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.”
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