May 13, 1987
My dear Mariam:
I pray that this letter finds you in good health
As you know, I came to Kabul a month ago to speak with you. Bui you would not see me. I
was disappointed but could not blame you. In your place, I might have done the same. I lost
the privilege of your good graces a long time ago and for that I only have myself to blame.
Bui if you are reading this letter, then you have read the letter that I left at your door. You
have read it and you have come to see Mullah Faizullah, as I had asked that you do. I am
grateful that you did, Mariam jo. I am grateful for this chance to say a few words to you.
Where do I begin?
Your father has known so much sorrow since we last spoke, Mariam jo. Your stepmother
Afsoon was killed on the first day of the 1979 uprising. A stray bullet killed your sister
Niloufar that same day. I can still see her, my Utile Niloufar, doing headstands to impress
guests. Your brother Farhad joined the jihad in J 980. The Soviets killed him in J 982, just
outside of Helmand. I never got to see his body. I don't know if you have children of your
own, Mariam jo, but if you do I pray that God look after them and spare you the grief that I
have known. I still dream of them. I still dream of my dead children.
I have dreams of you too, Mariam jo. I miss you. I miss the sound of your voice, your
laughter. I miss reading to you, and all those times we fished together. Do you remember
all those times we fished together? You were a good daughter, Mariam jo, and I cannot
ever think of you without feelin g shame and regret. Regret... When it comes to you, Mariam
jo, I have oceans of it. I regret that I did not see you the day you came to Herat. I regret
that I did not open the door and take you in. I regret that I did not make you a daughter to
me, that I let you live in that place for all those years. And for what? Fear of losing face?
Of staining my so called good name? How Utile those things matter to me now after all the
loss, all the terrible things I have seen in this cursed war. Bui now, of course, it is too late.
Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, to understand only when
nothing can be undone. Now all I can do is say that you were a good daughter, Mariam jo,
and that I never deserved you. Now all I can do is ask for your forgiveness. So forgive me,
Mariam jo. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.
I am not the wealthy man you once knew. The communists confiscated so much of my land,
and all of my stores as well. But it is petty to complain, for God for reasons that I do not
understand has still blessed me with far more than most people. Since my return from
Kabul, I have managed to sell what Utile remained of my land. I have enclosed for you
your share of the inheritance. You can see that it is far from a fortune, but it is something.
It is something. (You will also notice that I have taken the liberty of exchanging the money
into dollars. I think it is for the best God alone knows the fate of our own beleaguered
currency.)
I hope you do not think that I am trying to buy your forgiveness. I hope you will credit me
with knowing that your forgiveness is not for sale. It never was. I am merely giving you, if
belatedly, what was rightfully yours all along. I was not a dutiful father to you in life.
Perhaps in death I can be.
Ah, death. I won't burden you with details, but death is within sight for me now. Weak
heart, the doctors say. It is a fitting manner of death, I think, for a weak man.