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.

As far as I know, he never asked where she had been or why she had left and she never told. I guess some stories do not need telling.

Yes, hope is a strange thing. Peace at last. But at what price?

Afghan women, as a group, I think their suffering has been equaled by very few other groups in recent world history.

I didn't remember what month that was, or what year even. I only knew the memory lived in me, a perfectly encapsulated morsel of a good past, a brushstroke of color on the gray, barren canvas that our lives had become.

Writing for me is largely about rewriting.

Whether you do something or decide to do nothing, either way, you are making a moral choice. And I hope people make the right one.