QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
1. Throughout the novel, Elsa is somewhat naïve in her motivations and expectations. Do you see this as a positive or negative quality? Do you think that her naïveté is what really allowed her to embrace Bamiyan and be less of an “outsider,” or do you think it has blinded her to the constant danger of her situation, making her reckless when she ought to have been careful?
2. Elsa says to Mike, “If you’re still coming to dinner tonight—and I hope you are—you’ll see my Afghanistan. Good friends and gentle people” (p. 194). Do you agree that even under such volatile circumstances, there can be such a dichotomy of views? That a soldier could never look at the place and people around him the same way a nurse or aid worker could, and that even though they’re physically in the same location, their experiences are vastly different?
3. The story is narrated in third-person limited: that is, we see through the experiences of Elsa, and at times, through the experiences of Parween. Why do you think the author chose to write it this way? Was there another character that you wished to see at the center of the narration?
4. What did you think about Elsa’s relationship with Mike? Do you think it would have progressed so quickly had they met under different circumstances? Do you think that being in Bamiyan gives Elsa a kind of courage that the Boston Elsa would never have had? Do you think the fact that they both sought familiarity in a foreign land (and found it in each other) made for a deeper relationship, or is that a superficial (albeit passionate) connection that might not last in a place like Boston?
5. Before the encounter with the Taliban guerrillas, Elsa tells Mike of her plans to go “to Rwanda, or, well…anywhere they need us” (p. 226). Do you think she will follow through on that plan after all that has happened, perhaps by joining the UN? Do you think she feels she owes it to Parween to continue to help people? Do you feel Aide du Monde’s decision to have her replaced was warranted?
6. Lipstick in Afghanistan has many strong female characters. Think about all the different women who impact on Elsa’s life: Margaret, Maureen, Parween, Amina, Rahima, and Laila. What does Elsa learn from each of these women at various points of the novel? What do you think they learn from her? Think about the women who play a significant role in your life. What can you learn from them?
7. To a great extent, the male characters in the novel are quite clearly good (Uncle Abdullah, Mike, Hamid, Raziq) or evil (Mariam’s husband, the members of the Taliban, Noor Mohammed). How did you feel about the portrayal of men? Did you find it accurate, or too simple? What about the fact that men were shown as both victims and perpetrators of crimes, while women were almost solely victims?
8. When Elsa tells Parween that she is angry at Mike for saying that he’d shoot Hamid if he had to, Parween’s reaction surprises her. Parween says, “Things are not always as complicated as you make them, Elsa. You are like a tree—strong, yes—but rigid. Too rigid…. When you see Mike—and you will—ask him if he’d save Hamid. That is the only thing you need to know” (p. 203). Do you agree with Parween’s and Mike’s point of view? Or do you feel that Elsa is right to try and see the complexity of the situation—to want to always judge people on an individual basis, as impossible as it may be?
9. Parween willingly risks everything when she jumps from the tree and attempts to surprise the Taliban members from behind. What do you think of her decision? Do you think it was selfish—that she should have considered her mother and her daughter and the life they’d have without her before risking her life? Or do you think it was selfless—that her risk was a way to try and ensure a better future for her daughter, and for all women?
10. The story of the lady rebel is very significant throughout the novel. What do you think the legend symbolizes? What did you think about the fact that Parween, through her death, becomes the embodiment of the legend? How else does the idea of rebellion manifest through the book?
11. Do you think karma and/or fate play significant roles in the story? Support your answer with examples from the text.
12. Were you left with a sense of hope at the end of the novel—that things would be better for the women in Bamiyan (and also Elsa), or was there a lingering feeling of futility? Do the themes in this fictional account relate at all to your real world perspectives on war and change?
13. The title of the book is Lipstick in Afghanistan. Discuss the significance of lipstick to the women in the novel. What does it mean to Elsa? To Parween and Mariam? If you had to pick one overarching idea or theme for it to symbolize, what would it be?
ENHANCE YOUR BOOK CLUB
1. Do you have an item that is to you what lipstick is for Elsa? Something you could never travel to a foreign country without? Have each member bring her “lipstick” to the book club and discuss.
2. The Hazaras are a real tribe in Afghanistan. Do some research on their culture and way of life, and have each member present an interesting fact.
3. Visit the International Rescue Committee’s website at www.theirc.org to see how you can help the people of Afghanistan or the millions of other refugees around the world.
A CONVERSATION WITH ROBERTA GATELY
What inspired you to write Lipstick in Afghanistan? Did you pull from many of your real-life experiences? What made you decide to write a work of fiction as opposed to a nonfiction account or memoir?
My inspiration came from the people of Afghanistan, whose stories and struggles, though the stuff of legend, often stay hidden in dusty villages and timeworn towns. I wanted to share the stories of the bent old woman who was likely starving, but who gave me a handful of chickpeas so that I might know that Afghans were generous; of the tiny girl who pummeled every boy in the village just because she could; and of the shy young woman who dreamed of going to Kabul as a legislator. Their stories are endless, their courage infinite despite Afghanistan’s seemingly unending history of tragedy heaped upon tragedy. And ultimately, it is the women I hoped to unveil so that the reader might get an authentic glimpse into the lives and struggles of the women and girls and even the men of Afghanistan.
Although I chose fiction for this story, I have written a memoir— From Africa to Afghanistan: A Nurse’s Story— and hope someday to publish it as well.
You really transport the reader to the remote climes of Bamiyan, evoking the village atmosphere in rich detail. How much time did you spend in Afghanistan? What did you take away from your time there?
I’ve been involved in aid work on and off for several years, and long before 9/11 I’d made several aid trips to Afghanistan and its environs. In 2002, I spent six months in Bamiyan providing aid both in the village and beyond. My work has provided me a glimpse into their lives, their everyday struggles and their triumphs and failures. I’ve gained a profound respect for the citizens of Afghanistan and a deep appreciation for their traditions and family values. Though on the surface they might seem very dissimilar to us, I found that there was more that connected us than separated us.
Many authors find that their characters are extensions of themselves, in one way or another. Do you find that to be true? Do you have a character you identify with most? Are any of the characters in Lipstick based on the people you encountered while in Bamiyan?
This story grew from the fascinating legend of the lady rebel. Is she real or a mythic figure? It’s hard to say with certainty, but much like the people of Bamiyan, I was captivated by the tale. As for my main characters, they are all based, in some measure, on people I’ve met on one or another of my missions to Afghanistan and other spots around the world. Once I created the characters, I felt as though they almost wrote their own stories. Parween’s courage dictated what she would and wouldn’t do, what roads she would choose. Elsa’s shyness hindered her until she gained her professional footing—and a firm friend in Parween. Mike was always a soldier—it just took Elsa time to see that.
You write about some truly horrific situations—for example, Mariam’s exploitative marriage and
eventual rape at the hands of the Taliban, and Meena’s abuse at the hands of a village lord. What made you choose to include these topics? Are they based on true events, perhaps even ones you encountered firsthand?
Although not based on actual situations I witnessed, they are drawn from bits and pieces of stories I’ve heard. Though terribly disturbing, they serve to illustrate the incredible resilience of Afghanistan’s women, who rise above adversity again and again. In both Meena’s and Mariam’s stories, it is the women who band together and defy not just their traditional roles but the potential explosive wrath of their society. These stories screamed to be told—so that women everywhere might understand the heartbreaking decisions that the women of Afghanistan face on a regular basis.
A point of contention in Mike and Elsa’s relationship is that they have somewhat opposing views of the place they’re in, because their roles and expectations are so different. Is that something you have found to be true in your experience?
Although I’ve met soldiers in many of the war-torn places I’ve been, I can’t really answer that—expectations are based on perceptions, and with soldiers and aid workers alike the diversity of viewpoints is almost never what I expect.
As an aid worker, do you think Elsa behaves somewhat recklessly while in Afghanistan, especially when agreeing to go with Parween to Sattar? Or do you think it’s difficult to judge such a situation until you’ve actually been there?
By the time Elsa accompanies Parween to Mashaal, she has been in-country for six months. She has already skirted danger by banding with the women to offer refuge to Meena and traveled secretly to Mashaal, both acts fueling her fledgling sense of self-esteem. Despite the confrontation on the clinic road with the surly young group of Taliban, she is confident that she can handle herself. She has grown accustomed to Bamiyan and has been accepted into the village. Elsa’s decision to accompany Parween was only reckless in hindsight.
How do you see the story playing out? Do you think Elsa and Mike are meant to be together? Do you see Elsa joining the UN and continuing on in her aid work?
I am not sure how it will play out. Perhaps that is best left for the reader to decide.
Do you have plans to write another novel? Would you return to Elsa and this cast of characters, or focus on something entirely new?
I am working on a second novel. Based in Africa and tentatively titled The Bracelet, it is the story of a young aid worker who may have witnessed or perhaps only dreamed that she witnessed a murder in Geneva while en route to her posting in Africa. I would definitely write a sequel to Lipstick. I too am curious to see how Elsa and Mike play out!
Who are your writing influences and what are you currently reading?
Almost impossible to pinpoint all the writers who have influenced me, and they are an eclectic group. Early on it was Harper Lee, D. H. Lawrence, and Marge Piercy; and lately it’s Ann Patchett, Elizabeth George, and Philippa Gregory—all brilliant writers whose novels make me swoon with reader’s delight.
Reading: I just finished The Help by Kathryn Stockett and Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum—both were spellbinding stories that absorbed me from the first page. The characters and stories were so beautifully written, I still mull over my favorite passages.
I’ve just started A Reliable Wife by Robert Goolrick.
What advice do you have for readers working on their first novels?
Write what you know, an oft-used phrase but the best advice I’ve received. If you know your story, you’ll write from your heart. Beyond that—persistence, persistence, persistence, and as in everything that matters—hard work.
Does lipstick mean the same thing to you that it does to Elsa?
Oh my, maybe more. I have graduated from lipstick that melted in the heat on my very first aid mission to industrial-strength, all-day lipstick that has taken me through sandstorms, roadblocks, and countless dicey situations. When I am away and find that I cannot wash properly or that my sleeping mat is filled with bedbugs, a swipe of lipstick restores my dignity and soothes my soul. And at home, a tube of lipstick really is magical. It holds more than a waxy bit of color—it holds the promise of a brilliant smile, a brilliant day, both literally and figuratively.
Click through for an exclusive sneak peekat Roberta Gately’s powerful second novel
THE BRACELET
Available from Gallery Books November 2012
Prologue
A silvery haze shrouded the streets of Geneva when Abby set out on her early-morning run. The sky was still dark, the air still crisp with the night’s last breeze, as she stepped from her hotel into the quiet of the street. The doorman tipped his hat in greeting.
“Bonjour, Miss Monroe. Another run?”
“Morning, Claude. My last one here in Geneva. Tomorrow, I’m off to Pakistan.”
“Ah, good luck, miss. Enjoy your run.”
Abby waved as she glanced at her watch and eased into her morning routine. Since this would be her last run, she wanted it to be her best. Tomorrow, she’d board a flight to Dubai and, from there, head to a UN program in northern Pakistan.
“No running there,” she’d been warned. “Too dangerous. Probably no time for it anyway.”
Abby would be evaluating an immunization program for UNICEF. It would be her first overseas assignment, and she wanted to make a great impression, show that she could do this kind of work, that she was capable and professional.
Geneva was deadly quiet this Sunday morning, and she ran in solitude, no cars or noise or people about just yet. The sun was just creeping over the horizon, the city still struggling to shake off the night’s long sleep. The streets and the scenery faded from her view as she focused all her energies on pushing forward, step after step. With every footfall, her legs throbbed, and her heart pounded. She wanted to stop, but in a day or a week or a month, she’d ache for the misery she felt now, so she picked up her pace, willing her muscles to remember this final sprint.
Abby’s legs ached with the exertion but she pushed harder, thrusting her arms out grabbing the air. She felt her breathing ease as she crested a small hill and coasted on a level surface. Here the street narrowed as she passed the graceful old UN buildings. The government buildings that had loomed large in the shadowy morning light soon gave way to quiet residential streets bordered by trees, hedges, and privacy gates.
She turned her attention back to the road, wishing she’d brought her iPod. Running to the sounds of her own panting was a distraction. She turned back toward the hotel and found herself running along a wider street lined with high-rise office buildings. The street, framed by the buildings, was deserted and utterly quiet this Sunday morning. Steam seeped from the buildings’ grates and rose lazily before evaporating in the morning air. Abby inhaled deeply. This indefinable time, the hour between night and day, was her favorite time to run at home. Everything was so peaceful, and that was especially true here in Geneva. Lost in the steady cadence of her footfalls, Abby savored the way her body moved and felt.
Suddenly, voices raised in anger broke through the morning hush. Abby, her senses alert, came to a full stop. She looked around, but caught here in a street of soaring office towers, she saw only blank walls of granite and steel. She hesitated, the voices rising again, an urgency spiking the sounds, and she realized they were coming from somewhere above her. She looked up, and there, framed at the edge of a fourth-floor balcony, a man had a woman pinned, her back bent over the railing.
Abby’s hands flew to her mouth. She was frozen to the spot, unable to move.
Suddenly the man leaned in to the woman. Was he kissing her? Abby couldn’t tell. No, she thought, they’re struggling. The woman pulled the man’s eyeglasses from his face, and the man exploded in anger, reaching for the woman’s neck. Just then the woman let out a piercing scream, and even from the street Abby could feel her terror. She looked around, desperate for help, for someone to stop whatever was happening. But this was a business district and the streets were empty, no buses
or delivery trucks, not even a dog walker in sight. The woman screamed again, her arms flailing at the man. Was she pushing him away? With a twist, the woman seemed to free herself from his grasp.
A gout of steam from a sidewalk grate stung Abby’s eyes, and she blinked away tears. When she opened her eyes, she gasped in horror—the woman was plunging through the air.
Everything seemed to happen then in slow motion, and Abby’s heart pounded as she watched helplessly. The woman would fall directly onto concrete—there was no padding, no soft ground, nothing to break her fall. Panicked and helpless, Abby heard her own scream, but it was lost in the sudden whoosh of air as the woman hurtled past and landed just in front of her with a sickening thud.
Abby was paralyzed. She closed her eyes and tried to rub away the image, but when she opened them, the woman’s body was lying at an impossible angle, her neck twisted and broken. Abby edged closer and bent to the shattered form. She leaned over the body, and though her hands trembled wildly, she felt the woman’s neck, checking instinctively for a pulse. Of course there was none. The woman’s olive skin was laced with cuts and bruises, and blood seeped out from beneath her head. Abby reached her hand gently under the woman’s head and felt a large depression—her skull was shattered. Bits of gray matter leaked onto the street. The woman had landed on her back, her arms thrown out, her legs broken and bent, her face still contorted in fear, blood oozing from her ears and nose. One bloody wrist was adorned by thin, brightly colored bangles, and the other bore an ornate and intricately jeweled cuff bracelet. In her hand, she clutched a pair of splintered and shattered eyeglasses, the wire cutting into her skin. The woman’s long black hair, splattered now with blood, spilled around her, framing her face. Her clothes, loose and colorful like so many of the exotic dresses Abby had seen at the UN, were stippled with blood. Abby leaned over the woman’s chest and listened for any breath sounds. But there was nothing. She was dead, already beyond CPR.
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