A Thousand Splendid Suns

calling after her, Aziza screaming with panic. The hallway's walls are
covered now with posters, of dinosaurs, cartoon characters, the Buddhas
of Bamiyan, and displays of artwork by the orphans. Many of the
drawings depict tanks running over huts, men brandishing AK-47s,
refugee camp tents, scenes of jihad.
Laila turns a corner in the hallway and sees the children now, waiting
outside the classroom. She is greeted by their scarves, their shaved
scalps covered by skullcaps, their small, lean figures, the beauty of their
drabness.
When the children spot Laila, they come running. They come running at
full tilt. Laila is swarmed. There is a flurry of high-pitched greetings, of
shrill voices, of patting, clutching, tugging, groping, of jostling with one
another to climb into her arms. There are outstretched little hands and
appeals for attention. Some of them call her Mother. Laila does not
correct them.
It takes Laila some work this morning to calm the children down, to get
them to form a proper queue, to usher them into the classroom.
It was Tariq and Zaman who built the classroom by knocking down the
wall between two adjacent rooms. The floor is still badly cracked and has
missing tiles. For the time being, it is covered with tarpaulin, but Tariq
has promised to cement some new tiles and lay down carpeting soon.
Nailed above the classroom doorway is a rectangular board, which
Zaman has sanded and painted in gleaming white. On it, with a brush,
Zaman has written four lines of poetry, his answer, Laila knows, to those
who grumble that the promised aid money to Afghanistan isn't coming,
that the rebuilding is going too slowly, that there is corruption, that the