At Giti's fatiha, the day after the killings, Laila sat stunned in a roomful of weeping women.
This was the first time that someone whom Laila had known, been close to, loved, had died.
She couldn't get around the unfathomable reality that Giti wasn't alive anymore.
Giti, with whom Laila had exchanged secret notes in class, whose fingernails she had polished, whose chin hair she had plucked with tweezers.
Giti, who was going to marry Sabir the goalkeeper. Giti was dead. Dead. Blown to pieces.
At last, Laila began to weep for her friend. And all the tears that she hadn't been able to shed at her brothers' funeral came pouring down.
25.
Laila could hardly move, as though cement had solidified in every one of her joints.
There was a conversation going on, and Laila knew that she was at one end of it,
but she felt removed from it, as though she were merely eavesdropping.
As Tariq talked, Laila pictured her life as a rotted rope, snapping, unraveling, the fibers detaching, falling away.
It was a hot, muggy afternoon that August of 1992, and they were in the living room of Laila's house.
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