I wanted to tell them that, in Kabul, we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card. Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker. He'd carve notches on our stick with his knife, one notch for each loaf of naan he'd pull for us from the tandoor's roaring flames. At the end of the month, my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick. That was it. No questions. No ID.

I think he loved us equally, but differently.

Life is a train, get on board.

Behind every trial and sorrow that He makes us shoulder, God has a reason.

My own background is fairly liberal and so this notion of 'protecting women from outside intrusion' is not in my nature, nor in my upbringing.

But then it passed, as all things do.

All my life, she gave to me a shovel and said, Fill these holes inside of me, Pari.