“What do they say?” I asked, wishing I could open the window for some air. Antonia paused before turning around. The day before I’d said a few simple phrases. Good morning. No thank you. She did not press for more, which I appreciated.

“There’s too much static. More noise than talking,” Antonia said, shaking her head. She’d come home for lunch and, presumably, to check on me. “And most of it can’t be trusted anyway. All is quiet today, it seems.”

She stood and began to pack her bag to return to the embassy. Once she left, I hopped over to the radio and turned it back on. Tilly looked like she might stop me, but then slid onto the sofa instead to observe. I adjusted the dial until the announcer’s voice came through clearly.

His tone was solemn, authoritative. The People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan, as the official ruling party, would continue to work on behalf of the people to improve infrastructure, resist imperialism, and bring prosperity to all Afghans. Qualified individuals had been appointed to key ministry positions. The party was unified and strong and fully supported by the people of Kabul. The nation’s future never looked as bright as it did in this moment. I could neither stomach listening to it nor bring myself to turn it off.

The sound reminded me of home and the way my father always had his ear to the ground. He knew most of the announcers personally and would sometimes call them if he thought they hadn’t covered all sides of an issue. These were rarely short conversations. My father had taught me to recognize and see through propaganda, to be suspicious of every statement that did not allow room for debate or question.

Your Khala Meena is a good example of propaganda. She swears no woman or man in Kabul has ever cooked a better fried eggplant or sautéed squash. And when she says her cooking puts that of your other aunts to shame, what do I always tell her?

I need to taste it to believe it, I had said. Truly, Khala Meena had not a flicker of humility in the kitchen. She would look pointedly at her guests as they ate, collecting praise as if it were a dinner tax.

Let people serve you information, he had said mischievously, but never let them serve you your opinion.

I listened to the radio for another hour but heard no mention of the coup or those who had been killed. The empty talk made my head ache and must have put me to sleep because I woke to hear Antonia’s sharp whispering in the next room.

“The news, Mom? I said this morning it wasn’t good for her to listen to it.”

“I’m not a jailer, Nia. I believe in freedom of speech,” Tilly said defensively.

“This isn’t about freedom of speech,” Antonia replied.