A Thousand Splendid Suns

the guns the CIA handed him in the eighties to fight the Soviets. The
Soviets are gone, but he still has the guns, and now he's turning them on
innocent people like your parents. And he calls this jihad. What a farce!
What does jihad have to do with killing women and children? Better the
CIA had armed Commander Massoud."
Mariam's eyebrows shot up of their own will. Commander Massoud? In
her head, she could hear Rasheed's rants against Massoud, how he was a
traitor and a communist- But, then, Massoud was a Tajik, of course. Like
Laila.
"Now, there is a reasonable fellow. An honorable Afghan. A man
genuinely interested in a peaceful resolution."
Rasheed shrugged and sighed.
"Not that they give a damn in America, mind you. What do they care
that Pashtuns and Hazaras and Tajiks and Uzbeks are killing each other?
How many Americans can even tell one from the other? Don't expect
help from them, I say. Now that the Soviets have collapsed, we're no use
to them. We served our purpose. To them, Afghanistan is a kenarab, a
shit hole. Excuse my language, but it's true. What do you think, Laila
jan?"
The girl mumbled something unintelligible and pushed a meatball
around in her bowl.
Rasheed nodded thoughtfully, as though she'd said the most clever
thing he'd ever heard. Mariam had to look away.
"You know, your father, God give him peace, your father and I used to
have discussions like this. This was before you were born, of course. On
and on we'd go about politics. About books too. Didn't we, Mariam? You
remember."
Mariam busied herself taking a sip of water.