Nobody remembers my name now. It’s a shame because I’ve always been particularly proud of my name; Marjan. It sounds majestic, it’s far too good a name for me, my mother didn’t choose it herself. It had a wonderful meaning; Alone, Beloved. So they say. Our language is fluid, it’s never still, it changes all the time. You can never tell what a word might mean from one day to the next. Tomorrow, Marjan might mean Hated, Must Die. Or Unnecessary. Our words are never left alone for long., besieged from all sides. But I was famous for a few days, a while ago. So much has happened in a short time.

My mother would have wanted a less ambitious name for me I think. She was timid, in a relative sense, she only killed for food. She would have called me Peace, or perhaps Joy, since she secretly always wanted a girl. Mostly the girls died, or were sent out to look after themselves, or sometimes, in the dark times, they were hurt and then eaten. We don’t talk about that time anymore, it’s banned. I don’t talk at all, except in my head, being as I’m alone now and probably for the rest of my life I expect. They won’t let me live with the others anymore, they say I’m dangerous. I think of it as a compliment, it’s the only way to survive. Me, with only one eye and half my face blown away? I’m a danger to myself sometimes, but they still call me the Lion of Kabul. I’ve heard them whispering at the gates when they think I can’t hear, I’ve heard them, I wish they’d come nearer but they won’t, they’re scared of me.

I don’t know how it all started. Well I do, in actual fact, if I’m honest, but it’s a story that doesn’t reflect well on me in the telling. You have to think about it afterwards.