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Afghanistan is the land of Pashtuns. It always has been, always will be. We are the true Afghans, the pure Afghans, not this Flat-Nose here. His people pollute our homeland, our watan. They dirty our blood.
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That was a long time ago, but it's wrong what they say about the past, I've learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.
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Fuck the Russia!
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I always felt like Baba hated me a little. And why not? After all, I had killed his beloved wife, his beautiful princess, hadn't I? The least I could have done was to have the decency to have turned out a little more like him.
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Giti: Nobody ever came for my hand.
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Tariq (meeting Laila after ten years): It's good to see you, Laila.
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Tariq: I do it for the girls
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What good is it? All this, what good is it? -Mariam
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War doesn't negate decency. It demands it, even more than in times of peace.
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How could I of all people, chastise someone for their past?
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I ran. A grown man running with a swarm of screaming children. But I didn't care. I ran with the wind blowing in my face, and a smile as wide as the valley of Panjsher on my lips. I ran.
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Regret...when it comes to you, I have oceans of it.
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Every Afghan story is marked by death and loss and unimaginable grief. And yet, she sees, people find a way to survive, to go on.
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Mariam: I can't beleive what you are now, if you were a Benz before.
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Laila (at fourteen years): What would your mother say when she saw you smoke?
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Hassan's not going anywhere. He's staying right here with us, where he belongs. This is his home and we're his family. Don't you ever ask me that question again!
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And I wrote to you, Laila. Volumes. -
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Hassan slumps to the asphalt, his life of unrequited loyalty drifting from him like the windblown kites he used to chase.
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It always falls on the sober to pay for the sins of the drunk.
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But better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.
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The Chinese say it is better to be deprived of food for three days than tea for one.
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Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman. -Nana
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It wasn't easy tolerating him talking this way to her, to bear his scorn, his ridicule, his insults, his walking past her like she was nothing but a house cat. But after four years of marriage, Mariam saw clearly how much a woman could tolerate when she was afraid. And Mariam was afraid.
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And that, my young friends, is the story of our country, one invader after another. Macedonians. Sassanians. Arabs. Mongols. Now the Soviets. But we're like those walls up there. Battered, and nothing pretty to look at, but still standing.