A Thousand Splendid Suns

Bamiyan Valley in the wind.
The bus ride to the Iranian-Afghan border takes almost ten hours. The
terrain grows more desolate, more barren, as they near Afghanistan.
Shortly before they cross the border into Herat, they pass an Afghan
refugee camp. To Laila, it is a blur of yellow dust and black tents and
scanty structures made of corrugated-steel sheets. She reaches across
the seat and takes Tariq's hand.
* * *
In Herat, most of the streets are paved, lined with fragrant pines. There
are municipal parks and libraries in reconstruction, manicured
courtyards, freshly painted buildings. The traffic lights work, and, most
surprisingly to Laila, electricity is steady. Laila has heard that Herat's
feudal-style warlord, Ismail Khan, has helped rebuild the city with the
considerable customs revenue that he collects at the Afghan-Iranian
border, money that Kabul says belongs not to him but to the central
government. There is both a reverential and fearful tone when the taxi
driver who takes them to Muwaffaq Hotel mentions Ismail Khan's name.
The two-night stay at the Muwaffaq will cost them nearly a fifth of their
savings, but the trip from Mashad has been long and wearying, and the
children are exhausted. The elderly clerk at the desk tells Tariq, as he
fetches the room key, that the Muwaffaq is popular with journalists and
NGO workers.
"Bin Laden slept here once," he boasts.
The room has two beds, and a bathroom with running cold water. There