Bliss in Moments Like These
Letters Across the Mountains (III)
London, April 2026
Dearest Maryam,
How are you? The last few months have been very frightening; we seem constantly on the precipice of world war and whether in Afghanistan or in Britain our everyday lives feel vulnerable to forces we have no control over. I guess that is the way the world has always been; I’m reading Ibn Battuta’s travels again and in the fourteenth century he was trying to survive the plague, Mongol invasions, bandits and despots. It seems our technology — and ability to know all the terrible things happening in the world — has improved but not our essential fragility.
Despite all that doom and gloom, I have been able to finish my fourth novel. It has taken three years and a half to write but has been percolating in my mind for more than a decade. When you have been immersed in a parallel world for so long and finally step away, that’s when you realise you have been in a dreamworld as substantial as — or perhaps more substantial than — the real world of paying bills, cleaning, shopping, going to the dentist. I’ve spent the past month coming back up to the surface, slowly drifting up from the murk of my subconscious mind to the bright, springtime-sunshine of the present.
I have been walking more, stretching out my muscles and joints after weeks of being hunched over a laptop. The light in the park has gone from a steely grey to a soft green as daffodils, primulas, plum blossom, cherry blossom have fallen away under the unfurling oaks, sycamores and chestnut trees. In your last letter you were still waiting for the winter rain to help quell some of the dust and smoke in Kabul. How is your city now?
I did not know about Rabia Basri. I’ve always been interested in Sufism as it was the predominant form of Islam in the Horn of Africa for much of the past. It’s incredible to think that an orphan and an enslaved woman like Rabia has left a legacy that still burns so strong centuries later. I was surprised to read that Rabia was sought out in the desert by educated and pious men. I cannot think of many Muslim women who hold that renown now. Religious authority has become a male domain in most places. I hope we can keep alive the memories of these important women.
I was interested to read that you think the name of my hometown, Hargeisa, sounds like a woman’s name. In Somali it means ‘the place to sell hides’ — not very romantic! But it has a Sufi connection as the first settlers, around a hundred and fifty years ago, were followers of Sheikh Madar. They built a commune around a watering stop, banned poaching and the cutting of trees, and looked after disabled and blind people who could not follow their camels any more.
I love your stories of Sufi saints with candle-fingers and animals at their command. We have similar ones in my family’s nomadic traditions but they are more sinister — cannibals who turn into hyenas at nightfall and witches who cut off girl’s breasts — stories intended to keep children alert to danger and safely inside their acacia-fenced compounds.
I know that there has been conflict in Afghanistan and I hope that you and your loved ones have been safe. What is the view from your window now? Is the noisy building work finished? What are you reading? I’m reading a novel published ninety-something years after it was written, Romance in Marseilles by Claude McKay.
When I was living in New York, a few years ago, I went to pay my respects at his grave in Calvary Cemetery alongside a poet friend. Other writers and readers had been there, leaving stones and flowers. We burnt incense — a very ancient Somali practice done at saint’s tombs. That McKay died thirty-three years before I was born means nothing; books are like talismans, we pass them between each other and grow a little stronger.
I hope that you are well, dear Maryam. Everyone here in London with me greets you and sends their salams.
With warmest regards,
Nadifa
•
Kabul, June 2026
My dearest Nadifa,
Spring is blooming outside my window, and, as always, I remain inside surrounded by history and mystical texts. The book taking up my hands lately is called the Manteq ot-Tair by Sheikh Attar. Naser Khosraw’s Book of Travels also sits on my desk and I revisit parts of it from time to time. Khosraw’s adventure began with a vision. At the opening pages of his book, he writes, ‘One night, I was approached in my dream by someone who chided me, “How much longer will you indulge in this brew that steals away human intellect? It is better to be sober.”’
Through this dream, Khosraw experienced a profound spiritual awakening and he spent the next seven years travelling. Has this ever happened to you or someone you know? To behold a dream that has brought a real change to your life or helped you make a decision? These are known as True Dreams. In centuries gone by, people didn’t travel for leisure and every journey had a specific purpose. Your words about Sheikh Madar reminded me of another Sufi belief. That sometimes, a land prays to God to bless it with the presence of one of his saints, and when God accepts this prayer, the saint receives permission to travel there.
I love travelogues and your heartfelt letter has reminded me of Ibn Battuta. I had forgotten about him. I have now acquired a copy of his book of travels and added it to my reading list for this year.
This year’s spring became the reward for all the trials of the winter. The vernal clouds came and the rain wrapped us in its heavy and refreshing embrace. I constantly monitored the temperature and rainfall on my phone and worried about flooding. Since our city lacks a proper drainage system, any light or moderate rain causes water to accumulate in different parts of the city and creates many problems for the residents.
After a three or four-year break, I fasted again this Ramadan and celebrated Eid al-Fitr amid the spring rain. I am also glad to have received your Eidi. You’ve finished writing your book. It seems that all good things come with spring.
The barberry sapling that I planted three years ago bloomed this spring, reminding me of your late grandmother’s garden in Hargeisa. I thought about her, the woman who had toiled for her garden in a harsh climate and about the suffering endured by those trees and the people of that region during the war.
Our courtyard is filled with wild poppies, opening their buds one after another with each passing day. The construction work is finished and now I can hear the sparrows more clearly. On afternoons when I sit on the patio facing the quince, fig and pomegranate trees, the call to prayer echoes gently through the yard while a breeze rustles between the trees. I find bliss in moments like these. The rich scent of fig leaves steals into every corner of the courtyard.
Did you know that the solar new year begins with the start of spring? According to the calendar, one thousand four hundred years have passed since our Prophet migrated from Mecca to Medina. Our new year begins with the migration of Muslims in those distant years. Most of the books I have set aside to read this year are related to Afghanistan’s past and present. There are books about Bamyan, which became the cultural capital of SAARC in 2015. When I held one of these books in my hand, I suddenly felt reluctant to read it because, even though Bamyan is not far from me, I have never travelled there and have only read about it in books.
We recently celebrated Eid al-Adha. Although the buying and selling of cattle and sheep also takes place in other parts of the city and its outskirts, a large square has been set up for this purpose in the city’s centre as well. Most people fast on the Day of Arafah. Markets are crowded. The newest clothes and boots are put on display. The first day of Eid is spent on slaughtering animals and distributing the meat, while the other two days are for visiting friends and relatives. Afghan guests do not usually inform their hosts before going to their house, so every home has a special room called the guest room that is always clean and ready for visitors. Guests are served tea, chocolate, biscuits, dried fruit and fresh fruit.
When you come to visit Kabul, I will show you the guest room and also take you to my own room so you can see the books and the view from my window that I enjoy every day. I am glad you found the story about the book meaningful. My nephew asks me about that book: how it got shot and who shot it. I don’t know how to explain to a seven-year-old what it means to lose a library during a civil war or why anyone would be an enemy of books. I blame it all on the thieves, and then he asks me, ‘Khala, does God love thieves?’ He is unaware that terrible conflicts are brewing in different parts of the world and that many children like that book are innocent victims of them. I always wish the best for my nephews and all children. Hearing the crying of children is the worst emotional experience for me. I carry a quiet, heavy sadness in my heart for all the kids who haven’t grown up yet. How can one be hopeful for a world in which children are killed and starved?
Please deliver my greetings to your dear mother and friends. I wish you all the best of health.
With endless love,
Maryam
This letter exchange was produced as part of Paranda, a writer development project and global network for women writers in Afghanistan and the diaspora, facilitated by Untold Narratives, a development programme for writers structurally marginalised by community or conflict, supported by KfW Stiftung.