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at gunpoint； Parchami flag on their lapels； making their little point about the fall of the bourgeoisie and acting like they were the ones with class。 It was happening all over： Round up the rich； throw them in jail； make an example for the rades。
Anyway； we were crammed in groups of six in these tiny cells each the size of a refrigerator。 Every night the mandant； a haif…Hazara； half…Uzbek thing who smelled like a rotting donkey； would have one of the prisoners dragged out of the cell and he d beat him until sweat poured from his fat face。 Then he d light a cigarette； crack his joints； and leave。 The next night； he d pick someone else。 One night； he picked me。 It couldn t have e at a worse time。 I d been peeing blood for three days。 Kidney stones。 And if you ve never had one； believe me when I say it s the worst imaginable pain。 My mother used to get them too； and I remember she told me once she d rather give birth than pass a kidney stone。 Anyway； what could I do？ They dragged me out and he started kick ing me。 He had knee…high boots with steel toes that he wore every night for his little kicking game； and he used them on me。 I was screaming and screaming and he kept kicking me and then； suddenly； he kicked me on the left kidney and the stone passed。 Just like that！ Oh； the relief！ Assef laughed。 And I yelled Allah…u akbar and he kicked me even harder and I started laughing。 He got mad and hit me harder； and the harder he kicked me； the harder I laughed。 They threw me back in the cell laughing。 I kept laughing and laughing because suddenly I knew that had been a message from God： He was on my side。 He wanted me to live for a reason。
You know； I ran into that mandant on the battlefield a few years later……funny how God works。 I found him in a trench just outside Meymanah； bleeding from a piece of shrapnel in his chest。 He was still wearing those same boots。 I asked him if he remembered me。 He said no。 I told him the same thing I just told you； that I never forget a face。 Then I shot him in the balls。 I ve been on a mission since。
What mission is that？ I heard myself say。 Stoning adulterers？ Raping children？ Flogging women for wearing high heels？ Massacring Hazaras？ All in the name of Islam？ The words spilled suddenly and unexpectedly； came out before I could yank the leash。 I wished I could take them back。 Swallow them。 But they were out。 I had crossed a line； and whatever little hope I had of getting out alive had vanished with those words。
A look of surprise passed across Assef s face； briefly； and disappeared。 I see this may turn out to be enjoyable after all； he said； snickering。 But there are things traitors like you don t understand。
Like what？
Assef s brow twitched。 Like pride in your people； your customs； your language。 Afghanistan is like a beautiful mansion littered with garbage； and someone has to take out the garbage。
That s what you were doing in Mazar； going door…to…door？ Taking out the garbage？
Precisely。
In the west； they have an expression for that； I said。 They call it ethnic cleansing。
Do they？ Assef s face b