Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns

Margaret Atwood said that Orhan Pamuk, 2006 Nobel Prize winner in Literature, “is writing his country [Turkey] into being.” Khaleed Hosseini does the same for Afghanistan in A Thousand Splendid Suns. The delicate beauty of Afghanistan’s past meets its bloody present in this story, but the landscape and people come alive for me, and I care for them. When Hosseini describes Herat in the beginning of the book, I feel sad and nostalgic that this city was destroyed. I, of course, have never been to Herat, but the description of wide tree-lined boulevards, open parks, beautiful tiled Mosques, and crowded cafes seem like the kind of place I would happily spend an afternoon. I remember Dad speaking about Sarajevo like this, that it was beautiful in a singular kind of way, and completely gone after the wars in the 1990s. The giant Buddhas that Laila sees with her father and her close friend Tariq are used as target practice by ignorant Taliban terrorists and completely destroyed. I understand, for a moment, while I read, the ravages and loss of war. By the end, I think I have seen and known a bit of Afghanistan.

Hosseini creates a world of places and people that I want to know. His descriptions of Mariam’s childhood and Laila’s atrocious life with her husband are so different from anything I have experienced or could ever experience; yet, I want to know as much as I can about these women. They fascinate me. Mariam is shy and defeated, but she will make the most critical decision a person can make when the choice is given to her. Laila fights and defends and loves. I understand her more than I understand Mariam. Mariam describes taking solace and pride in her husband’s desire that she wear the veil; she believes he must love her more than other husbands love their wives if he cherishes her enough to keep her hidden from other men. She has no understanding of freedom like I do, but this does not make me feel sorry for her. She’s a fighter in her way, and she fights for things like love and family. People are people everywhere, even in veils and running from sniper’s bullets. Hosseini makes this point time and time again.

Ultimately, this is a moving snapshot of women’s lives, but it antithetical to most of the stories that are published in America today about women. These women are not worried about their body image. They are not guilty over getting drunk and doing something foolish with a guy they met at a bar. They are not contemplating leaving their families because they feel unfulfilled. Mariam and Laila aren’t given the privilege of these emotions and thoughts. I read this book, and I think how lucky I am to have the time to whine over not fitting into those pants I bought last year. These women live in terror, poverty, and isolation. At the end, when they are given the opportunity, they make choices for family and community, not themselves.

Hosseini creates a portrait of a world we hear about on the news but will never see. The narration is slow and full of imagery. The voices of Mariam and Laila are distinct and clear. Hosseini takes time with his story and trusts that the reader will follow his lithe hand, and we do because the path of the story is so heart-wrenchingly compelling. Perhaps this book is so successful because it creates a bit of beauty out of the shards of misery, deceit, betrayal, selfishness, and cruelty that so often afflicts human kind. Hosseini suggests that our ability to love and create beautiful lives amidst devastation is the greatest gift we have.