The Places In Between
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Through these encounters-by turns touching, con-founding, surprising, and funny-Stewart makes tangible the forces of tradition, ideology, and allegiance that shape life in the map's countless places in between.
during the wars, limping heavily after it, entreating it to stop. "Such a good dog," he said when we had slammed the guest room door behind us. "Always tells me when someone is coming." Then, having never met us before and without any introduction, he sat us by his warm stove and fed us eight boiled eggs. His name was Agha Ghori (His Excellency man of Ghor). Everyone from Chist to Chaghcharan called him His Excellency so automatically that it had become part of his name. But it was not because
her enormous breasts, which lurched from side to side as they filled the frame. "Was there dancing here before?" I asked. "Not in Chist, but we used to have it in Herat and Kabul when the king was in power," replied the police chief. "There was less with Najib because of the war. The Mujahidin stopped it completely." "The Taliban?" "No. Ismail Khan and the Northern Alliance stopped it as well. It is forbidden in Islam." "Do you like dancing?" "Me?" said the police chief. "I like it very
people who succeeded in trampling down the snow, next succeeded in dragging on a horse without a rider ... The rest of the troops, even our best men and many that bore the title Beg, without dismounting, advanced along the road that had been beaten for them, hanging down their heads. This was no time for plaguing them or employing authority. Anyone with any spirit would have worked. Given that Babur emerged two days later at the pass to Yakawlang, he must have been near the village in which
eating bread all his life, he had neither the teeth nor the experience to handle a bone. The shards cut up his stomach and killed him. I had thought that line of smells by unmarked boulders, stretching to a snow-ridge horizon, with ice holes for drinking, would finish with good meat, oak trees, rabbits, and a warm house. But it ended with his death. I don't imagine Babur would have been very impressed to see me crying now, trying to bring back five weeks' walking alone together, with my hand on
armed men just to find a Hazara guide. [back] *** 48 He continues: A few Hazara lay in ambush in a cave near the valley. Sheikh Dervish, my foster-brother who had been in many an action with me, had gone up close to the mouth of the den, without suspecting anything, when a Hazara from within shot him with an arrow under the nipple, and he died the same day...[Later] I directed [some soldiers] to proceed and take the Hazara who had shot Sheikh Dervish. These wretches, whose blood had curdled