faction, who had a reputation for shifting allegiances. The intense, surly Gulbuddin
Hekmatyar, leader of the Hezb-e-Islami faction, a Pashtun who had studied engineering and
once killed a Maoist student. Rabbani, Tajik leader of the Jamiat-e-Islami faction, who had
taught Islam at Kabul University in the days of the monarchy. Sayyaf, a Pashtun from
Paghman with Arab connections, a stout Muslim and leader of the Ittehad-i-Islami faction.
Abdul Ali Mazari, leader of the Hizb-e-Wahdat faction, known as Baba Mazari among his
fellow Hazaras, with strong Shi'a ties to Iran.
And, of course, there was Mammy's hero, Rabbani's ally, the brooding, charismatic Tajik
commander Ahmad Shah Massoud, the Lion of Panjshir. Mammy had nailed up a poster of
him in her room. Massoud's handsome, thoughtful face, eyebrow cocked and trademark
pakol tilted, would become ubiquitous in Kabul. His soulful black eyes would gaze back
from billboards, walls, storefront windows, from little flags mounted on the antennas of
taxicabs.
For Mammy, this was the day she had longed for. This brought to fruition all those years
of waiting.
At last, she could end her vigils, and her sons could rest in peace.
The day after Najibullah surrendered, Mammy rose from bed a new woman. For the first
time in the five years since Ahmad and Noor had becomeshaheed,she didn't wear black.
She put on a cobalt blue linen dress with white polka dots. She washed the windows, swept
the floor, aired the house, took a long bath. Her voice was shrill with merriment.
"A party is in order," she declared She sent Laila to invite neighbors. "Tell them we're
having a big lunch tomorrow!"
In the kitchen, Mammy stood looking around, hands on her hips, and said, with friendly
reproach, "What have you done to my kitchen, Laila? Wboy. Everything is in a different
place."
She began moving pots and pans around, theatrically, as though she were laying claim to
them anew, restaking her territory, now that she was back. Laila stayed out of her way. It
was best. Mammy could be as indomitable in her fits of euphoria as in her attacks of rage.
With unsettling energy, Mammy set about cooking: aush soup with kidney beans and dried
dill, kofia, steaming hot maniu drenched with fresh yogurt and topped with mint.
"You're plucking your eyebrows," Mammy said, as she was opening a large burlap sack of
rice by the kitchen counter.
"Only a little."
Mammy poured rice from the sack into a large black pot of water. She rolled up her
sleeves and began stirring.