Every night, my three children ask for a story. They were born here, in the United States. They have safe schools, warm beds, and a refrigerator with a light inside it. But they were curious about the place their father came from.
So I told them about Afghanistan. About mountains so tall they made the sky look small. About flying kites from flat rooftops until our fingers bled from the string. I told them about the good things first — and then, slowly, about the hard ones.
“Baba, if the schools are closed, where do the girls go in the morning?”
I did not have a good answer. Millions of Afghan girls are barred from secondary school today — the only country in the world where that is true. My children wanted to do something about it. I wanted to write it all down before I forgot the smell of the snow.
So we decided to make this book together. One story every other week. Twenty-four a year. Read aloud at bedtime first, then shared with anyone who wants to listen.
Written for Three, meant for many.
