Bobo jaan was a tall, sangeen (dignified, respectfully polished) woman who wore long dresses, crisp white pants, and soft chiffon hijabs. Her friends called her Bibi Shireen. She had this quiet confidence about her that came with being the matriarch of our family. Her husband, my grandfather, passed away from a heart attack in Afghanistan when she was still very young, and her youngest son, my father, was only four years old. She never remarried. Growing up, Bobo jaan would babysit us when our parents were at work. She lived in the same apartment complex as we did.
One crisp morning, we were getting ready to go on one of our outdoor adventures. Bobo jaan had her outside dress and hijab on; she was coming down the concrete steps, holding on to the black-painted rail. I don’t know how, but my uncle who lived with her found a Food Max cart from somewhere nearby and had it ready to go for her. She often used shopping carts as a makeshift walker. We started walking through the beautifully manicured apartment complex, with green fields and white-painted brick chairs. Appropriately, it was called Village Green. The cart wheels rattled on the pebbled concrete path. When we made it to the parking lot, my ears and the wheels simultaneously sighed with relief, feeling the smooth asphalt.
On our way, we went down the neighborhood sidewalks—a busy boulevard to our left, which eventually disappeared into cul-de-sacs and neighborhood roads. I don’t know how my grandmother remembered the way through these neighborhoods and made it back—I never worried about being lost with her. She brought the feeling of home wherever we went. I only now appreciate her spatial memory as I consider my geographical limitations as an adult who grew up with a GPS. But my grandma grew up in Afghanistan—her spatial memory was one that Americans can only dream of. She crossed oceans and continents, and yet home was where she was.
We came across a tree on the side of the road that had green fuzzy buds. My grandmother picked a few and gave my brother and me one each. “What is this?” I asked curiously. She responded, “It’s an almond!” An Almond! I was so curious to see how an almond came out of this fuzzy green ball. When we went home, she cracked it open with her awang (pestle and mortar). I was amazed. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends that almonds came from trees.
I learned a great deal from my grandmother. She taught my brother and me how to play card games at a young age. She taught us how to play Panj Par, or Five Pairs, an Afghan card game. Our favorite game was a multiplayer game called Mahfee Mayhayam (I apologize), a glorified and spicier version of Goldfish. My favorite was when we played with my dad; I felt so proud to show him I knew how to play. I loved playing cards with her. When we weren’t playing card games, we were watching her favorite soaps on TV: Days of Our Lives, General Hospital, and Dallas. She didn’t speak English, but she knew what was going on better than I did, often sharing her commentary on the drama. Later, when I grew up, I always felt like these were the best soaps because I watched them with her.
When my Bobo jaan passed away in 2010, I was devastated. It was the first death of someone close to me I experienced. I was eighteen years old, and it was about a month before my high school graduation. I cried during my auditions for my graduation speech because I had written it with her in mind. My student leadership teacher tried to console me—“Did she know you loved her?” I paused. “I don’t know,” I muttered through my tears. “I know she loved me,” I said, “but I don’t know if she knew I loved her,” making me cry even harder. Her death taught me the importance of showing love to my elders and how fragile and unexpected life can be. It taught me to be grateful for my elders and the wisdom, love, warmth, and leadership they embodied. Like an almond, we often go through life with a hard shell on the outside—polished and seemingly unbreakable. The cracks that we feel in life are not meant to break us, but they reveal an even more beautiful inner beauty that brings us closer to our essence and Allah’s guidance.
I pray for Bobo jaan’s peace and forgiveness and her elevation in the highest gardens of Paradise. She sometimes visits me in my dreams—dressed in all white, glowing—and gives me the hug I wish I had given her when she was still alive. May Allah ﷻ grant her Jannat al-Firdaws with the company of the beloved Prophet ﷺ and reunite us together in the best of gardens and green villages, picking the fruits and almonds of Jannah. Ya Rabb, ameen.
By Bibi Shireen’s granddaughter, Dr. Saugher Nojan
Dr. Saugher Nojan, Authors Studio cohort member, written for The Daybreak Dispatch