11
Marjan looked up from her embroidery work to check on Hawa. She had, inch by inch, crawled to a corner of the classroom, where
two toddlers were rolling toy cars on the thin carpet. The women sat cross-legged on the floor, squares of fabric in their
laps. Hawa was drawn to others, especially children. Her eyes would widen at the sight of a child, and her small hands would
bounce up and down with excitement. Marjan kept to herself. She feared a slip of the tongue or a familiar face would reveal
her whereabouts to Abdul Khaliq. Besides, she didn’t want to become entangled in the petty squabbles that erupted almost daily
in the shelter.
Marjan knew her next step would be a halfway house. There, she would be expected to work so that her wages could help pay
for her living expenses. She needed to learn skills that would earn her a living. She found embroidery to be incredibly tedious,
but she persevered because options were limited in this shelter funded by unimaginative international donors.
The world seems to think all Afghan women can stitch and that stitching is all Afghan women can do, Samia had griped.
Marjan, seated under the window, checked the back of her fabric. She pulled her needle through and felt the thread snap.
“Damn it,” she whispered. The woman next to her shot her a look, and Marjan sighed. She reached for the spool of crimson and
lifted her needle to rethread it.
The silver spine glinted in the slant of daylight.
“You’re pulling too hard,” the woman cautioned. “That’s the third thread you’ve snapped.”
“It’s the second,” Marjan corrected. The instructor looked up from the front of the room.
“Ladies, need help?”
Marjan shook her head. The instructor was a petite woman in her forties hired by the shelter to provide instruction twice
a week. Her mother had once been a seamstress for the country’s last queen, and her daughter carried on her craft with the
pride of one who has been touched by royalty.
From her, Marjan learned about the various styles of embroidery from around the country. ZanjeeraDozi came from the Dari word
for “chain” because the next stitch was looped through the previous one, like links in a chain, to create geometric and floral
patterns. PukhtaDozi styles originated in Uzbekistan and used satin stitches to create large-scale embroideries, even tapestries.
The Hazara style embroidery was called Tarshumar, mathematically precise and delicate stitches on silk or cotton. The patterns
were grounded with rectangular footprints or triangles lined up like arrowheads.
Then there was the Khamak style, which originated from Kandahar, in the south. The instructor noted that the best Khamak artisans
used very thin needles to make complicated and intricate motifs that would decorate the yoke of a tunic or the cuff of a sleeve.
Though they sewed on higher thread count fabrics, they knew just how to finesse the satin threads or untwisted silk floss
so that they did not tug or pucker the garment. They did not use frames or hoops or tracing paper. Their craft required eyeing
a midpoint, then carefully counting stitches so that their glossy diamond pattern would bloom symmetrically toward the outward
boundaries. They worked carefully from the back of the fabric, making sure the pattern looked the same from either side of
the cloth.
“In the world of textiles and design, Afghanistan is known for this craft,” the instructor had told them at the beginning of that day’s lesson.
“Our embroidery tells a story. When you become more practiced, you can learn the different motifs that represent our different regions and traditions. Beyond the geometric shapes, you can learn rosettes, sun and stars, almond leaves, and pomegranates. I’ll pass around this embroidered panel of a dress so you can see the detailed work.
Pay attention to how the small, round mirrors and metal coins are attached as well.
These catch the light and make dresses shimmer.
And you’ll see that it also has tulips stitched into the design, just like the ones you’ll be working on today. These flowers represent fertility.”
The tulip was a single-stalk flower with petals and leaves of pale blue rhomboids and small rust-colored triangles representing
the stamens. Below the flower, the same rust-colored satin thread had been used to create a zigzag border with a pleasant
sheen. It looked simple enough, constructed of geometric shapes.
“And, ladies, look at this piece I brought in to show you an example of a ram’s horns pattern,” the instructor had said, holding
up a small boy’s shirt. It was so beautifully crafted, Marjan thought it might have been intended for a child born into a
wealthier family, one touched by providence.
Hawa started to babble. The two toddlers had grown restless. One was tugging on his mother’s arm and the other was standing
by the door, threatening to leave. On her own, Hawa had moved into a sitting position. She was wearing a onesie with a faded
cartoon sun on the front and sweatpants that were meant for a one-year-old. Some of her clothing came from the growing babies
of the shelter. The rest came from donations or, rarely, were purchased from secondhand stores with earmarked shelter funds.
How would Marjan buy clothing if she didn’t have the shelter supporting her?
Marjan looked ruefully at the square of cloth in her hands, the stitches overlapping and lumpy instead of neat and flat.
God will provide, people loved to say. But wasn’t there ample evidence in the streets that God very often did not provide?
She would have to work harder than anyone else. She would have to be more careful with her sewing, less harried. She was a
daughter of Afghanistan too. Even if she had not learned needlework sitting at her mother’s or grandmother’s feet, surely
she carried some knowledge of it in her bones.
She pierced the fabric from the back, pulled the thread through, and drove it back into the cloth to make the next leaf. She repeated her steps until she had made a small triangle, this one more refined than the others.
She felt her spirits buoyed. She only needed to slow down, to concentrate. Maybe she could start a small business embroidering
prayer caps or tablecloths. She could work from her own home and—
“Oh, God! What’s happened to her?” someone shouted.
Marjan looked up. Her head spun around, trying to figure out which of the women had sounded the alarm and why.
“Pick her up! Pick her up!”
Marjan’s heart pounded in her ears to see a woman on her knees, crouched over the spot where Hawa had just been sitting.
Hawa.
She dropped her needlework and couldn’t scramble to her feet fast enough, so she crawled, hand over hand like she was drowning,
to reach her daughter, who was in the arms of another woman. She had one hand on Hawa’s chest and was pounding her back with
the other. Hawa’s face had gone pale, her eyes open wide, though her eyelids fluttered with every blow to the back. There
was a thin line of drool at the corner of her mouth. The silence nearly stopped Marjan’s heart.
“Hawa? Hawa!” she cried, grabbing her daughter.
“Dear God,” someone began to wail.
“She’s choking!” another called out.
The realization cut through Marjan’s stupor like lightning through clouds. She stuck her finger in her daughter’s mouth, searching
the soft space for an obstruction. Hawa wasn’t fighting her, Marjan realized with dread. Her daughter had gone even more pale;
her eyes were still open but that wild, wide-eyed stare was no longer there. Her tiny hands, which were usually busy with
discovery, lay loosely at her sides. She felt more like a doll than a child.
“Hawa!” Marjan screamed. She moved her finger again, sent it even deeper into her daughter’s throat in desperation.
This time she felt something on the tip of her finger.
She swept the object up and brought it out and felt her daughter jerk in her arm, her body shudder.
Marjan held her up to look at her face. Hawa grimaced, her head lolled to the side, and she groaned lightly as if waking from a deep slumber.
Someone put a hand on Marjan’s shoulder.
“God spared her.”
Marjan became aware she was panting. She looked to the floor, to where she had flicked the object she’d pulled from her daughter’s
mouth. It was a small, round mirror. It must have fallen off the adorned dress panel the instructor had passed around. Hawa’s
eyes were always on the lookout for a plaything.
Hawa blinked slowly, her grimace turning into a cry. Marjan pulled her daughter to her chest, felt the reassurance of Hawa’s
warm breath against her cheek, and cupped the back of her head with her hand.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
“Turn your back for a second and the worst can happen,” someone murmured.
Marjan thought her chest might burst.
She wanted to scream at everyone in the room, to disperse the blame, but her throat was tight with the hard lump of guilt.
Why hadn’t she noticed her daughter pick up the mirror? Why had she let herself get so consumed by a stupid needle and thread?
Did she really think anyone would pay money for her attempts at the craft?
The women were sharing stories of their own children’s brushes with injury or death. Everyone had them. Why else would birthdays
be such cause for celebration?
Marjan heard the echoes of her mother-in-law’s voice.
Because of you, your son is gone, said with a crooked finger pointed at Marjan.
With Hawa in her arms, Marjan left the room. Her unfinished embroidered tulip, the symbol of fertility, remained on the floor.