Fall of Najibullah
For over a decade, the Soviet-backed government of President Najibullah had held power in Kabul, surviving the withdrawal of Soviet troops in 1989 through a combination of military force and shifting alliances. But by the spring of 1992, the noose was tightening. The Mujahideen factions, united in their opposition to the communist regime, had been closing in on the capital. Najibullah tried to reach a settlement with them, but the Mujahideen balked. From her bed, Fariba, who had lost her sons Ahmad and Noor to the jihad, said, "Good for them." She kept her vigils for the Mujahideen and waited for her parade. She waited for her sons' enemies to fall.
The Surrender and the Aftermath
In April 1992, the year Laila turned fourteen, Najibullah surrendered at last. He was given sanctuary in the UN compound near Darulaman Palace, south of the city. The jihad was over. The various communist regimes that had held power since the night Laila was born were all defeated. Fariba's heroes, Ahmad's and Noor's brothers-in-war, had won. After more than a decade of sacrificing everything, of leaving behind their families to live in mountains and fight for Afghanistan's sovereignty, the Mujahideen were coming to Kabul, in flesh, blood, and battle-weary bone. Fariba knew all of their names: Dostum, the flamboyant Uzbek commander; Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, the intense, surly Pashtun leader of the Hezb-e-Islami faction; Rabbani, the Tajik leader of the Jamiat-e-Islami faction; Sayyaf, a stout Muslim and leader of the Ittehad-i-Islami faction; Abdul Ali Mazari, leader of the Hizb-e-Wahdat faction; and, of course, Fariba's hero, the brooding, charismatic Tajik commander Ahmad Shah Massoud, the Lion of Panjshir. For Fariba, this was the day she had longed for. This brought to fruition all those years of waiting. At last, she could end her vigils, and her sons could rest in peace.
Fariba's Transformation and the Party
The day after Najibullah surrendered, Fariba rose from bed a new woman. For the first time in the five years since Ahmad and Noor had become shaheed, she didn't wear black. She put on a cobalt blue linen dress with white polka dots. She washed the windows, swept the floor, aired the house, took a long bath. Her voice was shrill with merriment. She declared a party was in order and sent Laila to invite neighbors, telling them they were having a big lunch the next day. In the kitchen, Fariba stood looking around, hands on her hips, and said, with friendly reproach, "What have you done to my kitchen, Laila? Wboy. Everything is in a different place." She began moving pots and pans around, theatrically, as though she were laying claim to them anew, restaking her territory. With unsettling energy, she set about cooking: aush soup with kidney beans and dried dill, kofia, steaming hot mantu drenched with fresh yogurt and topped with mint. The men sat on rickety folding chairs in the yard, drinking tea and smoking and talking in loud bantering voices about the Mujahideen's plan. From Babi, Laila learned the outline of it: Afghanistan was now called the Islamic State of Afghanistan. An Islamic Jihad Council, formed in Peshawar by several of the Mujahideen factions, would oversee things for two months, led by Sibghatullah Mojadidi. This would be followed by a leadership council led by Rabbani, who would take over for four months. During those six months, a loya jirga would be held, a grand council of leaders and elders, who would form an interim government to hold power for two years, leading up to democratic elections.
The Unraveling
But the unity was fragile and short-lived. The leadership council was formed prematurely. It elected Rabbani president. The other factions cried nepotism. Massoud called for peace and patience. Hekmatyar, who had been excluded, was incensed. The Hazaras, with their long history of being oppressed and neglected, seethed. Insults were hurled. Fingers pointed. Accusations flew. Meetings were angrily called off and doors slammed. The city held its breath. In the mountains, loaded magazines snapped into Kalashnikovs. The Mujahideen, armed to the teeth but now lacking a common enemy, had found the enemy in each other. Kabul's day of reckoning had come at last. And when the rockets began to rain down on Kabul, people ran for cover. Fariba did too, literally. She changed into black again, went to her room, shut the curtains, and pulled the blanket over her head. The brief, euphoric victory had given way to a devastating civil war that would tear the city apart.
