A conversation with Khaled Hosseni

What kind of response do you hope readers have to A Thousand Splendid Suns?
Purely as a writer, I hope that readers discover in this novel the same things that I look for when I read fiction: a story that transports, characters who engage, and a sense of illumination, of having been transformed somehow by the experiences of the characters.

As an Afghan, I would like readers to walk away with a sense of empathy for Afghans, and more specifically for Afghan women, on whom the effects of war and extremism have been devastating.

You present a portrait of Afghanistan under the Taliban that may be surprising to many readers. How tight a grip did the Taliban truly have on the country? And how does pop culture survive under these traditions?
The Taliban's acts of cultural vandalism—the most infamous being the destruction of the giant Bamiyan Buddhas—had a devastating effect on Afghan culture and the artistic scene. The Taliban burned countless films, VCRs, music tapes, books, and paintings. They jailed filmmakers, musicians, painters, and sculptors. Their puritanical stance on virtually any art form stifled artists and amounted to, I believe, a sick and twisted social experiment.

These restrictions forced some artists to abandon their craft, and many to continue practicing in covert fashion. Some built cellars where they painted or played musical instruments. Others gathered in the guise of a sewing circle to write fiction, as depicted in Christina Lamb's The Sewing Circles of Herat.

And still others found ingenious ways to trick the Taliban—one famous example being a painter who, at the order of the Taliban, painted over the human faces on his oil paintings, except he did with it watercolor, which he washed off after the Taliban were ousted. These were among the desperate ways in which artists tried to escape the Taliban's firm grip on virtually every form of artistic expression.

The women in your story suffer deeply and personally from being oppressed because of their gender, in their homes and in the broader society. Is this oppression particularly onerous in the Muslim world? What can and should be done about it?
This is a complex question with no easy answer. It is undeniable that with reports of honor killings, genital mutilation, stoning for adultery, denial of access to education, employment, and health care, and the forced wearing of the veil (perhaps the most visible symbol of female oppression), the treatment of women in some Muslim countries—including my own—has been dismal. The evidence is simply overwhelming.

Yet I want to distance myself from the notion, popular in some circles, that the West can and should exert pressure on these countries to grant women equal rights. Though I think this is a well-intended and even noble idea, I see it as too simplistic and impractical. This approach either directly or indirectly dismisses the complexities and nuances of the target society as dictated by its culture, traditions, customs, political system, social structure, and overriding faith.

I believe change needs to come from within, that is, from a Muslim society's own fabric. In Afghanistan, I think it is essential for its future and viability that women be empowered and allowed to contribute. Barring that, the prospects for success are grim.

I am always revolted when Islamic leaders, from Afghanistan or elsewhere, deny the very existence of female oppression, avoid the issue by pointing to examples of what they view as Western mistreatment of women, or even worse, justify the oppression of women on the basis of notions derived from Sharia law.

I hope that twenty-first-century Islamic leaders can unshackle themselves from antiquated ideas about gender roles and open themselves to a more just and progressive approach.

This novel has a few strong female characters. How did you create them? Are they based on women you know among your own family and friends, on your reading, on your imagination?

They are not drawn from family members or from people I know. In this respect, this second novel is far less autobiographical than The Kite Runner. Largely they are drawn from my imagination and from the women I saw and met in Kabul back in 2003.

I remember seeing these burqa-clad women sitting at street corners, with four, five, six children, begging for change. I remember seeing them walking in pairs up the street, trailed by their children in ragged clothes, and wondering how life had brought them to that point.

Did they have dreams, hopes, longings? Had they been in love? Who were their husbands? What had they lost, whom had they lost, in the wars that plagued Afghanistan for two decades? These questions circled around my head whenever I passed these women, and though at the time I had no inkling that I was going to write about a pair of women like them, I do recall thinking that probably each of those women had a life story worthy of a novel.

Adapted from an interview provided by the publishers.