But the flip side of being spared was the agony of wondering who hadn't.
After every rocket blast, Laila raced to the street, stammering a prayer,
certain that, this time, surely this time, it was Tariq they would find buried beneath the rubble and smoke.
At night, Laila lay in bed and watched the sudden white flashes reflected in her window.
She listened to the rattling of automatic gunfire and counted the rockets whining overhead
as the house shook and flakes of plaster rained down on her from the ceiling.
Some nights, when the light of rocket fire was so bright a person could read a book by it, sleep never came.
And, if it did, Laila's dreams were suffused with fire and detached limbs and the moaning of the wounded.
Morning brought no relief. The muezzin's call for namaz rang out, and the Mujahideen set down their guns, faced west, and prayed.
Then the rugs were folded, the guns loaded, and the mountains fired on Kabul, and Kabul fired back at the mountains,
as Laila and the rest of the city watched as helpless as old Santiago watching the sharks take bites out of his prize fish.
Everywhere Laila went, she saw Massoud's men. She saw them roam the streets and every few hundred yards stop cars for questioning.
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