Excerpts from diary entries
I am here writhing with quiet laughter in one, crying the next. There is no originality in thinking, no questioning of systems. How does the soul of this country survive in the heart’s idealism, the standards of cultural refinement and intellectual excellence, thinking there is more to scholarly contribution than merely the exegesis of exegesis. When Mazar burns, it is Kabol who hurts too. Then as the Prophet says, but like the wayfarer or the horseman who stops under the shade of a tree for a time, he too eventually moves on.
Gustavo Santaolalla, We play till the morning, till the muezzin calls. There is enough pain in this city to abandon the laws of God. Come play my disheveled state.
I was told later that Aisha’s term is over. They extended her term for a lack of place for her to stay. She refused to return to her village saying they would all kill her.
Now she will live at the hospice with her child who has a name in Pashto sounding like “the name-less one”.
She has left me her eyes — those that distrust, her innocent nature once stolen and this world is her enemy. I am reminded immediately of where I really am.