Set around an Eid concert in the North-West Frontier in Pakistan, a young girl must find her courage to play the rabab in front of an audience, even though she is still learning her first song. The beautiful illustrations of Manal Mirza and focusing on an under represented population, made me hopeful that this book would transcend the musical focus and weave in Islam and culture. Sadly, though, the book falls victim to cliche lines that mean nothing, and a story that doesn’t make a lot of sense once you move past the superficial attraction. The backmatter infographics about the rabab, where it can be heard, details about the Pathan/Pashtun people, What Eid is, the traditional clothing, and a Pashto Glossary, add to the vibe of the book, but still fail to offer any specific “hospitality, courage, and rich traditions,” that are only ever referenced in generalized terms and statements.
The book starts with Roohi’s favorite time of day, the sun is settling behind the snow capped mountains and her family is gathering around to listen to her grandfather, Neeka Baba, play the rabab. No they aren’t praying maghrib, or breaking their fast, so presumably it is not Ramadan. When Neeka Baba plays, “songs full of rhythm echo through the cherry blossom hills. Songs from long ago tell stories of folklore, heroes, and love. . . songs of Roohi’s ancestors.” A beautiful sentiment, but it is not a thesis statement or main idea of the book as we, the reader, never learn about her ancestors, or folklore, or about the culture.” We are just told they all had courage, and she needs to channel that strength.
She will need strength to play the rabab at her school concert, except remember “she hasn’t even learned a whole song yet.” She also worries she won’t be as good as her grandfather, but presumably he has been playing longer and she is just starting, so I never connected why she felt she should be as good as him. No one in the story compares them, or says she should be as good as him, or even strive to be as good as him. There is nothing that hints that this is even a part of the characters development other than the repetitive refrain that she must “play with the courage of those who came before her.” So the cathartic release of being told “to play like yourself” also seems forcefully contrived and not a natural arc of growth and understanding.
As Eid creeps closer, Roohi has lessons with her grandfather on the rabab, and then Neeka Baba coughs and is in the hospital. The reader has no idea how this man falls ill, or recovers, if it was sudden or a known affliction, but he is no longer the focus, the rabab is, and so the story continues.
At the school concert, Roohi is introduced as playing music from the North-West Frontier Province. Hold up, yes I thought I skipped a page. They live in the North-West Frontier, don’t they, this is a school concert? What an odd introduction, did they travel? At the end there is a “smile as wide as the lush valleys back home.” When did they leave home? And why a silent prayer, why not a “bismillah.” Isn’t the point of OWN voice to have the little details and the voice that can’t be imitated by researched work?
I am going to spoil the ending, she freezes, Mama and Neeka Baba help her find her beat in the audience and she steals the show so to speak. The ending is sweet, but not anywhere near as heartfelt as it should have been if the audience would have been shown the strength and courage of the Pashtun culture, not just repeatedly told it, felt the warmth of their hospitality, the rich ancestral values that would be threads that manifest in the music that she is hoping to share with others. Sadly we are just expected to know that they all exist and cheer for Roohi to succeed.
Disappointing, considering how fantastic the illustrations are, sigh.
Islamic School Librarian 