The Swallows of Kabul Read Online Free PDF

to keep hope alive. One day, God will remember us. He’ll see that the horrors we’re subjected to every day haven’t diminished our faith, that we haven’t failed in our duty, that we deserve His mercy.”
    Mohsen releases his wife’s wrist and runs his fingers along her cheekbone. It’s an affectionate gesture, and she leans into his caress.
    “You’re the only sun I have left, Zunaira. Without you, my night would be darker than the deepest darkness and colder than the grave. But, for the love of God, if you find that I’m changing toward you, if I’m becoming mean or unjust, please tell me. I feel that things are escaping me, I don’t think I’m in control of myself anymore. If I’m going crazy, help me to be aware of it. I’m willing to fail everyone else’s expectations, but I can’t let myself do you any harm, not even inadvertently.”
    Zunaira clearly senses the depth of her husband’s distress. To prove to him that he’s done nothing wrong in her eyes, she rests her cheek against his diffident palm. “We’re living through some difficult times, my dear. We moan and groan so much, we’ve lost the idea of tranquillity. When there’s a lull all of a sudden, it terrifies us, and we grow suspicious of things that pose no threat.”
    Mohsen gently withdraws his fingers from under his wife’s cheek. His eyes mist over; he has to stare at the ceiling and struggle mightily to contain his emotion. His Adam’s apple panics inside his skinny throat. So great is his remorse that a trembling begins in his cheekbones and spreads out in waves, all the way to his lips and his chin. “I did something unthinkable this morning,” he declares.
    Zunaira freezes, alarmed by the trouble she sees in his eyes. She tries to take his hands; he holds them up in front of his chest like a man warding off an attack.
    “I can’t believe it,” he mutters. “How did it happen? How could I?”
    More and more intrigued, Zunaira sits up straight. Mohsen starts panting. His chest rises and falls at a frightening rate. Though the words horrify him, he tells his tale: “A prostitute was stoned in the square. I don’t know how, but I joined the crowd of degenerates who were clamoring for her blood. It was as though I’d been taken up by a whirlwind. I, too, wanted to be in a good position to watch the impure beast perish! And when the rain of stones began to overwhelm the demon, I found myself picking up rocks—me, too—and pelting her with them. I must have gone mad, Zunaira. How could I dare do such a thing? All my life, I’ve thought of myself as a conscientious objector. Some people made threats and other people made promises, but none of them ever persuaded me to pick up a weapon and kill another person. I agreed to have enemies, but I couldn’t bear being the enemy of anyone else, no matter who. And this morning, Zunaira, just because the crowd was shouting, I shouted with it, and just because it demanded blood, I called out for blood, too. Since then, I can’t stop looking at my hands, and I don’t recognize them anymore. I walked along the streets, trying to shake off my shadow, trying to put some distance between me and what I’d done, and at every corner, at every pile of rubble, I came face-to-face with that moment of . . . of confusion. I’m afraid of myself, Zunaira. I don’t have any more confidence in the man I’ve become.”
    Zunaira is petrified by her husband’s story. Mohsen is not the type to bare his soul. He rarely speaks about his tribulations and almost never lets his emotions show, but a little while ago, when she detected that great pain deep inside his pupils, she knew he couldn’t keep it to himself. She was braced for trouble of this kind, though not of this magnitude.
    Her face pales, and for the first time her eyes, as they grow wider, lose most of their brilliance. “You stoned a woman?”
    “I even think I hit her on the head.”
    “Mohsen, come on, you couldn’t have done such