What Changes Everything. Masha Hamilton

      Destiny is a saddled ass, my daughters; he goes where you lead him. But you must know the rules to discern the path. First, give full trust to no one. The smiling horseman with whom you bow for dawn prayers may seek to kill you by nightfall. Work in cooperation, of course— what dust would rise from one rider alone? But do not let your lashes slip lazily to your cheeks while the sun remains in the sky. Whatever Allah wills shall be. Nevertheless, tie your steed's knees tight before sleeping.

      It is dawn just after prayers; Kabul's golden light creeps in through my window, a timid but relentless thief here to steal the night, and I am imagining you three with me instead of in Delhi, us all cross-legged on toshaks, looking directly into each other's faces. My mind has become so practiced in seeing you where you are not, in fact, that I can almost hear you teasing me now— horsemen? Steeds? You would tell me, if you could, that these are male metaphors, and male concerns.

      But you've been raised liberated girls; your dealings will be with both genders. Besides, though perhaps it is less likely, a woman too may pat your back with a blade in her palm.

       I have barely slept the night thinking of you girls and your mother. As reports reach me of

       the fundamentalists clawing daily closer to Kabul, the courage that buffered me as

       Afghanistan's president bolsters me still. I believe these extremists, being fellow Pashtuns,

       will at last send me into exile, which means I will rejoin my family.

      Nevertheless, as it is hard to predict where a worn fighter's bullet will land, there is urgency to my task. For over four years and four months, I have been unable to share a meal with you, hear in person of your plans or tell of mine. We have not played a single game of Ping-Pong nor watched a movie together. When I think of it, as I do often, my eyes feel rubbed with salt, my throat thickened with mud, my chest pummeled by an angry fist. I put these lessons in writing to be sure you will have them in case you need them before we are reunited.

      So, then, the rules. When you must trust someone, rely on a stranger more easily than on a friend; yes, because a friend knows your soft spots. But remember, family is the marrow of your bones. Who is here with me still? My two UN "guards" and a young Pashtun, Amin, who waits on me. But my daily companion, the one with whom I share my deepest thoughts, is my brother Shahpur, your kaakaa jan. Together we follow politics and watch television and talk of you. Shahpur celebrated— but that's not the right word without you— he marked my forty- ninth birthday last month, a hard day to be apart from my beloved wife and girls. He holds me upright in your absence. You sisters, too, will lift each other when the need appears.

      Take care of your mother-flower until I return to you. I became her tutor all those years ago driven by the hope that she would fall in love with me over formulas and test questions. They can arrest or exile me— I will always be a lucky man because of her. She gave me you three, and a home of laughter even in dark times, and the strong foundation that has allowed me to do my work.

      And this rule: love your country. Victim of many men's fury, corrupted by fanatics who believe our landlocked status means we sit in the cup of their hands, it still remains proud. "I come to you and my heart finds rest," Ahmed Shah Baba wrote of our motherland. "Away

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