Laila
JLaila was glad, when the Taliban went to work, that Babi wasn't around to witness it. It would
have crippled him.
Men wielding pickaxes swarmed the dilapidated Kabul Museum and smashed pre-Islamic statues to
rubble-that is, those that hadn't already been looted by the Mujahideen. The university was shut down
and its students sent home. Paintings were ripped from walls, shredded with blades. Television
screens were kicked in. Books, except the Koran, were burned in heaps, the stores that sold them
closed down. The poems of Khalili, Pajwak, Ansari, Haji Dehqan, Ashraqi, Beytaab, Hafez, Jami,
Nizami, Rumi, Khayyam, Beydel, and more went up in smoke.
Laila heard of men being dragged from the streets, accused of skippingnamaz, and shoved into
mosques. She learned that Marco Polo Restaurant, near Chicken Street, had been turned into an
interrogation center. Sometimes screaming was heard from behind its black-painted windows.
Everywhere, the Beard Patrol roamed the streets in Toyota trucks on the lookout for clean-shaven
faces to bloody.
They shut down the cinemas too. Cinema Park. Ariana. Aryub. Projection rooms were ransacked and
reels of films set to fire. Laila remembered all the times she and Tariq had sat in those theaters and
watched Hindi films, all those melodramatic tales of lovers separated by some tragic turn of fate, one
adrift in some faraway land, the other forced into marriage, the weeping, the singing in fields of
marigolds, the longing for reunions. She remembered how Tariq would laugh at her for crying at those
films.
"I wonder what they've done to my father's cinema," Mariam said to her one day. "If it's still there,
that is. Or if he still owns it."
Kharabat, Kabul's ancient music ghetto, was silenced. Musicians were beaten and imprisoned,
theirrubab%›iamboura%› and harmoniums trampled upon. The Taliban went to the grave of Tariq's
favorite singer, Ahmad Zahir, and fired bullets into it.
"He's been dead for almost twenty years," Laila said to Mariam. "Isn't dying once enough?"
* * *
Rasheed wasnt bothered much by the Taliban. All he had to do was grow a beard, which he did, and
visit the mosque, which he also did. Rasheed regarded the Taliban with a forgiving, affectionate kind
of bemusement, as one might regard an erratic cousin prone to unpredictable acts of hilarity and
scandal.Every Wednesday night, Rasheed listened to the Voice ofShari'a when the Taliban would announce
the names of those scheduled for punishment. Then, on Fridays, he went to Ghazi Stadium, bought a
Pepsi, and watched the spectacle. In bed, he made Laila listen as he described with a queer sort of
exhilaration the hands he'd seen severed, the lashings, the hangings, the beheadings.
"I saw a man today slit the throat of his brother's murderer," he said one night, blowing halos of
smoke.
"They're savages," Laila said.
"You think?" he said "Compared to what? The Soviets killed a million people. Do you know how
many people the Mujahideen killed in Kabul alone these last four years? Fifty thousandFifty thousand!
Is it so insensible, by comparison, to chop the hands off a few thieves? Eye for an eye, tooth for a
tooth. It's in the Koran. Besides, tell me this: If someone killed Aziza, wouldn't you want the chance to
avenge her?"
Laila shot him a disgusted look.
"I'm making a point," he said.
"You're just like them."
"It's an interesting eye color she has, Aziza. Don't you think? It's neither yours nor mine."
Rasheed rolled over to face her, gently scratched her thigh with the crooked nail of his index finger.
"Let me explain," he said. "If the fancy should strike me-and I'm not saying it will, but it could, it
could-I would be within my rights to give Aziza away. How would you like that? Or I could go to the
Taliban one day, just walk in and say that I have my suspicions about you. That's all it would take.
Whose word do you think they would believe? What do you think they'd do to you?"
Laila pulled her thigh from him.
"Not that I would," he said. "I wouldn't.Nay. Probably not. You know me."
"You're despicable," Laila said.
"That's a big word," Rasheed said. "I've always disliked that about you. Even when you were little,
when you were running around with that cripple, you thought you were so clever, with your books and
poems. What good are all your smarts to you now? What's keeping you off the streets, your smarts or
me? I'm despicable? Half the women in this city would kill to have a husband like me. They
wouldkill for it."
He rolled back and blew smoke toward the ceiling.
"You like big words? I'll give you one: perspective. That's what I'm doing here, Laila. Making sure
you don't lose perspective."What turned Laila's stomach the rest of the night was that every word Rasheed had uttered, every last
one, was true.
But, in the morning, and for several mornings after that, the queasiness in her gut persisted, then
worsened, became something dismayingly familiar.
* * *
One cold, overcast afternoon soon after, Laila lay on her back on the bedroom floor. Mariam was
napping with Aziza in her room.
In Laila's hands was a metal spoke she had snapped with a pair of pliers from an abandoned bicycle
wheel She'd found it in the same alley where she had kissed Tariq years back. For a long time, Laila
lay on the floor, sucking air through her teeth, legs parted
She'd adored Aziza from the moment when she'd first suspected her existence. There had been none
of this self-doubt, this uncertainty. What a terrible thing it was, Laila thought now, for a mother to fear
that she could not summon love for her own child. What an unnatural thing. And yet she had to
wonder, as she lay on the floor, her sweaty hands poised to guide the spoke, if indeed she could ever
love Rasheed's child as she had Tariq's.
In the end, Laila couldn't do it.
It wasn't the fear of bleeding to death that made her drop the spoke, or even the idea that the act was
damnable- which she suspected it was. Laila dropped the spoke because she could not accept what
the Mujahideen readily had: that sometimes in war innocent life had to be taken. Her war was against
Rasheed. The baby was blameless. And there had been enough killing already. Laila had seen enough
killing of innocents caught in the cross fire of enemies.