the power of love, friendship, and generosity in the face of poverty and oppression. Their experiences and dilemmas have a visceral power and we become deeply attached to Kowsar, Geesu, and Simin. These are testaments of resilience, hope, courage, and visceral fear, of doors of opportunity opening just a crack that offer a way out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Sara Khalili’s vibrant and nuanced translation from the Persian, \u003ci\u003eTali Girls \u003c\/i\u003etears down the curtain and exposes the treacherous realities of what women are up against in modern-day, war-torn Afghanistan.\u003ci\u003e\"Tali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is an electrifying book. Swift, devastating, and unforgettable.\" — \u003cb\u003eJustin Torres, author of \u003ci\u003eWe the Animals\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBlackouts \u003c\/i\u003eand winner of the 2023 National Book Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There are echoes here of Miriam Toews’s \u003ci\u003eWomen Talking . . .\u003c\/i\u003e Herawi’s first novel to be published in the U.S. has been rendered into clear, pointed prose by Sarah Khalili. He uses the pervasive rituals of household and village life to provide color and context and displays compelling empathy when he contrasts older women’s anger and resignation with the girls’ shock and despair upon realizing the physical and emotional imprisonment they face.\" — \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A dark warning for any society now facing the rise of extremist fundamentalism, and a literary feat of sublime compassion, \u003ci\u003eTali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is as painful to read as it is necessary. Siamak Herawi has given full voice to the suffering of Afghanistan’s women under Taliban rule. Oppression of this magnitude is a tragedy not only for a people, but for individuals with crushed hopes and lives—young Kowsar, Simin, Geesu. Know them, Herawi implores. The world must not turn away. The reader of this searing story can not.\" — \u003cb\u003eMelissa Holbrook Pierson, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Man Who Would Stop at Nothing \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Secret History of Kindness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eTali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is a harrowing novel about the brutal lives of women in a terrorist-controlled state. In the end, Kowsar’s fate remains an open question. This is, perhaps, the kindest possible conclusion to her story.\" — \u003cb\u003eEileen Gonzalez,  \u003ci\u003eForeward Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In Siamak Herawi’s \u003ci\u003eTali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e, translated into crystalline English by Sara Khalili, we enter into an Afghanistan where women and girls earn every measure of their joy amidst lives torn asunder by a relentless conspiracy of empires. \u003ci\u003eTali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is an unforgettable story filled with characters I will carry with me.” \u003cb\u003e— Kaveh Akbar, author of poetry collections \u003ci\u003ePilgrim Bell\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCalling a Wolf a Wolf\u003c\/i\u003e, and a novel called \u003ci\u003eMartyr!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Tali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is an extraordinary book: poetic in its focus on the most humble moments of life and smallest details of landscape, and utterly devastating in its depiction of bright, passionate girls being crushed by corruption and desperation in an Afghanistan that has tried to render them powerless. That they are not powerless is revealed in sometimes shocking ways (the novel is a page-turner, a horror story, a thriller, and also often very funny), but most of all by rendering inner lives that no predator, despot, or Talib, can extinguish.” \u003cb\u003e– Amy Waldman, author of \u003ci\u003eA Door in the Earth\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Submission\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Tali Girls, lucidly translated from the 2018 Persian original by award-winning Sara Khalili, is both a provoking exposé and wrenching homage to the girls and women of Herawi's birth country . . . 'Read... to understand the world around you,' a brave teacher once demanded of Kowsar. Audiences granted such privileged access here should obey this urgent charge.\" \u003cb\u003e– Terry Hong, \u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Herawi paints a rich portrait of Afghan life that readers will be able to see, smell, and hear. With deft skill and sensitivity, he gives voice to modern Afghan women's oppressive, harrowing, and brutal experiences. Skillfully translated from the Persian by Sara Khalili, this heartbreaking and necessary read uplifts as these women resist and persevere.” \u003cb\u003e— \u003ci\u003eBooklist,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In \u003ci\u003eTali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e, the central problem facing the villagers comes down to this: to leave or to stay. As one young man from Tali describes his impossible situation, “Running away is worse than staying, and staying is worse than running away.” It would be easy to conclude that the people of Tali are doomed . . . But \u003ci\u003eTali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is too big-hearted to remain in this space of cynicism. Throughout the book, sentiments of hopelessness and despair are always contradicted by the fierce spirit of Kowsar, with her belief in the power of love, and of storytelling.\" \u003cb\u003e– Anna Learn, \u003ci\u003eWorld Literature Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A haunting portrait… In this often dark novel, moments of tenderness alleviate the gloom . . . Herawi’s critique of religious fundamentalism broadens as he assigns blame for Afghanistan’s woes to the power-hungry… men consumed by power, greed, and lust.”\u003cb\u003e — \u003cb\u003eBareerah Y. Ghani\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e, \u003ci\u003eWashington Independent Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"In clear, crisp, almost folkloric prose, Herawi weaves a tale of rural life in contemporary Afghanistan that honours both the beauty of the landscape and the stark realities—internal and external—that have impacted the population over the years . . . Herawi has created an exhilarating novel with a relatively large cast of characters that we quickly come to care deeply about . . . [\u003ci\u003eTali Girls\u003c\/i\u003e] is a vital portrait.” \u003cb\u003e— \u003cb\u003eJoseph Schreiber,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003ci\u003eRough Ghosts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \"The book’s action is gripping. It flies by like a relay race—once one girl’s life is destroyed, she hands the baton to another girl or woman to share her story . . . Sara Khalili as translator skillfully maintains an Afghan sensibility in English.\" \u003cb\u003e—Zarlasht Niaz, \u003ci\u003eThe Afghan Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSiamak Herawi\u003c\/b\u003e was born in Herat province, Afghanistan, in 1968. He studied at Kabul University and Stavropol University in Moscow. Returning to Afghanistan in 1991, Herawi started his career as a reporter and later joined Anis Newspaper as its editor in chief. In 2003 he was appointed deputy spokesperson to President Hamid Kharzai, a position he held until he was transferred in 2012 to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs as deputy spokesperson. A year later, he was appointed chargés d'affaires of the Embassy of Afghanistan in London. Herawi resigned from his position in 2014 when Ashraf Ghani was elected president and remained in the UK. Despite his long career in politics, Siamak Herawi is most recognised as one of Afghanistan’s most prolific writers whose body of work includes twelve novels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTranslator \u003cb\u003eSara Khalili\u003c\/b\u003e is an editor and translator of contemporary Iranian literature. Her many translations include \u003ci\u003eCensoring an Iranian Love Story\u003c\/i\u003e by Shahriar Mandanipour.\u003cb\u003eKowsar\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I will start with my childhood. From the time I was three years old. I will speak of my earliest memories, of ants that crawl up the wall in columns and now and then stop to lock horns. They frighten me, I scream, I break into a fever, and everything fades into grey. It is difficult to describe how the world around me turns hazy and grey. Visualize a girl struck with such fright that she breaks into a burning fever, convulses, and loses consciousness. At times, she hallucinates. Perhaps of horrors beyond her young imagination. As a small child, dogs, cats, even people sometimes frighten me. \u003cbr\u003e One day, the old man of the neighborhood stops when he sees me with Mother and smiles. He walks across the way and kneels in front of me. “Kowsar,” he says, “you are so sweet. I could eat you!” I scream and hide under Mother’s chador. I start to shake and my grey world sets in. I again see the old man. He is wearing a grimy lungee and his coarse beard is sticking out in every direction. His eyes are sunken and bloodshot. He kneels in front of me and grins. “Kowsar, I could eat you,” he whispers. Then he opens his foul-smelling mouth, licks my face and digs his sharp yellow teeth into my cheek. With no resistance, I surrender to him. When all that remains are my bones, the old man licks his moustache and walks away laughing. \u003cbr\u003e Mother picks me up and cradles me in her arms. “Oh, my girl!” she says, feeling my forehead. “It’s the fainting spell again.” And she hurries home. \u003cbr\u003e “Mobin Khan, Kowsar fainted again. One of these days she’ll stop breathing. When are you going to take her to a mullah or a doctor?”\u003cbr\u003e Father, busy mixing hay and weeds near the sheep hold, stops, glances at her, and goes back to mixing his hay and weeds.\u003cbr\u003e “Wife, it’s nothing new. She’s had it since she was little. They say it’s epilepsy. Leave her be. We were seven brothers, disease killed until only two of us remained. Lucky the ones who died. We’re only fooling ourselves that we are grateful being alive.”\u003cbr\u003e “Husband! She’s helpless. It doesn’t please God to let her suffer. Back then children died because there were no doctors, no medicine. These days people don’t die that easily.”\u003cbr\u003e  “Wife! Doctors and medicine cost money. Where’s the money? If I start selling the sheep, how would I make a living?”\u003cbr\u003e “Then take her to a mullah. They say there’s a new one in Jawand who has healing powers. Take her to him. He can cure her with prayers and incantations.”\u003cbr\u003e “Mullahs don’t heal for free! But, fine, I’ll take her. I’ll have the man chant and do whatever he does to cure your daughter. Happy now? … It’s almost time to harvest and thresh the wheat. When that’s done, I’ll take a sack of grain and sell it, so I can buy some tea and candied sugar. Now stop pestering me. Go brew a pot of tea, I’m vexed and exhausted.”\u003cbr\u003e Mother sighs and turns back. She feels my forehead again. The fever is gone. There’s cold sweat on my brow. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ****\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e After the wheat is harvested and threshed, Father ties a burlap sack of grain on our donkey and takes me by the hand to bring me to the mullah. We live in Tali, a village in a deep valley surrounded by mountains with tall peaks and massive boulders that in the morning and afternoon act as barriers against the sun. Our valley is green and lush, drunk with springs, waterfalls, and streams that intricately weave their way to where they meet and create a roaring mountain river. You can see schools of red- and cream-colored fish playfully swimming between the azure rocks, relishing their togetherness. The birds of our region are colorful and sweet singing. At dawn, they wake each other by chirping and with sunrise they fly off, going in flocks from one orchard to another, from one field to another. \u003cbr\u003e The girls of Tali are beautiful. They have long wavy hair, large almond shaped eyes, and skin the color of wheat. They grow up learning to cook and sew. At seven, some are taught to embroider, as well. They stitch and seam and sing together. And when they reach puberty, they fall in love with the sunburned boys who wear their skullcaps cocked to the side and play their reed flute as they scale the mountains shepherding goats and sheep and stealing young girls’ hearts. \u003cbr\u003e Father takes me to the bazaar in Jawand. It’s a two-hour walk from Tali. Rows of shops and stalls flank the dirt road crowded by shoppers and traders. Father sells his wheat, shakes the burlap sack, and throws it over the donkey, and we go to leave it at the stables behind the bazaar. Then Father asks around about the mullah. A man shows him the way. \u003cbr\u003e Two rooms with a small, crooked door connecting them. In the first room, a dozen or so men and women are sitting along the walls on a threadbare rug. Some are moaning, grunting, others look so sulky and surly that it seems misery and pain have robbed them of the air to breathe. We sit in a corner, and I keep my head down to avoid looking anyone in the eye. There are strange sounds coming from the other room. A man is talking in a nasal voice that constantly fluctuates in pitch and volume. Now and then he shouts and loudly puffs, “\u003ci\u003eChoof\u003c\/i\u003e!”  I shrink closer to Father and sneak under his jacket to not hear him, but I do. \u003cbr\u003e We wait a long time for our turn. The adjacent room is dimly lit. At first, I see nothing. Father says hello and the nasal voice returns his greeting and tells us to sit. As my eyes grow accustomed to the light, I see the mullah. He’s wearing a white lungee and his bushy beard is salt and pepper. He is sitting cross-legged behind a small low table with a few old books, white and yellow sheets of paper, and a pen arranged on it. \u003cbr\u003e “Tell me,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e “Mullah Sahib,” Father replies, “I’ve brought my daughter for you to heal her.”\u003cbr\u003e “What’s wrong with her?”\u003cbr\u003e “She has these spells. She breaks into a fever, shakes, and faints.”\u003cbr\u003e “Five hundred afghanis.”\u003cbr\u003e Father swallows hard and stammers, “Five hundred? That’s a lot! Mullah Sahib, we’re villagers, not from around here. Have some consideration.”\u003cbr\u003e “Very well,” the mullah grouses. “Four hundred will do. Put it on the table.”\u003cbr\u003e Father fidgets and mumbles, “A hundred afghanis, praise God the merciful.”\u003cbr\u003e The mullah, impatient and in a hurry, glares at him and puts an end to the haggling.\u003cbr\u003e “Put it on the table.”\u003cbr\u003e Father takes his money from of his pocket and in between the old bills finds a new one hundred afghani and lays it on the table. \u003cbr\u003e “Name?”\u003cbr\u003e “Whose name?”\u003cbr\u003e “The girl’s!”\u003cbr\u003e “Kowsar.”\u003cbr\u003e “Bring her closer.”\u003cbr\u003e Father picks me up and sits me down next to the mullah. There’s a dagger with a curved blade sitting on the floor between us. He takes it and holds it up in front of him. \u003cbr\u003e “I seek refuge with God from the accursed Satan,” he shouts, slashing through the air with the dagger. “In the name of God the Almighty. … \u003ci\u003eChoof\u003c\/i\u003e!” \u003cbr\u003e His voice sinks deep inside me, his words seep into my veins. I stare at the blade gleaming in the air and feel the drops of spit flying onto my face. I start to tremble and I fall on my side. All is quiet in my grey world. I float from my body and watch as the mullah severs my limbs and arranges them on the table. Drops of blood splash on his beard and stain his white shirt. \u003cbr\u003e “Her arms and legs are yours,” he says to Father. “Take them and leave. I’ll keep the rest of her.”\u003cbr\u003e Father holds up the front of his long tunic shirt like a cradle, piles my limbs in it, and hurries out. \u003cbr\u003e Outside, I find myself in his arms. I squint against the sun beating down over the town and feel cold sweat trickling down behind my ears. \u003cbr\u003e “Father’s dearest,” he says. “Can you hear me?”\u003cbr\u003e I nod. \u003cbr\u003e “The mullah chanted an incantation and wrote a prayer on a piece of paper. He said your mother should soak it in a glass of water and you need to drink it morning and night for seven days. And you’ll be cured, sound and strong.”\u003cbr\u003e I don’t understand what he said about the mullah, but I do understand seven days and seven nights and being cured. Father walks along the row of shops, stopping now and then to look at their wares. The clamor and commotion are unnerving to me. The crush of people looks like a jumble of lines moving every which way. I long for the comfort of Mother’s hand stroking my hair as I laze on her lap.\u003cbr\u003e Father walks into a shop and puts me down, and after a lengthy and at times heated bargaining, he buys a pair of shoes and a coat for Farrokh and some tea and candied sugar. Before packing them in the saddlebag slung over his shoulder, he opens the bag of candied sugar and gives one to me. \u003cbr\u003e Overjoyed, I ask, “May I eat it now?”\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, my girl,” he says, smiling at me. “And I have a little money left, let’s go and buy a new dress for you.”\u003cbr\u003e As the candy melts in my mouth, its sweetness intensifies. I remember the last time I had one. It was three months ago. A few women from the village up north had come to visit Mother. She had put on her nice purple dress with embroidery around the collar and sleeves and on the cuff of the matching loose pants that gather at her ankles. She was happy, fluttering around to please her guests. She quickly brewed tea and rinsed and dried the china tea bowls she keeps on the top shelf in the alcove. Then she went to her trunk and took out a bag of white and yellow candied sugar she had hidden under her clothes. She put some on a plate and brought it in on the tea tray. \u003cbr\u003e “You have honored us and brought us joy with your visit,” she said as she put the tray on the floor in front of her guests.\u003cbr\u003e I could not tear my eyes away from the candied sugar. I desperately wanted one of each color. When Mother noticed me staring, she took a white one and put it in my hand. “Now go and play,” she said, walking me to our second room. “I’ll call you when they have left.” \u003cbr\u003e I paid no attention to her. All I could think of was the taste of the stale candy crumbling into powder between my teeth. \u003cbr\u003e Father picks out a red dress with flowers on it. \u003cbr\u003e “Do you like it?”\u003cbr\u003e I don’t want to think about anything other than the candy, but Father is persistent.\u003cbr\u003e “My girl, do you like this one?”\u003cbr\u003e I don’t like red, it’s the color of blood. I shake my head and he returns it to the shopkeeper. \u003cbr\u003e “Show me another color.”\u003cbr\u003e The shopkeeper gives him a green dress and Father holds it up against me for size.\u003cbr\u003e “How about this one?” \u003cbr\u003e I nod.\u003cbr\u003e He pays the shopkeeper and opens his arms wide for me. \u003cbr\u003e “You’re still a bit pale,” he says as I leap into his arms. “But I can’t carry you all the way home. With the wheat sold, we can ride the donkey.” I cling to his neck, and he tenderly kisses me on the cheek. “You’re going to get well, my girl. The mullah was imposing and practiced.”\u003cbr\u003e I don’t want to think about that man and his dagger, though, when I’m with Father, which isn’t often, I am brave and rarely suffer attacks. At home, I’m mostly alone. Father spends his days tending to the sheep and his small farmland, and Mother is busy baking at the kiln, cooking at the stove, or sweeping the rooms. Farrokh, who is two years older than me, is out every day playing with his friends. Their feet are always callused and chapped, and their pockets are always full of glass and stone marbles or sheep ankle bones they use to play a game. \u003cbr\u003e Father takes the donkey out of the stable, tosses the saddlebag over it, and holding me tight, he steps up on a rock and carefully mounts. The chaos slowly fades into silence as we ride away. I desperately want another candied sugar, but Father is sitting on the saddlebag. \u003cbr\u003e “My girl,” he says. “When we’re down in the valley, I will sit you in front of me and you can hold on to the saddlebag. All right?”\u003cbr\u003e “No!”\u003cbr\u003e “Don’t be scared!” he chuckles. “I’ll hold you.”\u003cbr\u003e I smile. He beams with joy. It has been a long time since he has seen me smile...","brand":"Archipelago","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":44864864321765,"sku":"NP9781953861665","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781953861665.jpg?v=1767737759","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/tali-girls-isbn-9781953861665","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}