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 become shaheed, 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? Oh boy. Everything is in a different place.”
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