By the time one of the guards approaches me and asks what business I have at the ministry, I’ve decided.

Moments later, I find myself sitting across the desk from a man with a thick mustache and thicker eyebrows. His spartan office has barely enough space for the two of us. A television set to a news show plays in the corner with the sound off.

Once upon a time, I was a little girl who wrote about the importance of recording history. I ask that little girl to send me some of her courage.

“I am the daughter of Sulaiman Zamani,” I begin in Dari. “He had a position in this ministry until he and the rest of my family were killed in Arg along with President Daoud Khan.”

The man listens, elbows on his desk. He considers me for a long moment before he speaks, and his face shows no hint of surprise. I wonder if many people have sat in this very chair claiming vital links to the past.

“I see. And you have been abroad for some time,” he observes. He looks past me briefly and then continues. “Sister, what was it that you said to the guards outside?”

“I explained to them that I know about the mission to recover the bodies of those who were murdered,” I say, my spine straight. “This is a personal matter for me, obviously. I would like to know what progress has been made.”

“You would like for me to report our progress to you?” he says, with just the slightest hint of mockery.

His eyes drift up, past the top of my head. My skin prickles, and before I even turn around I know the doorway, the only way out of this room, is blocked. I turn my head and see three men standing behind me—two in uniform, and one in tunic and pantaloons.

“Boss,” someone shouts from across the hall, “the Americans are on the phone again!”

“Sister, you tell an interesting tale,” the mustached man says before looking to the men behind for affirmation. “Doesn’t she, gentlemen?”

He leans back in his chair, his right elbow on the armrest.

“You are not the first to return from the comforts of faraway lands, now that the dust has cleared. Perhaps you’ve heard that the foreigners will pay $10,000 per month to rent your family home. Or maybe you have your eyes on a seat in this Parliament? Or an official appointment by the president? Our sisters and brothers return daily, holding up their skirts so their hems do not drag in our dusty roads, clogging our courts with documents older than the mountains. And oh, how they all sing of their love for this homeland!”

I am instantly aware of the men behind me.