For many people in the west, Afghanistan is synonymous with the Soviet war and the Taliban. I wanted to remind people that Afghans had managed to live in peaceful anonymity for decades, that the history of the Afghans in the twentieth century has been largely pacific and harmonious.

My books are about ordinary people, like you, me, people on the street, people who really have an expectation of reasonable happiness in life, want their life to have a sense of security and predictability, who want to belong to something bigger than them, who want love and affection in their life, who want a good future for the children.

My father and I did work for a while at the flea market and there really are rows of Afghans working there, some of whom I am related to.

I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn’t.

I loved him in that moment, loved him more than I'd ever loved anyone, and I wanted to to tell them all that I was the snake in the grass, the monster in the lake. I wasn't worthy of this sacrifice; I was a liar, a cheat, a thief. And I would have told, except that a part of me was glad. Glad that this would all be over with soon. Baba would dismiss them, there would be some pain, but life would move on. I wanted that, to move on, to forget, to start with a clean slate. I wanted to be able to breathe again.

You’re not going to cry, are you? - I am not going to cry! Not over you. Not in a thousand years.

Nothing wrong with cowardice as long as it comes with prudence. But when a coward stops remembering who he is... God help him.