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my bughra, but I simply throw it into the cart and collapse in an undignified heap on top of it. A cheer goes up from theline of soldiers, but whether they’re cheering me or their comrade, I can’t tell. I’m close to tears; I feel utterly spent.
    The giant walks away and approaches the lieutenant. They talk for a while, and then they call their men back into the fort. When the lieutenant returns, he crosses the field briskly with a couple of soldiers and walks right up to me, the Tajik trotting at their heels like a dog. The lieutenant’s hair is cut so short, I can see right through to his shiny pink scalp. He stands before me and bows in an exaggeratedly humble gesture of greeting, which the Tajik dutifully imitates. I recognize the signs: they want to be chatty after stripping me of my dignity.
    Salâm, the officer says. Peace.
    He continues speaking, and the Tajik says: Lieutenant Ellison hopes you weren’t scared.
    I think of how Father taught me not to bend before adversity. I remain silent.
    Then the Tajik says: The lieutenant would like me to convey his sincere apologies, but he hopes that you understand he didn’t have a choice.
    Now the officer smiles and addresses me directly, speaking very slowly and in loud, distinct tones, as if to an imbecile. The Tajik translates: The lieutenant says he hadn’t realized how young you were. He says you remind him of his sister—his younger sister—who goes to college. She wants to be a doctor. Maybe she will come and work in Kandahar province.
    I think of my younger sister, Fawzia, dead before her time, and remain stone-faced.
    The lieutenant says his grandfather took part in building the highways south of Kandahar, after the Second World War.
    So what? I think to myself, and look away.
    The officer’s voice falters for a moment. Then he speaks confidently to the Tajik, who says: The lieutenant would like to ask you a few questions.
    The Amrikâyi takes out a ketâb and holds his qalam at the ready. He smiles encouragingly at me. I ignore him and tell the Tajik: I will not answer anything until you have returned my brother’s body to me.
    The Amrikâyi says: As I have explained to you, we cannot do that. We have rules and regulations governing such matters.
    I have no illusions about that, I say with scorn. You are here to impose your rules by force, but they mean nothing to me.
    The Tajik interjects hurriedly: Pashtana, you would do well to listen to him.
    He turns to the officer, who appears to interrogate him about my response. They go back and forth, and I sense the Tajik defusing the aggressiveness of his master’s queries with some well-turned phrases. Eventually he says to me: The lieutenant would like to assure you that if you answer his questions, he will arrange for you to be given a thorough medical examination, especially in terms of the injuries to your legs.
    I compose myself but find I have to swallow a few times before I can speak, and even then I barely recognize the whisper that emerges from me. I tell them that all I want is to accomplish the task I’ve set myself so that I can leave this wretched place. I don’t want anything else.
    The officer looks disappointed. Still, he wears a conciliatory smile in the hope that I will fall for his ludicrously transparent ruse. I turn away from him and look back at my mountains. Somewhere high up is the narrow patch of emerald green that is my valley. Despite my attempts at stoicism, a tear spills out of my eye and courses down to the kameez that Fawzia had embroidered with flowers. I miss her very much; I miss them all very much. I would like nothing better than to go home now, but I recognize that sometimes there is no going back.
    The officer clears his throat, as does his factotum.
    He says: We’ll leave you now.
    Please open the eye of your heart and give me my brother, I reply.
    He says: I can’t do that. It’s not in my hands. I have my orders.
    I think of Yusuf rotting inside their fort and