Read an excerpt from DAUGHTERS OF SMOKE AND FIRE by Ava Homa!

Advance Praise for

ava homa

Daughters of Smoke and Fire

specializing in women’s issues and Middle Eastern affairs. She holds an MA in English and creative writing from the University of Windsor in Canada. Her collection of short stories, Echoes from the Other Land, was longlisted for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award, and she is the inaugural recipient of the PEN Canada– Humber College Writers-in-Exile Scholarship.

She was born and raised in the Kurdistan Province in Iran and now divides her time between Toronto and the Bay Area.

Jacket art: Engraving by Pierre-Joseph Redouté © Nikolay Staykov / Alamy Author photograph by Sam Attar

THE OVERLOOK PRESS overlookpress.com

“Gripping . . . Daughters of Smoke and Fire is a haunting piece of political fiction and a gut-punch tale of an alienated Kurdish girl swimming upstream against a tide of sexism and ethnic hatred.

The scars Homa bears as a Kurdish feminist reared under Iranian rule and living now in the ‘cruelty of exile’ are evident on every page.”

—Kevin McKiernan, author and award-winning documentary filmmaker of Good Kurds, Bad Kurds U.S. $26.00 U.K. £18.99 ISBN: 978-1-4197-4309-2 52600 9 7 81 41 9 7 43092

Printed in the United States

a novel

Jacket design by Na Kim

“At a time when the Kurds are so much in the news in Iraq and Syria, the Iranian government has erected a wall of silence around its own much larger Kurdish population. This magnificent novel penetrates that wall with its story of coming of age, oppression, and death. Beautifully written, it is the best new work of fiction to emerge from the Near East in a long time.”

—Ambassador Peter W. Galbraith, author of The End of Iraq

DAUGHTERS OF SMOKE AND FIRE

AVA HOMA is a writer, journalist, and activist

“There is no more urgent a task for humanity than more fully knowing one another. . . . This desperate gift is what comes our way from Ava Homa, a brave and brilliant storyteller, the first female Kurdish novelist writing in English who shows us, through one family’s story, the stakes faced by the Kurds. Read this book. Raise your voice. We can no longer afford the ‘us and them’ mentality if we are to survive.”

—Joy Kogawa

THE OVERLOOK PRESS

U.S. $26.00 U.K. £18.99

The unforgettable, haunting story of a young Kurdish woman’s perilous fight for freedom and justice for her brother Set primarily in Iran, this extraordinary debut novel weaves fifty years of modern Kurdish history through a story of a family facing oppression and injustices all too familiar to the Kurds. Leila dreams of making films to bring the suppressed stories of her people onto the global stage, but obstacles keep piling up. Her younger brother, Chia, influenced by their father’s past torture, imprisonment, and his deep-seated desire for justice, begins to engage with social and political affairs. But his activism grows increasingly risky and one day he disappears in Tehran. Seeking answers about her brother’s whereabouts, Leila fears the worst and begins a campaign to save him.

But when she publishes Chia’s writings online, she finds herself in grave danger as well.

Inspired by the life of Kurdish human rights activist Farzad Kamangar and published to coincide with the tenth anniversary of his execution, Daughters of Smoke and Fire is an evocative portrait of the lives and stakes faced by forty million stateless Kurds. It’s an unflinching but compassionate and powerful story that brilliantly illuminates the meaning of identity and the complex bonds of family. A landmark novel for our troubled world, Daughters of Smoke and Fire is a gripping and important read, perfect for fans of Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun.

C H A P T ER F I V E

W

hen the first rays of light slanted through my slatted blinds the next morning, my head no longer pounded, but my limbs protested when I tried to move. Snarling and groaning did not make me feel better.

All night I’d dreamed that a man in a black suit was trailing me wherever I went. Mr. Bad Luck, my family’s legacy, scoffed at my failed attempts to outpace ­him.

The house was eerily quiet, which meant my parents were either still asleep or had already left. I went downstairs to the basement studio, now converted into C ­ hia’s bedroom, which was bright with curtainless windows. He’d papered his walls with posters of Che Guevara, Gandhi, and Nelson Mandela. No thinker would rebuke Chia for his greasy hair. He was yawning, scratching at his faint shadows of facial hair, and solving physics equations from the open textbook on his ­desk.

Needing a distraction, I ironed his khaki shirt and pants that I had laundered the night before, as I had done religiously since he was nine. With each year that passed, Chia was praised at home and school for his intelligence, and I was blamed for not being as clever and as neat as he was. I was good at erecting my ­gallows.

“Don’t you want to read some Tolstoy, Leila? Leave that iron. The pants are going to get wrinkled again soon enough,” Chia said, head resting on his palm. He was always dismissing chores as a waste of time, convinced that he had so much else to do for this world. Yesterday he’d said, “Why should I make my bed when I have to sleep in it again tonight? I could spend that time each



AVA HOMA

morning reading about the rise of fascism and World War II. So ridiculous that the battles fought by wealthy countries are called ‘World War’ and poor countries’ fights are ‘tribal ­war!’ ” I made creases with the iron. I had been trying to serve my family, eradicate filth from our home, but nothing I did was ever enough. Nothing I did could make my parents praise me, make my brother notice my sacrifices, or even make God save me from “sorrow and fear,” as advertised in the holy ­book.

The siren of an ambulance broke my train of thought. Light shone through the mullioned window onto ­Chia’s gray bedding. A copy of War and Peace was lying on his unmade bed. “Did you ­really read all twelve hundred ­pages?”

“It was a great read.” Chia chewed his pen cap. “Did you read the copy of ­ ighty-­Four I gave ­you?”

Nineteen E Steam rose from the iron. I did not look at him, but I could picture him pointing a finger at me as he spoke, his usual gesture. I had tried reading it, but ­ y—­our—­reality. I needed books that offered escape, Orwell’s dystopia was m not ones that held up a mirror to our ­suffering.

“I slept in this room on that bed with Shiler and Joanna the night you were ­born.”

“What’s eating you, ­Leila?”

I made myself busy folding his pants. “I miss Shiler. I hardly see her these ­days.”

“What is it ­really?”

“Your window is filthy,” I announced. “There’s a pile of clothes I need to iron for ­you.”

I expected Chia to roll his eyes. Instead he got up from his desk and stood before my ironing board. “That’s not all, is ­it?”

With that question, my teenage brother smoothly removed my mask. I broke down. “I d ­ idn’t make the list. I’m never going to get into a university I can afford, and if I do, it’ll be of no use. I’ll end up like our father. Or worse, our ­mother.”

“Oh, come on. So what if you ­didn’t get in this year? You don’t have to do military. You can study for next ­year.”

“All I want from life,” I sniveled, “is to have a college education so I can have a decent job. Make films, tell our ­stories.”

“Stop it with the ­self-­pity already. I’m sure you’ll get in next year. You have a year to prepare. Start ­tomorrow.”

I searched his eyes. He believed what he was saying. I put the tips of my

Daughters of Smoke and Fire



fingers into a bowl of water, splashed drops on his shirt, and resumed ironing.

I pressed down hard on ­Chia’s shirt, close to scorching it. For a moment I considered holding the hot iron against my face until it melted through my skull and burned away my ­disillusionment.

“Do you ever think you and I ruined ­Baba’s life?” Chia asked when I’d ­finished.

“Why?” I unplugged the ­iron.

“I don’t mean deliberately. But look, I was born the day his town was gassed.” He scratched his ­neck.

“Well, I ­wasn’t.”

“You know how he wanted to name you Nishtman, but the government banned ­it?”

“Of ­course.”

“Nishtman was the girl he loved in high school and wanted to ­marry.”

I wondered about this girl who had been called Nishtman, homeland, named after an unrecognized, unofficial, yet beautiful country. I imagined her with inspiring hazel eyes, full of hope, full of courage. “Was it my fault it ­didn’t ­happen?”

“No, no. She decided to join the Peshmerga fighters, and Baba was accepted into Tehran University, so he decided not to follow her. A decision he must have regretted a thousand times, I ­suppose.”

Peshmerga: those who face death. What a brave girl. An educated dreamer at a time when women weren’t supposed to be either. I imagined her holding her head high and walking with a grace that lent her incredible charisma. But Nishtman the girl, just like nishtman the Kurdish homeland, was unattainable.

“So she chose the weapon and he picked the pen. And both failed.” I sighed.

“Mama said she ­died.”

Chia shrugged. “Technically she ‘disappeared.’ It looks like the powerless in this world are doomed to defeat regardless of what means they pick to fight.

And yet resisting and losing is better than dying silently, ­no?”

“What does that have to do with us ruining his life, anyway? If he wanted ­ aba’s to name me after her, he must have loved me or had hopes for me.” In B room in the attic was a poster of a man in Kurdish clothing, holding up a picture of a young girl killed in the genocide, showing all that remained of her to the photographer. “I suppose he hoped I’d do something for our people, and I want ­to—­you know how much I want to make films to share our ­stories—­but so far I’ve amounted to ­nothing.”



AVA HOMA

“Baba was doing okay before I was born.” Chia ­wasn’t listening to me.

“The ­eight-­year war had just ended, and he had hoped to take us back to his hometown of pomegranates. But I was born, and his town was gassed. You were conceived, and his house was ­raided.”

“He told you about the night he was arrested? When was ­this?”

“Oh, a while ­ago.”

I stamped my foot like a child. “Why ­didn’t you tell me? I want the whole story, every detail, ­verbatim.”

“Why?” He arched his eyebrow up at me from the floor, where he was twisted into some yoga pose, his spine ramrod straight, his palms ­touching.

“Because Baba never shares anything with ­me.”

Chia unwound his legs and stretched. “You better get ­comfortable.”

According to Baba, the very minute Mama informed him she was pregnant, they heard a series of loud knocks on the door. The clock chimed five as the pounding on their door reached a crescendo. Two bearded plainclothes policemen burst through the front door. “Saman?” the taller one demanded.

“Alan ­Saman?”

Baba felt himself starting to shake. “What’s this ­about?

“You’ll find out in Evin,” said the first man, a giant whose ­tobacco-­stained teeth gave him a cruel ­appearance.

“Do you have a letter from the court?” Baba ­asked.

The man punched him in the stomach. “Here’s your ­letter.”

Mama pushed in front of her husband, arms crossed modestly over her nightgown. “Please, sir, this must be a ­mistake.”

“Yeah, we hear the same thing in every house,” said the other man, who wore glasses above his scraggly beard. “We trust the Ettela’at more than we trust ­you.”

The mention of the Ettela’at, the Islamic Republic’s intelligence service, would strike terror in the heart of any civilian, l­aw-­abiding or not. B ­ aba’s mother, whom everyone called Dayah, pleaded, “Please, sir! Take me ­instead.”

“My husband is innocent!” Mama insisted ­shrilly.

“Cover yourself, woman,” the agent with the crooked teeth shouted while the leering one adjusted his ­glasses.

“Get out of my house.” Baba shoved the bespectacled one ­toward the door, but five more plainclothes agents with Glocks rushed into the apartment, ramming Baba against the wall. At a gesture from the giant secret policeman, the

Daughters of Smoke and Fire



agents began to search the rooms of the house, rifling through drawers, scattering papers, breaking everything in their wake. The two who had first come to the door handcuffed ­Baba.

Dayah threw herself at the leader’s feet. “For the love of God, don’t take him. He hasn’t done anything. Take me instead,” she pleaded in Kurdish. Of course they did not understand her language, nor would they have cared if they ­had.

“Let go, Dayah gian. Please. Let go. Let go,” Baba begged his ­mother.

One of the men kicked Dayah in the chin. He spat, ­“Kafar”—­infidel—­and kicked the crumbling old woman again, this time in the chest. Baba growled, shoved the man, and bent before his mother, unable to wrap his handcuffed arms around her. One of the armed men bashed his gun against ­Baba’s temple.

He tasted his own blood. Dayah’s trembling hands rested on his ­cheeks.

The secret police discovered two banned political books in the house that night, which became the only evidence of B ­ aba’s supposed crime, earning him four years in prison without a clear sentence and repeated torture for information that drew the map of a nonexistent country on his ­back.

When Mama brought Dayah to the hospital, the old bleeding woman was ignored because she wore a Kurdish dress and ­couldn’t speak Persian. Her heart stopped beating while she waited, waited to be treated, waited for her homeland to be free, waited for her son to return. Incarcerated as he was, Baba ­couldn’t hold a funeral for his mother or bury her beside her husband in Halabja as ­promised.