Mariam
'm so sorry," Rasheed said to the girl, taking his bowl of masiawa and meatballs from
Mariam without looking at her. "I know you were very close....friends. ..the two of you.
Always together, since you were kids. It's a terrible thing, what's happened. Too many
young Afghan men are dying this way."
He motioned impatiently with his hand, still looking at the girl, and Mariam passed him a
napkin.
For years, Mariam had looked on as he ate, the muscles of his temples churning, one hand
making compact little rice balls, the back of the other wiping grease, swiping stray grains,
from the corners of his mouth. For years, he had eaten without looking up, without
speaking, his silence condemning, as though some judgment were being passed, then
broken only by an accusatory grunt, a disapproving cluck of his tongue, a one word
command for more bread, more water.
Now he ate with a spoon. Used a napkin. Said lotfan when asking for water. And talked.
Spiritedly and incessantly.
"If you ask me, the Americans armed the wrong man in Hekmatyar. All the guns the CIA
handed him in the eighties to fight the Soviets. The Soviets are gone, but he still has the
guns, and now he's turning them on innocent people like your parents. And he calls this
jihad. What a farce! What does jihad have to do with killing women and children? Better
the CIA had armed Commander Massoud."
Mariam's eyebrows shot up of their own will. Commander Massoud? In her head, she
could hear Rasheed's rants against Massoud, how he was a traitor and a communist But,
then, Massoud was a Tajik, of course. Like Laila.
"Now, there is a reasonable fellow. An honorable Afghan. A man genuinely interested in a
peaceful resolution."
Rasheed shrugged and sighed.
"Not that they give a damn in America, mind you. What do they care that Pashtuns and
Hazaras and Tajiks and Uzbeks are killing each other? How many Americans can even tell
one from the other? Don't expect help from them, I say. Now that the Soviets have
collapsed, we're no use to them. We served our purpose. To them, Afghanistan is akenarab,
a shit hole. Excuse my language, but it's true. What do you think, Laila jan?"
The girl mumbled something unintelligible and pushed a meatball around in her bowl.
Rasheed nodded thoughtfully, as though she'd said the most clever thing he'd ever heard.
Mariam had to look away.
"You know, your father, God give him peace, your father and I used to have discussions
like this. This was before you were born, of course. On and on we'd go about politics.
About books too. Didn't we, Mariam? You remember."
Mariam busied herself taking a sip of water.
"Anyway, I hope I am not boring you with all this talk of politics."
Later, Mariam was in the kitchen, soaking dishes in soapy water, a tightly wound knot in
her belly It wasn't so much what he said, the blatant lies, the contrived empathy, or even the