perpetually grimfaced.It was an oddthingto seethe stone-faced Alihappy,orsad,because onlyhis slanted browneyes glinted with a smile or welled with sorrow.People saythat eyes arewindowstothe soul.Never wasthat more truethan withAli, who could only reveal himselfthroughhiseyes.IhaveheardthatSanaubar'ssuggestivestrideand oscillatinghipssentmentoreveriesofinfidelity.Butpoliohad leftAliwithatwisted,atrophiedrightlegthatwassallowskinoverbonewith little in between except a paper-thin layer of muscle.I remember one day, when I was eight,Ali wastakingmetothebazaartobuysome_naan_.Iwaswalking behindhim,humming,tryingto imitatehiswalk.Iwatchedhim swing his scraggyleg in a sweeping arc, watchedhis wholebodytiltimpossiblytotherighteverytimeheplantedthatfoot.Itseemedaminormiraclehedidn'ttip overwith each step.When Itried it, Ialmostfell into the gutter.That got me giggling.Ali turnedaround,caught me aping him.He didn't say anything.Not then,not ever.Hejustkeptwalking.Ali'sface and his walkfrightened someof the youngerchildren in the neighborhood. But therealtrouble was with the older kids.They chased him on the street,and mocked him when hehobbledby.Somehadtakentocallinghim_Babalu_orBoogeyman."Hey,Babalu,whodidyoueattoday?"theybarked toachorusoflaughter."Who did you eat,youflat-nosedBabalu?"They called him"flat-nosed"because of Ali and Hassan'scharacteristic Hazara Mongoloidfeatures.Foryears,thatwasall IknewabouttheHazaras,thattheywereMoguldescendants,andthat theylooked alittle like Chinesepeople.Schooltextbooksbarelymentioned themandreferredtotheirancestryonlyinpassing.Thenoneday,IwasinBaba'sstudy,lookingthroughhisstuff,whenIfoundoneofmymother'soldhistorybooks.ItwaswrittenbyanIraniannamedKhorami.Iblewthedustoffit,sneaked it intobedwithmethatnight,andwas stunnedtofindan entirechapteron Hazarahistory.Anentire chapterdedicated to Hassan'speople!In it,I readthat my people, the Pashtuns,had persecuted and oppressedthe Hazaras.It said the HazarashadtriedtoriseagainstthePashtunsinthenineteenthcentury,butthePashtunshad"quelledthemwith unspeakableviolence."Thebook said thatmypeoplehadkilled theHazaras,driventhemfromtheirlands,burnedtheirhomes,andsoldtheirwomen.ThebooksaidpartofthereasonPashtunshadoppressedtheHazaraswasthatPashtunswereSunniMuslims,whileHazaras were Shi'a. The book said a lot of thingsI didn't know,things myteachers hadn'tmentioned.Things Baba hadn'tmentioned either.It also said some things I did know, like thatpeople called Hazaras_mice-eating,flat-nosed,load-carryingdonkeys_.Ihad heard some of thekids in theneighborhoodyell thosenames toHassan
perpetually grimfaced. It was an odd thing to see the stone-faced Ali happy, or sad, because only his slanted brown eyes glinted with a smile or welled with sorrow. People say that eyes are windows to the soul. Never was that more true than with Ali, who could only reveal himself through his eyes. I have heard that Sanaubar’s suggestive stride and oscillating hips sent men to reveries of infidelity. But polio had left Ali with a twisted, atrophied right leg that was sallow skin over bone with little in between except a paper-thin layer of muscle. I remember one day, when I was eight, Ali was taking me to the bazaar to buy some _naan_. I was walking behind him, humming, trying to imitate his walk. I watched him swing his scraggy leg in a sweeping arc, watched his whole body tilt impossibly to the right every time he planted that foot. It seemed a minor miracle he didn’t tip over with each step. When I tried it, I almost fell into the gutter. That got me giggling. Ali turned around, caught me aping him. He didn’t say anything. Not then, not ever. He just kept walking. Ali’s face and his walk frightened some of the younger children in the neighborhood. But the real trouble was with the older kids. They chased him on the street, and mocked him when he hobbled by. Some had taken to calling him _Babalu_, or Boogeyman. “Hey, Babalu, who did you eat today?” they barked to a chorus of laughter. “Who did you eat, you flat-nosed Babalu?” They called him “flat-nosed” because of Ali and Hassan’s characteristic Hazara Mongoloid features. For years, that was all I knew about the Hazaras, that they were Mogul descendants, and that they looked a little like Chinese people. School text books barely mentioned them and referred to their ancestry only in passing. Then one day, I was in Baba’s study, looking through his stuff, when I found one of my mother’s old history books. It was written by an Iranian named Khorami. I blew the dust off it, sneaked it into bed with me that night, and was stunned to find an entire chapter on Hazara history. An entire chapter dedicated to Hassan’s people! In it, I read that my people, the Pashtuns, had persecuted and oppressed the Hazaras. It said the Hazaras had tried to rise against the Pashtuns in the nineteenth century, but the Pashtuns had “quelled them with unspeakable violence.” The book said that my people had killed the Hazaras, driven them from their lands, burned their homes, and sold their women. The book said part of the reason Pashtuns had oppressed the Hazaras was that Pashtuns were Sunni Muslims, while Hazaras were Shi’a. The book said a lot of things I didn’t know, things my teachers hadn’t mentioned. Things Baba hadn’t mentioned either. It also said some things I did know, like that people called Hazaras _mice-eating, flat-nosed, load-carrying donkeys_. I had heard some of the kids in the neighborhood yell those names to Hassan
Thefollowing week,after class,Ishowedthebookto myteacher and pointedto thechapter onthe Hazaras. He skimmed througha couple of pages, snickered, handed the book back."That'stheonethingShi'apeopledowell,hesaid,pickinguphispapers,"passingthemselvesasmartyrs."HewrinkledhisnosewhenhesaidthewordShi'a,likeit wassomekindofdisease.Butdespitesharingethnicheritageandfamilyblood,SanaubarjoinedtheneighborhoodkidsintauntingAli.Ihaveheardthatshemadenosecretof herdisdainforhisappearance"Thisisahusband?"shewouldsneer."Ihaveseenolddonkeysbettersuitedtobeahusband."Intheend,mostpeoplesuspectedthemarriagehadbeenanarrangementofsortsbetweenAliandhisuncle,Sanaubar'sfather.TheysaidAli had marriedhiscousintohelprestoresomehonortohisuncle'sblemishedname,eventhoughAli,whohadbeenorphanedattheageoffive,hadnoworldlypossessionsorinheritancetospeakof.Ali neverretaliatedagainst anyof his tormentors,Isupposepartlybecause he could never catchthem with thattwisted leg dragging behind him.But mostly because Ali was immuneto theinsults of his assailants;he hadfound his joy,his antidote,the moment Sanaubarhad given birthto Hassan.It had been a simple enough affair.Noobstetricians, no anesthesiologists,nofancymonitoringdevices.JustSanaubarlyingonastained,nakedmattresswithAliandamidwifehelping her. She hadn't needed much help at all, because, even in birth, Hassan was true to hisnature:He was incapable of hurting anyone.Afew grunts,a couple of pushes, and out came Hassan. OuthecamesmilingAs confidedtoaneighbor'sservantbythegarrulousmidwife,whohadthen inturntoldanyonewho would listen, Sanaubarhad taken one glance at the baby in Ali's arms, seen the cleft lip, andbarkedabitterlaughter."There,"she had said."Nowyou have yourown idiot child to do all yoursmiling for you!"Shehad refusedto even hold Hassan,and justfivedayslater, she was gone
The following week, after class, I showed the book to my teacher and pointed to the chapter on the Hazaras. He skimmed through a couple of pages, snickered, handed the book back. “That’s the one thing Shi’a people do well,” he said, picking up his papers, “passing themselves as martyrs.” He wrinkled his nose when he said the word Shi’a, like it was some kind of disease. But despite sharing ethnic heritage and family blood, Sanaubar joined the neighborhood kids in taunting Ali. I have heard that she made no secret of her disdain for his appearance. “This is a husband?” she would sneer. “I have seen old donkeys better suited to be a husband.” In the end, most people suspected the marriage had been an arrangement of sorts between Ali and his uncle, Sanaubar’s father. They said Ali had married his cousin to help restore some honor to his uncle’s blemished name, even though Ali, who had been orphaned at the age of five, had no worldly possessions or inheritance to speak of. Ali never retaliated against any of his tormentors, I suppose partly because he could never catch them with that twisted leg dragging behind him. But mostly because Ali was immune to the insults of his assailants; he had found his joy, his antidote, the moment Sanaubar had given birth to Hassan. It had been a simple enough affair. No obstetricians, no anesthesiologists, no fancy monitoring devices. Just Sanaubar lying on a stained, naked mattress with Ali and a midwife helping her. She hadn’t needed much help at all, because, even in birth, Hassan was true to his nature: He was incapable of hurting anyone. A few grunts, a couple of pushes, and out came Hassan. Out he came smiling. As confided to a neighbor’s servant by the garrulous midwife, who had then in turn told anyone who would listen, Sanaubar had taken one glance at the baby in Ali’s arms, seen the cleft lip, and barked a bitter laughter. “There,” she had said. “Now you have your own idiot child to do all your smiling for you!” She had refused to even hold Hassan, and just five days later, she was gone
BabahiredthesamenursingwomanwhohadfedmetonurseHassan.Alitoldusshewasablue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan,the city of the giant Buddhastatues."Whata sweet singingvoiceshehad,"heusedto sayto us.What did she sing, Hassan andl always asked, thoughwealready knew--Ali had told us countlesstimes.Wejustwantedto hearAli sing.He'd clear his throatand begin:OnahighmountainIstoodAndcriedthenameofAli, LionofGodO Ali, Lion of God, King of Men,Bringjoytooursorrowfulhearts._Thenhewouldremindusthattherewasabrotherhoodbetweenpeoplewhohadfedfromthesamebreast,akinshipthatnoteventimecould break.HassanandIfedfromthesamebreasts.Wetookourfirststepsonthesamelawninthesameyard.And,underthesameroof,wespokeourfirstwords.Minewas_Baba_.Hiswas_Amir_.MynameLookingbackonitnow,Ithinkthefoundationforwhathappenedinthewinterof1975--andallthat followed--was already laid in those first words.THREELore has it myfather once wrestled a black bear in Baluchistan with his barehands.If the storyhadbeenaboutanyoneelse,itwouldhavebeendismissedas_laafthatAfghantendencytoexaggerate--sadly,almosta nationalaffliction; if someonebragged that his son wasa doctor
Baba hired the same nursing woman who had fed me to nurse Hassan. Ali told us she was a blueeyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan, the city of the giant Buddha statues. “What a sweet singing voice she had,” he used to say to us. What did she sing, Hassan and I always asked, though we already knew-Ali had told us countless times. We just wanted to hear Ali sing. He’d clear his throat and begin: _On a high mountain I stood, And cried the name of Ali, Lion of God. O Ali, Lion of God, King of Men, Bring joy to our sorrowful hearts._ Then he would remind us that there was a brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time could break. Hassan and I fed from the same breasts. We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard. And, under the same roof, we spoke our first words. Mine was _Baba_. His was _Amir_. My name. Looking back on it now, I think the foundation for what happened in the winter of 1975-and all that followed-was already laid in those first words. THREE Lore has it my father once wrestled a black bear in Baluchistan with his bare hands. If the story had been about anyone else, it would have been dismissed as _laaf_, that Afghan tendency to exaggerate-sadly, almost a national affliction; if someone bragged that his son was a doctor
chances werethekid hadoncepasseda biologytest in high school. But no oneeverdoubtedtheveracity of any storyabout Baba.And if they did, well, Baba did have thosethree parallel scarscoursinga jagged path down his back.Ihaveimagined Baba'swrestling match countless times,evendreamedaboutit.Andinthosedreams,Icannevertell Babafromthebear.It was Rahim Khan whofirst referred tohimas what eventually became Baba's famousnickname,_Toophanagha_,or"Mr.Hurricane."It wasan apt enoughnickname.Myfather was aforce of nature,a toweringPashtun specimen with a thick beard,a wayward crop of curly brownhairasunrulyasthemanhimself,handsthat lookedcapableofuprootingawillowtree,andablack glarethat would"dropthedevil to his knees begging for mercy,"as Rahim Khan used tosay.At parties,when all six-foot-five ofhim thundered into the room,attention shifted to himlikesunflowersturningtothesunBaba was impossible toignore, even in his sleep.Iused tobury cotton wisps inmyears,pull theblanketovermyhead,andstillthesoundsofBaba'ssnoring--somuchlikeagrowlingtruckengine--penetratedthewalls.Andmy room was across the hallfromBaba's bedroom.Howmymotherevermanagedtosleepinthesameroomashimisamysterytome.It'sonthelonglistofthingsI wouldhaveaskedmymotherifIhadevermether.In thelate1960s,whenIwasfive or six,Baba decided tobuildan orphanage.I heardthe storythroughRahimKhan.HetoldmeBabahaddrawntheblueprintshimself despitethefactthathe'dhadnoarchitecturalexperienceatall.Skepticshadurgedhimtostophisfoolishnessandhireanarchitect.Of course,Babarefused,andeveryoneshooktheirheadsindismayat hisobstinateways.Then Babasucceededandeveryoneshooktheirheads inaweathistriumphantways.Babapaid forthe construction of thetwo-story orphanage,justoff the main strip of JadehMaywandsouthoftheKabulRiver,withhisownmoney.RahimKhantoldmeBabahadpersonallyfundedtheentire project,payingfor the engineers,electricians,plumbers,andlaborers, nottomention the city officials whose"mustachesneeded oiling."Ittookthreeyearstobuildtheorphanage.Iwaseightbythen.Irememberthedaybeforetheorphanageopened, Baba tookme to Ghargha Lake,a few miles north of Kabul.He asked me tofetchHassantoo,butIliedandtoldhimHassanhadtheruns.IwantedBabaalltomyself.Andbesides,onetimeatGharghaLake,HassanandIwereskimmingstonesandHassanmadehisstoneskipeighttimes.ThemostImanagedwasfive.Babawasthere,watching,andhepattedHassanontheback.Evenputhisarmaroundhisshoulder.We sat at a picnic table on the banks of the lake, just Baba and me, eating boiled eggs withkofta_sandwiches--meatballsandpickleswrappedin_naan_.Thewaterwasadeepblueandsunlight glittered on itslookingglass-clear surface.On Fridays,thelake was bustling with families
chances were the kid had once passed a biology test in high school. But no one ever doubted the veracity of any story about Baba. And if they did, well, Baba did have those three parallel scars coursing a jagged path down his back. I have imagined Baba’s wrestling match countless times, even dreamed about it. And in those dreams, I can never tell Baba from the bear. It was Rahim Khan who first referred to him as what eventually became Baba’s famous nickname, _Toophan agha_, or “Mr. Hurricane.” It was an apt enough nickname. My father was a force of nature, a towering Pashtun specimen with a thick beard, a wayward crop of curly brown hair as unruly as the man himself, hands that looked capable of uprooting a willow tree, and a black glare that would “drop the devil to his knees begging for mercy,” as Rahim Khan used to say. At parties, when all six-foot-five of him thundered into the room, attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun. Baba was impossible to ignore, even in his sleep. I used to bury cotton wisps in my ears, pull the blanket over my head, and still the sounds of Baba’s snoring-so much like a growling truck engine-penetrated the walls. And my room was across the hall from Baba’s bedroom. How my mother ever managed to sleep in the same room as him is a mystery to me. It’s on the long list of things I would have asked my mother if I had ever met her. In the late 1960s, when I was five or six, Baba decided to build an orphanage. I heard the story through Rahim Khan. He told me Baba had drawn the blueprints himself despite the fact that he’d had no architectural experience at all. Skeptics had urged him to stop his foolishness and hire an architect. Of course, Baba refused, and everyone shook their heads in dismay at his obstinate ways. Then Baba succeeded and everyone shook their heads in awe at his triumphant ways. Baba paid for the construction of the two-story orphanage, just off the main strip of Jadeh Maywand south of the Kabul River, with his own money. Rahim Khan told me Baba had personally funded the entire project, paying for the engineers, electricians, plumbers, and laborers, not to mention the city officials whose “mustaches needed oiling.” It took three years to build the orphanage. I was eight by then. I remember the day before the orphanage opened, Baba took me to Ghargha Lake, a few miles north of Kabul. He asked me to fetch Hassan too, but I lied and told him Hassan had the runs. I wanted Baba all to myself. And besides, one time at Ghargha Lake, Hassan and I were skimming stones and Hassan made his stone skip eight times. The most I managed was five. Baba was there, watching, and he patted Hassan on the back. Even put his arm around his shoulder. We sat at a picnic table on the banks of the lake, just Baba and me, eating boiled eggs with _kofta_ sandwiches-meatballs and pickles wrapped in _naan_. The water was a deep blue and sunlight glittered on its looking glass-clear surface. On Fridays, the lake was bustling with families
outfora day in thesun.But it was midweek and there was only Baba and me, usand a couple oflonghaired, bearded tourists--"hippies"I'd heard them called. They were sitting on the dock,feet dangling in the water,fishing poles in hand.Iasked Baba whytheygrew their hair long, butBaba grunted, didn't answer. He was preparing his speech for the next day, flipping through ahavocofhandwrittenpages,makingnoteshereandtherewithapencil.Ibitintomyeggandasked Baba if it was truewhata boyin school had toldme,that if youate a piece ofeggshell,you'dhavetopeeitout.Babagruntedagain.Itooka bite ofmy sandwich.One of the yellow-haired touristslaughed and slapped the otheroneontheback.Inthedistance,acrossthelake,atruck lumberedaroundacorneronthehillSunlighttwinkledin its side-viewmirror."IthinkIhave_saratan_"Isaid.Cancer.Babaliftedhisheadfromthepagesflappinginthebreeze.Told meIcouldget the sodamyself,all Ihadto dowas look inthetrunk of the carOutside theorphanage,the next day,they ran out of chairs.Alot ofpeople had tostandtowatch the opening ceremony.Itwas a windyday,andI sat behind Baba on the little podium justoutside the main entrance of the new building. Baba was wearing a green suit and a caracul hat.Midwaythroughthespeech,the windknockedhis hatoff and everyonelaughed.He motionedtometoholdhishatforhimandIwasgladto,becausetheneveryonewouldseethathewasmyfather,my Baba.He turned back to the microphoneand said he hopedthe building wassturdier than his hat,and everyone laughed again.When Baba ended his speech,peoplestoodup and cheered.Theyclappedfor a long time.Afterward,people shookhis hand.Some ofthemtousled myhair and shookmy handtoo.I was so proud of Baba, of us.Butdespite Baba's successes,people were alwaysdoubting him.They told Baba that runningabusinesswasn'tinhisbloodandheshouldstudylawlikehisfather.SoBabaprovedthemallwrongbynotonlyrunninghisownbusinessbutbecomingoneoftherichestmerchants inKabul.BabaandRahimKhanbuiltawildlysuccessfulcarpet-exportingbusiness,twopharmacies,andarestaurant.When people scoffed that Baba would nevermarry well--afterall, hewasnot of royal blood--heweddedmymother,Sofia Akrami,a highly educated womanuniversally regardedas oneofKabul'smostrespected,beautiful, andvirtuousladies.AndnotonlydidsheteachclassicFarsiliteratureattheuniversityshewasadescendantoftheroyalfamily,afactthatmyfatherplayfullyrubbedintheskeptics'facesbyreferringtoherasmyprincess
out for a day in the sun. But it was midweek and there was only Baba and me, us and a couple of longhaired, bearded tourists-“hippies,” I’d heard them called. They were sitting on the dock, feet dangling in the water, fishing poles in hand. I asked Baba why they grew their hair long, but Baba grunted, didn’t answer. He was preparing his speech for the next day, flipping through a havoc of handwritten pages, making notes here and there with a pencil. I bit into my egg and asked Baba if it was true what a boy in school had told me, that if you ate a piece of eggshell, you’d have to pee it out. Baba grunted again. I took a bite of my sandwich. One of the yellow-haired tourists laughed and slapped the other one on the back. In the distance, across the lake, a truck lumbered around a corner on the hill. Sunlight twinkled in its side-view mirror. “I think I have _saratan_,” I said. Cancer. Baba lifted his head from the pages flapping in the breeze. Told me I could get the soda myself, all I had to do was look in the trunk of the car. Outside the orphanage, the next day, they ran out of chairs. A lot of people had to stand to watch the opening ceremony. It was a windy day, and I sat behind Baba on the little podium just outside the main entrance of the new building. Baba was wearing a green suit and a caracul hat. Midway through the speech, the wind knocked his hat off and everyone laughed. He motioned to me to hold his hat for him and I was glad to, because then everyone would see that he was my father, my Baba. He turned back to the microphone and said he hoped the building was sturdier than his hat, and everyone laughed again. When Baba ended his speech, people stood up and cheered. They clapped for a long time. Afterward, people shook his hand. Some of them tousled my hair and shook my hand too. I was so proud of Baba, of us. But despite Baba’s successes, people were always doubting him. They told Baba that running a business wasn’t in his blood and he should study law like his father. So Baba proved them all wrong by not only running his own business but becoming one of the richest merchants in Kabul. Baba and Rahim Khan built a wildly successful carpet-exporting business, two pharmacies, and a restaurant. When people scoffed that Baba would never marry well-after all, he was not of royal blood-he wedded my mother, Sofia Akrami, a highly educated woman universally regarded as one of Kabul’s most respected, beautiful, and virtuous ladies. And not only did she teach classic Farsi literature at the university she was a descendant of the royal family, a fact that my father playfully rubbed in the skeptics’ faces by referring to her as “my princess