“You know the rest, Laila. After the war, the Soviets fell apart, and the West moved on.”
There was nothing at stake for them in Afghanistan anymore and the money dried up.
“Now Nasir Bagh is tents, dust, and open sewers.
When we got there, they handed us a stick and a sheet of canvas and told us to build ourselves a tent.”
Tariq said what he remembered most about Nasir Bagh, where they had stayed for a year, was the color brown.
“Brown tents. Brown people. Brown dogs. Brown porridge.”
There was a leafless tree he climbed every day, where he straddled a branch
and watched the refugees lying about in the sun, their sores and stumps in plain view.
He watched little emaciated boys carrying water in their jerry cans, gathering dog droppings to make fire,
carving toy AK-47s out of wood with dull knives, lugging the sacks of wheat flour that no one could make bread from that held together.
All around the refugee town, the wind made the tents flap. It hurled stubbles of weed everywhere, lifted kites flown from the roofs of mud hovels.
“A lot of kids died. Dysentery, TB, hunger, you name it. Mostly, that damn dysentery.
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