“Najibullah won't last,” said Babi. “They're leaving, Mammy! They're actually leaving!”
“You two celebrate if you want to. But I won't rest until the Mujahideen hold a victory parade right here in Kabul.”
And, with that, she lay down again and pulled up the blanket.
22. JANUARY 1989
One cold, overcast day in January 1989, three months before Laila turned eleven,
she, her parents, and Hasina went to watch one of the last Soviet convoys exit the city.
Spectators had gathered on both sides of the thoroughfare outside the Military Club near Wazir Akbar Khan.
They stood in muddy snow and watched the line of tanks, armored trucks, and jeeps as light snow flew across the glare of the passing headlights.
There were heckles and jeers. Afghan soldiers kept people off the street. Every now and then, they had to fire a warning shot.
Mammy hoisted a photo of Ahmad and Noor high over her head. It was the one of them sitting back to back under the pear tree.
There were others like her, women with pictures of their shaheed husbands, sons, brothers held high.
Someone tapped Laila and Hasina on the shoulder. It was Tariq.
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