My Name Is Parvana Read Online Free Page B

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