THE NAMES OF THE DEAD

Kabul, 1965-69

Ashif was shuttling books between the library and his dorm when Tahir stopped him and asked him if he had heard about Shakarullah. He had not heard about Shakarullah since the three of them had been at school together. Had he heard about yesterday's protest? Yes, he had heard about that. He had heard it from his room.

“He’s dead,”Tahir said.

“I see,” Ashif said.“Let me get these back to my room first. Then we can talk.”

Later, in the teahouse, Ashif found Tahir sat facing a wall.

“How have you been, brother?” Tahir asked.

“Busy,” Ashif said. “Very… busy. With finals.”

They fell quiet while tea was served.

“I-I don’t know all the details,” Tahir said, once they were alone, “I don’t really know much at all. I wasn’t there, you see, I was back here at the university, folding fliers.”

“Fliers?”

“Yes, to help the workers understand that our cause is theirs. Well, they tried to reach the prime minister’s residence. He’d shut us out of parliament so we went for him directly. That’s when they sent the army in – soldiers, Ashif, fighting their own people. That’s when they shot him. Two students as well. But he wasn’t even a part of it. He was just a bystander.”

“I…” Ashif hesitated, “…don’t understand such things.”

Tahir leaned forward. “You were friends, weren’t you?”

“We were…”

“Then you’ll come to the rally tomorrow? In Zarnegar Park?”

“Tomorrow,” Ashif repeated.“Zarnegar Park.”

Ashif woke before sunrise and moved from his bed to his desk. The rally was at one. He opened the book on top of the pile and worked through