Kaka Zaman had knitting needles and balls of yarn ready, she said, in case of a Taliban inspection.
“We put the books away and pretend to knit.”
One day, during a visit with Aziza, Laila saw a middle aged woman, her burqa pushed back, visiting with three boys and a girl.
Laila recognized the sharp face, the heavy eyebrows, if not the sunken mouth and gray hair.
She remembered the shawls, the black skirts, the curt voice,
how she used to wear her jet black hair tied in a bun so that you could see the dark bristles on the back of her neck.
Laila remembered this woman once forbidding the female students from covering,
saying women and men were equal, that there was no reason women should cover if men didn't.
At one point, Khala Rangmaal looked up and caught her gaze, but Laila saw no lingering, no light of recognition, in her old teacher's eyes.
“They're fractures along the earth's crust,” said Aziza. “They're called faults.”
It was a warm afternoon, a Friday, in June of 2001.
They were sitting in the orphanage's back lot, the four of them, Laila, Zalmai, Mariam, and Aziza.
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