Back Sparks Like Stars Save as PDF
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Part I
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. Chapter 13
  18. Chapter 14
  19. Chapter 15
  20. Chapter 16
  21. Chapter 17
  22. Chapter 18
  23. Chapter 19
  24. Chapter 20
  25. Chapter 21
  26. Chapter 22
  27. Chapter 23
  28. Chapter 24
  29. Chapter 25
  30. Chapter 26
  31. Chapter 27
  32. Chapter 28
  33. Chapter 29
  34. Chapter 30
  35. Chapter 31
  36. Chapter 32
  37. Part II
  38. Chapter 33
  39. Chapter 34
  40. Chapter 35
  41. Chapter 36
  42. Chapter 37
  43. Chapter 38
  44. Chapter 39
  45. Chapter 40
  46. Chapter 41
  47. Chapter 42
  48. Chapter 43
  49. Chapter 44
  50. Chapter 45
  51. Chapter 46
  52. Chapter 47
  53. Chapter 48
  54. Chapter 49
  55. Chapter 50
  56. Chapter 51
  57. Chapter 52
  58. Chapter 53
  59. Chapter 54
  60. Chapter 55
  61. Chapter 56
  62. Chapter 57
  63. Chapter 58
  64. Chapter 59
  65. Chapter 60
  66. Chapter 61
  67. Epilogue
  68. Author’s Note
  69. Acknowledgments
  70. About the Author
  71. Also by Nadia Hashimi
  72. About the Publisher

While Aryana, her family, Rostam, Neelab, Antonia, and Tilly are my own creation, many characters, details, and events in this story are factual. President Daoud Khan did drive around Kabul in a white Toyota Corolla. The Americans stationed in cosmopolitan Kabul did indeed put on a performance of the musical Oklahoma! around the time of the Saur Revolution. Before the coup, Afghanistan had been a desirable and exotic posting that promised good times for diplomats. I took liberties with the timing of the siege on the American embassy in Islamabad, shortening the time between the assassination of Afghanistan’s president and the bubbling of anti-American tensions in neighboring Pakistan.

Afghans in the countryside were hospitable toward and likely intrigued by overlanders as well as bright-eyed Peace Corps volunteers from the sixties and seventies who still consider themselves “Friends of Afghanistan.” They are some of the most inspiring people I’ve ever met and their Afghan students, people like my father, remember time spent with these Americans fondly.

My portrayal of President Daoud Khan and the coup itself was informed by many sources—friends and family, books like Tamim Ansary’s Games Without Rules, Louis Dupree’s Afghanistan, and the oral history collection maintained by the Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training (ADST). I read the interviews given by Americans who served in Kabul during the time of the coup, including Ambassador Theodore Eliot, political counselors, and officers of various positions. I reached out to Louise Taylor, who served as Director of the American Cultural Center in Kabul at the time of the coup and she was most generous with her time and memories, indulging my questions and enriching my story. The CIA’s reading room also holds a trove of fascinating and carefully redacted documents and communications. Steve Coll’s Ghost Wars is a worthy read for those looking for an easier to follow record of the CIA’s contorted involvement in Afghanistan in the years prior to 9/11. President Daoud Khan’s grandson, a survivor of the coup, shared his firsthand account with the Dari-speaking world. Mujib Mashal, and many of his journalist colleagues, have gifted us with compelling glimpses of life in Afghanistan today.

The low ceiling for women in the American foreign service is well described by many women who served and available on the ADST website as well as in Alison Palmer’s memoir, Diplomat and Priest.

The Head East guidebook published in 1973 offered a wide range of travel tips to overlanders ranging from best post offices to cheap meals. My favorite section included a recommendation for travelers to wade through poppy fields dressed in a loin cloth to collect “pollen hash” that could then be pressed “against the warm sweating body of a fellow romantic field nymph or satyr.” It’s easy to lose an afternoon browsing posted photographs of hippies in eastern bazaars or picnicking with their packs to the Hindu Kush mountains.