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 wasn’t 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 of Shari'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?”
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