Rahela Nayebzadah’s second book, Monster Child, came out with Wolsak & Wynn’s Buckrider Books imprint in spring 2021. It has since been shortlisted for two BC and Yukon Book Prizes (The Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize and the Roderick Haig-Brown Regional Prize) and the 2022 ReLit Award in the novel category. Congratulations, Rahela!

In this powerful novel, author Rahela Nayebzadah introduces three unforgettable characters, Beh, Shabnam and Alif. In a world swirling with secrets, racism and a touch of magic we watch through the eyes of these three children as Nayebzadah's family of Afghan immigrants try to find their way in an often uncaring society. But as a sexual assault on thirteen-year-old Beh unleashes the past and destroys the family the reader is left wondering who is the monster child? Is it Beh, who says she is called a disease? Is it Shabnam, who cries tears of blood? Is it Alif, who in the end declares "We are a family of monsters"? Or are the monsters all around us?

I saw this as being a distinctly feminist book. One daughter is introduced as a disease, the other a monster. They share their frustrations with the misogyny they see in their Shia Muslim family, such as, “Having curves is another red flag, as every sentence begins with ‘From now on,’ as if we had wronged and were being punished for something beyond our control. ‘From now on, you’re going to have to sit cross-legged’ …” I wonder what sort of feminist statement you wanted to make with this book. 

 Monster Child is definitely a feminist text. All the female characters in Monster Child—Beh, Shabnam, and Madar—have strong female voices. Beh is strong for not conforming to societal/cultural expectations of what it’s like to be a “proper” girl. Shabnam is strong for calling out double standards within her community. And Madar is strong because she is not the submissive and oppressed Afghan woman that the media is obsessed with.

 Shabnam crying blood is also a feminist act. Blood, especially when associated with women’s bodies, is seen as excess. Shabnam is powerful and blood in Monster Child is not excess. I could’ve easily had Alif or Padar cry tears of blood, but I chose not to. If any character was to cry blood, I knew it had to be one of my female characters.

Finally, speaking of one’s experiences of sexual assault further reinforces the narrative of brown women needing saving from brown men. Especially in Muslim culture, rape is perceived as the woman’s fault and she is forever tainted by it. As an Afghan-Muslim woman, I know the fear of becoming a source of shame for one’s family by speaking out on sexual assault. I also know of the dangers, the repercussions, and the silence it produces. But, such stories need to be shared and I hope Monster Child influences young girls and women to speak up. Now is the time to spark dialogue.

At one point in the book, Beh wonders “For once can we put a pause on being Muslim?” This brought up an interesting question for me as to the idea of religion as identity and religion as faith and the area in between. And I also wonder how being in Canada, where the culture overall leans toward Christianity (even if it’s an atheist-style Christianity), affects those ideas too?

When Beh speaks those words, I’m reminded of the time when I lost my aunt to diabetes. I wanted to mourn her death alone. I wanted to cry myself to sleep in the privacy of my own home. However, this wasn’t possible because in my culture, grief and mourning is communal. Even worse, I remember being judged for not crying at her funeral. My whole life, I’ve had trouble displaying my emotions and feelings in front of others.

Moreover, there’s definitely the pressure of being “less Muslim” while living in Canada. Personally speaking, I always find myself proving myself to my family and community. I say this because I have a white husband and I do not wear a hijab like my mother and sister. I also don’t fast during the month of Ramadan. None of this means that I’m “less Muslim,” but to others, it may.

Near the end of the book, Alif makes a powerful statement about racism in Canada: “So why didn’t I just call the police myself to report Padar? Because, let’s face it, I’m not white. I’m brown and I’ve seen what happens to us kids. We turn into junkies, get adopted by some privileged white family, mysteriously disappear or run away and end up dead in some ditch. The same goes for Mâdar—she knows that an Afghan woman with children would be old news to a single man.” I’m trying to not make this the same question as above, but I wonder if you’d like to elaborate on what it is like for people who’ve immigrated from Afghanistan to Canada? Do you think it is often a huge disappointment?

I don’t think immigrants from Afghanistan find Canada disappointing. Instead, I think immigrants/refugees in general have unrealistic expectations about Canada—or the U.S., for that matter. For my family, in particular, one of the unrealistic expectations we had about Canada was equality. My parents fled Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion. My siblings and I (except for my youngest brother) were born in Iran. However, because our parents were born in Afghanistan, we were denied public education and basic healthcare. As Afghans, we also faced discrimination, racism, and prejudice while living in Iran. Thus, we were taken aback when we were faced with xenophobia in Canada.

The eldest daughter in the book, Shabnam, cries blood. Where did the idea for that came from?

At the age of ten, I almost lost my youngest brother in a car accident. He was five-years-old, and ever since then, I see people covered in blood. Certain things that trigger me are children close to cars, children who turn five, and driving. I’ll never forget how difficult it was for me when my son turned five—I immediately thought I’d lose him and I imagined him covered in blood. I’ve been living with this trauma in silence for years. Through Shabnam, I was able to express my trauma. Shabnam crying blood wasn’t only healing, but also the first time I was able to express myself freely.

Congratulations on being a finalist for two BC and Yukon Book Prizes! And the 2022 ReLit Award in the novel category! How does that feel? And how does it feel to have two books out in the world? Have you noticed any difference from having your debut novel out in 2012 to this one? 

I’ve never been nominated for anything. I’m truly grateful to be nominated for two BC and Yukon Book Prizes and the ReLit. Jeegareh Ma (2012) is an autobiographical novel, unlike Monster Child. Both novels are about amplifying Afghan immigrant/refugee voices, so in that sense, there is no difference. The only difference I can comment on is what I took away from each book. Jeegareh Ma was published by a small publisher. There were no promotions involved whatsoever with my first publisher. With Wolsak & Wynn, however, I learned a lot from my editor and publisher. I learned how to become a better writer. They’ve also done an incredible job in promoting and believing in my work. 

Thanks so much, Rahela! I feel like I have a much deeper understanding of your novel now. And now, here is the Monster Child playlist that Rahela has prepared for us:

“Monster” by Ye & featuring Nicki Minaj and Jay-Z

“Love the Way You Lie” by Eminem & featuring Rihanna

“Breathe Me” by Sia

“My Immortal” by Evanescence

“Cleanin’ Out My Closet” by Eminem

“Queen Bitch” by Lil’ Kim

“Dear Mama” by Tupac

A mother of two, Rahela Nayebzadah holds a PhD in the Faculty of Education from the University of British Columbia. Her novel, Monster Child (Wolsak& Wynn, 2021), is nominated for the Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize and the Roderick Haig-Brown Regional Prize. It was also a finalist for the 2022 ReLit Award in the novel category. Her autobiographical debut novel, Jeegareh Ma (2012), was based on her family's migration to Canada from Afghanistan.