She is aware that her voice is rising, that they are having their first fight as husband and wife.
“You left when the Mujahideen began fighting, remember? I'm the one who stayed behind. Me. I know war.”
“I lost my parents to war. My parents, Tariq. And now to hear you say that war is not so bad?”
“I'm sorry, Laila. I'm sorry.” He cups her face in his hands. “You're right. I'm sorry. Forgive me.”
“What I meant was that maybe there will be hope at the other end of this war, that maybe for the first time in a long time—”
“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” Laila says, surprised at how she has lashed out at him.
It's unfair, she knows, what she said to him—hadn't war taken his parents too?—and whatever flared in her is softening already.
Tariq continues to speak gently, and, when he pulls her to him, she lets him.
When he kisses her hand, then her brow, she lets him.
She knows that he is probably right. She knows how his comment was intended.
Maybe this is necessary. Maybe there will be hope when Bush's bombs stop falling.
But she cannot bring herself to say it, not when what happened to Babi and Mammy is happening to someone now in Afghanistan,
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