he Old Kit chen In the house where we returned after the wars, the old kitchen was the only remaining building. We rescued my grandmother’s clay tandoor from the dirt. I spent hours in that kitchen cooking and cleaning – and, late at night preparing my school lessons. ‘In there, they washed your grandmother’s body and put her in the coffin,’ my mother said, cautioning me not to spend late night hours, alone, in there. In there, I never felt alone. The quiet freedom for my mind. The old walls, my tablet. To write my favorite Pashto and Dari verses, work out chemistry and physics formulas, and draw algebraic and trigonometric shapes. One day, my mother suggested we paint the walls. I explained that the walls held lessons, to remember for my exams. My mother could not read. But she understood and left the walls alone. After I left home, those walls, that kitchen became a place of solace for her, from the pain of missing her oldest daughter. And a palace of memories, for both of us. 7