A Thousand Splendid Suns

and a half years ago, Mariam knew that she and Laila had become one
and the same being to him, equally wretched, equally deserving of his
distrust, his disdain and disregard. When he spoke, Mariam had the sense
that he was having a conversation with himself, or with some invisible
presence in the room, who, unlike her and Laila, was worthy of his
opinions.
"They may have no past," he said, smoking and looking up at the
ceiling. "They may know nothing of the world or this country's history.
Yes. And, compared to them, Mariam here might as well be a university
professor. Ha! All true. But look around you. What do you see? Corrupt,
greedy Mujahideen commanders, armed to the teeth, rich off heroin,
declaring jihad on one another and killing everyone in between-that's
what. At least the Taliban are pure and incorruptible. At least they're
decent Muslim boys. Wallah, when they come, they will clean up this
place. They'll bring peace and order. People won't get shot anymore
going out for milk. No more rockets! Think of it."
For two years now, the Taliban had been making their way toward
Kabul, taking cities from the Mujahideen, ending factional war wherever
they'd settled. They had captured the Hazara commander Abdul Ali
Mazari and executed him. For months, they'd settled in the southern
outskirts of Kabul, firing on the city, exchanging rockets with Ahmad
Shah Massoud. Earlier in that September of 1996, they had captured the
cities of Jalalabad and Sarobi.
The Taliban had one thing the Mujahideen did not, Rasheed said. They
were united.
"Let them come," he said. "I, for one, will shower them with rose
petals."
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