Historical Fiction, A Bridge To Now
I'm thinking of Afghan women, and of Mariam, the protagonist of Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns.
Before you read this, you should know that Grammarly thinks I sound worried. I am.
The 2010s
One dizzy Saturday afternoon in the early/mid-2010s, I lay on a threadbare sofa in my grandfather's house reading Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. The book isn't new; it has frayed edges and a peeling yellow cover, sunny like the day. The sound of cars and okadas from the roadside filter into the living room. My clothes are drenched in sweat. My tongue parched, phone batteries dead, I continue reading.
I must have discovered Mr. Hosseini through social media. I belonged to an informal community of readers who targeted 50, sometimes 100, books to read in a year. I recall peer reviews of the book describing it as sad and heartbreaking. His skill was extensively discussed. I must have bought it because I wanted to learn how to wield words in creating emotional worlds and characters. I didn't know what I was in for until that Saturday afternoon as I turned page after page, often pensive, my heart lurching in my chest.
Mariam, the protagonist in A Thousand Splendid Suns, lives in a secluded hut with Nana, her mother, a ‘bitter’ woman. Her father, Jalil, is married to three other women. He's rich, influential, and has a good life with his children. You can already tell — Mariam is ‘illegitimate.’ Jalil visits Mariam often, promising her the world. She loves him, but her mother can see through his lies. On her 15th birthday, she asks to visit his home and meet his other children, her siblings. He agrees but doesn't come to pick her.
Like Mohammed, she decides to go to him. When she arrives, she's not allowed into the premises, is even lied to - ‘Jalil is away on a business trip.’ After spending the night on the street, she discovers he is at home but will not see her. And so starts a series of unfortunate events: she returns home, her mother has committed suicide, now she must be married off, etc.
The story is set against the tense events of the Taliban rule in Afghanistan. In the story's backdrop, the Taliban rise to power in Kabul and impose harsh rules on the local population, severely curtailing women's rights. I had never heard of the Taliban before then. I had read about gender rights across jurisdictions and was aware of how bad things were in Afghanistan. After I read A Thousand Splendid Suns, misogyny and patriarchy as concepts dissolved and became less abstract.
In one scene, years after Mariam had been married off to Rasheed, shortly after the Taliban arrives, Mariam finds one of the Taliban fliers that lists strict rules for women: Women are no longer allowed in public without a male relative. They must always wear burqas when traveling. Women are also no longer able to go to school. In the end, when Mariam kills her abusive husband in self-defense, the Talib overseeing her trial doesn't believe it. He sentences her to death.
The 2020s
I'm in my small room in Norwich, the floorboards creaking as I pace; I’ve just seen videos of people chasing a plane and was told of people falling off a flying plane in Afghanistan. The day before, I heard the news the Taliban, the extremist group that I’d read about years ago, had taken over Afghanistan. Nothing registered till I watched the video, till I read the stories. Now I’m thinking about Mariam and other women like Mariam in Afghanistan.
A Thousand Splendid Suns stays center stage, and it’s perplexing, especially since historical fiction is not generally accepted as history. I enjoy reading stories about the present — a part of me feels it’s harder to make sense of now than already completed events. I’m writing this to properly articulate it and perhaps, making a case for myself to be deliberate about reading historical fiction, which I haven’t paid close attention to.
Although there are relatable elements in Mariam’s story — the patriarchy, which cuts across cultures and religions— this kind of fiction uproots you from your reality. It elicits feelings of discomfort, the kind that makes your skin crawl and your face hot with anger. And I haven’t gone into the details: how Rasheed made Mariam chew the rocks because the rice she made was hard. Or his aloofness at the Taliban regime — the laws, at least, do not affect him; they reinforce his belief about women even. Or how he threatens to report his second wife, Laila, to the Taliban. Compare with a few headlines in the past few days: ‘Prisoners in homes’: The women in Afghanistan barred from leaving home without a man, The Taliban knocked on her door 3 times. The fourth time, they killed her, Taliban’s Return Has Afghan Women Living in Fear.
On Sunday evening, I saw 76, the Nollywood historical fiction drama, about a young officer, Joseph Dewa, who was accused and detained for being involved in the unsuccessful 1976 military coup and assassination of General Murtala Mohammed. Beyond its stellar production and storytelling, the plot is layered with problems we still see: lovers navigating an intertribal relationship forbidden by parents, bureaucracy, injustice, etc. Lots of takeaways, one of which is how historical fiction, where uncompromised, is a bridge to [understanding] the present and positions ordinary, often forgettable, people at the heart of history. People like me and you.
Most of my experiences of Nigeria’s history have been through fiction. When I read Half of a Yellow Sun, I knew nothing of the Nigerian Civil War. But through ordinary people: Kainene, Olanna, Ugwu, Odenigbo, and Richard, I saw pictures of the effects of the war. Which then led me to read nonfiction about it.
If you went to a Nigerian school, you probably know that History is touchy and often not taught. The curriculum is skeletal, with teachers (and the powers that be) cherry-picking what not to reveal to students, or better phrased, what to ‘protect us from.’ So bad that in a school I attended, teachers preferred to teach British history (to be fair, the school operated a British curriculum, but no excuses).
Still in my room, now slightly dark, the sun going down, I remember a tweet that called on writers to document the #EndSARS protests of October 2020. Young Nigerians were asking the government to take action against police brutality in Nigeria, but they were getting killed. I’d just started my MA, so I wrote this story, ‘Pockets,’ inspired by a man killed by policemen ‘dispersing’ protesters at one of the protest locations in Lagos. The man had only just gone out to pee when this happened. He had his hands in his pockets. I don’t know if anyone remembers him, but he’s stayed with me, the same way the character I wrote in ‘Pockets’ stays with me, the same way Mariam does. There are many like him. Or many like Kainene from Half of a Yellow Sun, who disappeared in the war. Historical fiction reminds us of them.
Be good. Until next time, friend. ❤️
Hi Ope, this is brilliantly written as always. I agree with you with the way history is taught in schools in Nigeria. History was my favourite subject, and imagine how heartbroken I was when I realized the civil war was the Biafran war my grand uncle spoke about with terror in his voice. Also terrifying is the potential chaos awaiting the Afghanistan women.