Page 227 - Leadership in the Indian Army
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he's siding with Massoud. And Hekmatyar supports the Hazaras for now."
                            As  for  the  unpredictable  Uzbek commander Dostum, Rasheed said no

                        one  knew  where he would stand. Dostum had fought the  Soviets in the

                        1980s alongside the Mujahideen but had defected and joined Najibullah's
                        communist puppet regime after the Soviets had left. He had even earned

                        a  medal,  presented  by  Najibullah  himself,  before  defecting  once  again

                        and returning to the Mujahideen's side. For the time being, Rasheed said,

                        Dostum was supporting Massoud.
                          In Kabul, particularly in western Kabul, fires raged, and black palls of

                        smoke  mushroomed  over  snow-clad  buildings.  Embassies  closed  down.

                        Schools collapsed In hospital waiting  rooms, Rasheed said, the wounded
                        were bleeding to death. In operating rooms, limbs were being amputated

                        without anesthesia.

                            "But  don't  worry,"  he  said.  "You're  safe with  me,  my flower, my gul.

                        Anyone tries to harm you, I'll rip out their liver and make them eat it."
                            That  winter,  everywhere  Laila  turned,  walls  blocked  her  way.  She

                        thought longingly of the wide-open skies of her childhood, of her days of

                        going  to  buzkashi  tournaments  with  Babi  and  shopping  at  Mandaii  with

                        Mammy,  of  her  days of running free in the  streets and gossiping about
                        boys  with  Giti  and  Hasina.  Her  days  of  sitting  with  Tariq  in  a  bed  of

                        clover on the  banks of a stream somewhere, trading riddles and candy,

                        watching the sun go down.
                          But thinking  of Tariq was treacherous because, before she could stop,

                        she  saw  him  lying  on  a  bed,  far from home, tubes piercing his burned

                        body.  Like  the  bile  that  kept  burning  her  throat  these  days,  a  deep,
                        paralyzing grief would come rising up Laila's chest. Her legs would turn

                        to water. She would have to hold on to something.

                            Laila  passed  that  winter  of  1992  sweeping  the  house,  scrubbing  the

                        pumpkin-colored walls of the bedroom she shared with Rasheed, washing
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