With me as theglaring exception, myfathermolded the worldaround him to his liking.Theproblem,of course, was that Baba sawthe world in black and white. Andhe gotto decide whatwas black andwhat was white.You can'tlove a person who lives thatwaywithoutfearing himtoo.Maybeevenhatinghima little.WhenIwasinfifthgrade,wehadamullahwhotaughtusaboutislam.HisnamewasMullahFatiullahKhan,ashort,stubbymanwithafacefullofacnescarsandagruffvoice.Helecturedusaboutthevirtues of_zakat_andthedutyof_hadjhetaughtus the intricacies of performingthefivedaily_namaz_prayers,andmadeusmemorizeversesfromtheKoran--andthoughhenevertranslatedthewordsforus,hedidstress,sometimeswiththehelpofastrippedwillowbranch,that we had to pronouncethe Arabic words correctly so God would hear us better. Hetoldus onedaythatIslamconsidered drinking aterriblesin;thosewhodrankwouldanswerfortheirsinonthedayof_QiyamatJudgmentDay.Inthosedays,drinkingwasfairlycommoninKabul. No onegaveyoua public lashingfor it, butthoseAfghanswhodid drink did so in private,outofrespect.Peopleboughttheirscotchas“medicine"inbrownpaperbagsfromselected"pharmacies."They would leave with the bag tucked out of sight,sometimes drawingfurtive,disapprovingglances fromthose whoknewaboutthe store'sreputationforsuch transactions.We were upstairs in Baba'sstudy,thesmoking room, whenItold him what Mullah Fatiullah Khanhad taughtus in class.Baba was pouringhimself a whiskeyfromthebar he had built in thecorner of the room. He listened, nodded,tooka sip from his drink.Then he lowered himself intotheleathersofa,putdownhisdrink,andproppedmeuponhislap.IfeltasifIweresittingonapairoftreetrunks.Hetookadeepbreathandexhaledthroughhisnose,theairhissingthroughhis mustachefor whatseemed an eternityIcouldn'tdecide whetherI wantedto hughimor leapfromhis lap inmortalfear."Iseeyou'veconfusedwhatyou'relearninginschoolwithactual education,"hesaidinhisthick voice."But if whathesaid is truethen does it make youa sinner,Baba?”"Hmm."Baba crushed an ice cube between histeeth."Do youwanttoknowwhatyourfatherthinksaboutsin?""Yes
With me as the glaring exception, my father molded the world around him to his liking. The problem, of course, was that Baba saw the world in black and white. And he got to decide what was black and what was white. You can’t love a person who lives that way without fearing him too. Maybe even hating him a little. When I was in fifth grade, we had a mullah who taught us about Islam. His name was Mullah Fatiullah Khan, a short, stubby man with a face full of acne scars and a gruff voice. He lectured us about the virtues of _zakat_ and the duty of _hadj_; he taught us the intricacies of performing the five daily _namaz_ prayers, and made us memorize verses from the Koran-and though he never translated the words for us, he did stress, sometimes with the help of a stripped willow branch, that we had to pronounce the Arabic words correctly so God would hear us better. He told us one day that Islam considered drinking a terrible sin; those who drank would answer for their sin on the day of _Qiyamat_, Judgment Day. In those days, drinking was fairly common in Kabul. No one gave you a public lashing for it, but those Afghans who did drink did so in private, out of respect. People bought their scotch as “medicine” in brown paper bags from selected “pharmacies.” They would leave with the bag tucked out of sight, sometimes drawing furtive, disapproving glances from those who knew about the store’s reputation for such transactions. We were upstairs in Baba’s study, the smoking room, when I told him what Mullah Fatiullah Khan had taught us in class. Baba was pouring himself a whiskey from the bar he had built in the corner of the room. He listened, nodded, took a sip from his drink. Then he lowered himself into the leather sofa, put down his drink, and propped me up on his lap. I felt as if I were sitting on a pair of tree trunks. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, the air hissing through his mustache for what seemed an eternity I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to hug him or leap from his lap in mortal fear. “I see you’ve confused what you’re learning in school with actual education,” he said in his thick voice. “But if what he said is true then does it make you a sinner, Baba?” “Hmm.” Baba crushed an ice cube between his teeth. “Do you want to know what your father thinks about sin?” “Yes
"Then I'll tell you,"Baba said,"but first understand this and understand it now,Amir: You'llneverlearnanythingofvaluefromthosebeardedidiots.""Youmean Mullah Fatiullah Khan?"Baba gestured with his glass.The ice clinked."Imean all of them.Piss on the beards of all thoseself-righteousmonkeys."Ibegan to giggle.The image of Baba pissing on the beard ofanymonkey,self-righteous orotherwise,wastoomuch."They do nothing but thumb their prayer beads and recite a book written in a tongue theydon't even understand." He took a sip."God help us all if Afghanistan everfalls into their hands.""But Mullah Fatiullah Khan seems nice," Imanaged between bursts of tittering."So did Genghis Khan,"Baba said."But enough about that. You asked about sin andI wanttotell you.Areyoulistening?""Yes,"Isaid,pressingmy lips together.Buta chortleescaped throughmynoseandmadeasnorting sound.That got me giggling again.Baba's stonyeyesbore intomineand, just like that, I wasn'tlaughinganymore."Imean tospeaktoyoumantoman.Doyouthinkyoucanhandlethatforonce?""Yes, Babajan,Imuttered,marveling,notforthe firsttime,at howbadly Baba could sting mewith so few words. We'd had a fleeting good moment--it wasn'toften Babatalked to me, letaloneonhislap--and I'dbeenafool towasteit."Good,"Baba said, but his eyes wondered."Now, no matter what the mullah teaches, there isonlyonesin,onlyone.Andthatistheft.Everyothersinisavariationoftheft.Doyouunderstandthat?
“Then I’ll tell you,” Baba said, “but first understand this and understand it now, Amir: You’ll never learn anything of value from those bearded idiots.” “You mean Mullah Fatiullah Khan?” Baba gestured with his glass. The ice clinked. “I mean all of them. Piss on the beards of all those self-righteous monkeys.” I began to giggle. The image of Baba pissing on the beard of any monkey, self-righteous or otherwise, was too much. “They do nothing but thumb their prayer beads and recite a book written in a tongue they don’t even understand.” He took a sip. “God help us all if Afghanistan ever falls into their hands.” “But Mullah Fatiullah Khan seems nice,” I managed between bursts of tittering. “So did Genghis Khan,” Baba said. “But enough about that. You asked about sin and I want to tell you. Are you listening?” “Yes,” I said, pressing my lips together. But a chortle escaped through my nose and made a snorting sound. That got me giggling again. Baba’s stony eyes bore into mine and, just like that, I wasn’t laughing anymore. “I mean to speak to you man to man. Do you think you can handle that for once?” “Yes, Baba jan,” I muttered, marveling, not for the first time, at how badly Baba could sting me with so few words. We’d had a fleeting good moment-it wasn’t often Baba talked to me, let alone on his lap-and I’d been a fool to waste it. “Good,” Baba said, but his eyes wondered. “Now, no matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. Do you understand that?
"No,Baba jan,"Isaid, desperately wishingIdid.Ididn't wantto disappointhim againBaba heaved a sighof impatience.That stungtoo,because he was not an impatientman.Iremembered allthe times he didn't come homeuntil after dark,all the times Iatedinner alone.I'daskAliwhereBabawas,whenhewascominghome,thoughIknewfull well hewasattheconstructionsite,overlookingthis,supervisingthat.Didn'tthattakepatience?Ialreadyhatedallthekidshewasbuildingtheorphanagefor;sometimesIwishedthey'dalldiedalongwiththeirparents."When you kill a man, you steal a life," Baba said. "You steal his wife's right to a husband, robhis children ofa father.When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth.When youcheat,youstealtherighttofairness.Doyousee?"I did. When Baba was six, a thief walked into my grandfather's housein the middle of the night.Mygrandfather,a respected judge, confronted him, but the thief stabbed him in the throat,killinghiminstantly--androbbingBabaofafather.Thetownspeoplecaughtthekiller justbeforenoon the next day;he turnedoutto be a wandererfromthe Kunduz region.They hanged himfromthebranchofan oak tree with stll twohours to gobefore afternoonprayer.Itwas RahimKhan,notBaba,whohadtoldmethatstory.IwasalwayslearningthingsaboutBabafromotherpeople."Thereis noact more wretched than stealing,Amir" Baba said."A man who takes what'snothistotake,beita lifeoraloafof_naan_...I spitonsuchaman.Andif Iever crosspathswithhim,Godhelphim.Doyouunderstand?"Ifoundtheideaof Babaclobberingathiefbothexhilaratingandterriblyfrightening."Yes,Baba.""Ifthere's a God outthere,then I would hope he hasmore important thingsto attendto thanmydrinking scotch oreating pork.Now,hopdown.All thistalk aboutsin has mademethirstyagain."Iwatchedhimfillhisglassatthebarandwonderedhowmuchtimewouldpassbeforewetalkedagainthe way wejusthad.Becausethe truthof it was,lalwaysfelt like Babahatedme a little.Andwhynot?After all,I_had_killed his belovedwife, hisbeautiful princess,hadn'ti?Theleast!
“No, Baba jan,” I said, desperately wishing I did. I didn’t want to disappoint him again. Baba heaved a sigh of impatience. That stung too, because he was not an impatient man. I remembered all the times he didn’t come home until after dark, all the times I ate dinner alone. I’d ask Ali where Baba was, when he was coming home, though I knew full well he was at the construction site, overlooking this, supervising that. Didn’t that take patience? I already hated all the kids he was building the orphanage for; sometimes I wished they’d all died along with their parents. “When you kill a man, you steal a life,” Baba said. “You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you see?” I did. When Baba was six, a thief walked into my grandfather’s house in the middle of the night. My grandfather, a respected judge, confronted him, but the thief stabbed him in the throat, killing him instantly-and robbing Baba of a father. The townspeople caught the killer just before noon the next day; he turned out to be a wanderer from the Kunduz region. They hanged him from the branch of an oak tree with still two hours to go before afternoon prayer. It was Rahim Khan, not Baba, who had told me that story. I was always learning things about Baba from other people. “There is no act more wretched than stealing, Amir,” Baba said. “A man who takes what’s not his to take, be it a life or a loaf of _naan_. I spit on such a man. And if I ever cross paths with him, God help him. Do you understand?” I found the idea of Baba clobbering a thief both exhilarating and terribly frightening. “Yes, Baba.” “If there’s a God out there, then I would hope he has more important things to attend to than my drinking scotch or eating pork. Now, hop down. All this talk about sin has made me thirsty again.” I watched him fill his glass at the bar and wondered how much time would pass before we talked again the way we just had. Because the truth of it was, I always felt like Baba hated me a little. And why not? After all, I _had_ killed his beloved wife, his beautiful princess, hadn’t I? The least I
could have donewasto havehadthedecency to haveturned outa littlemorelike him.Butlhadn'tturnedout likehim.Notatall.INSCHOOL,we used toplaya gamecalled_SherjangiL,or"Battleof the Poems."TheFarsiteacher moderated it and it wentsomething like this: You recited a verse froma poem and youropponent hadsixty secondstoreply with averse thatbegan withthesame letterthatendedyours.Everyonein myclass wantedmeontheirteam,becausebythetimeIwas eleven,Icouldrecitedozens ofversesfromKhayyam,H?fez,or Rumi'sfamous_Masnawi_.Onetime,Itook onthewholeclassandwon.Itold Babaabout itlaterthatnight,buthejustnodded,muttered,"Good."That was howIescaped myfather's aloofness, in mydead mother'sbooks.That and Hassan,ofcourse.I read everything, Rumi, H?fez, Saadi, Victor Hugo,Jules Verne, Mark Twain, lan Fleming.WhenIhadfinishedmymother'sbooks--nottheboringhistoryones,Iwasnevermuchintothose,butthenovels,theepics--lstartedspendingmyallowanceonbooks.IboughtoneaweekfromthebookstorenearCinemaPark,andstoredthemincardboardboxeswhenIranoutofshelfroom.Of course,marrying a poet was one thing,butfathering a son who preferred burying his face inpoetry books to hunting...well,that wasn'thow Baba had envisioned it, Isuppose. Real mendidn'tread poetry--and God forbid they should ever write it!Real men--realboys--played soccerjustas Babahadwhen he had beenyoung.Now_that_wassomethingtobe passionateabout.In197o,BabatookabreakfromtheconstructionoftheorphanageandflewtoTehranforamonthto watch the World Cupgames on television,sinceat the time Afghanistan didn'thaveTVs yet. He signed me upfor soccerteams to stir the same passion in me. But I was pathetic, ablundering liability tomyown team,always in the wayofanopportunepass orunwittinglyblocking an open lane.I shambled aboutthe field on scraggy legs, squalled for passes that nevercame my way.Andthe harderItried, waving myarms over my head frantically and screeching,"I'm open!I'mopen!"themoreIwentignored.But Babawouldn'tgiveup.When it becameabundantlyclear that I hadn'tinherited a shred ofhis athletic talents, he settled fortrying toturnme into a passionate spectator.CertainlyIcould manage that,couldn'ti?Ifaked interestforas long as possible.Icheered with him whenKabu'steam scored againstKandaharandyelpedinsultsattherefereewhenhecalledapenaltyagainstourteam.ButBabasensedmylackofgenuine interest and resigned himself to the bleak fact that his son was nevergoing to eitherplayorwatchsoccer.IrememberonetimeBabatookmetotheyearly_Buzkashi_tournamentthattookplaceon thefirst day of spring, New Year's Day.Buzkashiwas,and still is, Afghanistan'snational passion.A
could have done was to have had the decency to have turned out a little more like him. But I hadn’t turned out like him. Not at all. IN SCHOOL, we used to play a game called _Sherjangi_, or “Battle of the Poems.” The Farsi teacher moderated it and it went something like this: You recited a verse from a poem and your opponent had sixty seconds to reply with a verse that began with the same letter that ended yours. Everyone in my class wanted me on their team, because by the time I was eleven, I could recite dozens of verses from Khayyam, H?fez, or Rumi’s famous _Masnawi_. One time, I took on the whole class and won. I told Baba about it later that night, but he just nodded, muttered, “Good.” That was how I escaped my father’s aloofness, in my dead mother’s books. That and Hassan, of course. I read everything, Rumi, H?fez, Saadi, Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Ian Fleming. When I had finished my mother’s books-not the boring history ones, I was never much into those, but the novels, the epics-I started spending my allowance on books. I bought one a week from the bookstore near Cinema Park, and stored them in cardboard boxes when I ran out of shelf room. Of course, marrying a poet was one thing, but fathering a son who preferred burying his face in poetry books to hunting. well, that wasn’t how Baba had envisioned it, I suppose. Real men didn’t read poetry-and God forbid they should ever write it! Real men-real boys-played soccer just as Baba had when he had been young. Now _that_ was something to be passionate about. In 1970, Baba took a break from the construction of the orphanage and flew to Tehran for a month to watch the World Cup games on television, since at the time Afghanistan didn’t have TVs yet. He signed me up for soccer teams to stir the same passion in me. But I was pathetic, a blundering liability to my own team, always in the way of an opportune pass or unwittingly blocking an open lane. I shambled about the field on scraggy legs, squalled for passes that never came my way. And the harder I tried, waving my arms over my head frantically and screeching, “I’m open! I’m open!” the more I went ignored. But Baba wouldn’t give up. When it became abundantly clear that I hadn’t inherited a shred of his athletic talents, he settled for trying to turn me into a passionate spectator. Certainly I could manage that, couldn’t I? I faked interest for as long as possible. I cheered with him when Kabul’s team scored against Kandahar and yelped insults at the referee when he called a penalty against our team. But Baba sensed my lack of genuine interest and resigned himself to the bleak fact that his son was never going to either play or watch soccer. I remember one time Baba took me to the yearly _Buzkashi_ tournament that took place on the first day of spring, New Year’s Day. Buzkashi was, and still is, Afghanistan’s national passion. A
_chapandaz_a highlyskilledhorsemanusuallypatronizedbyrichaficionados,hastosnatchagoat orcattle carcass fromthemidst of a melee, carry that carcass with him aroundthestadiumatfull gallop,anddropit inascoringcirclewhileateamofother_chapandaz_chaseshimanddoes everything in its power--kick, claw, whip,punch--tosnatch the carcass from him. That day,thecrowdroaredwithexcitementasthehorsemenonthefieldbellowedtheirbattlecriesandjostledforthecarcass inacloudofdust.Theearthtrembledwiththeclatterofhooves.Wewatchedfromtheupperbleachers as riderspounded past us atfull gallop,yipping and yelling,foamflyingfromtheirhorses'mouths.At one point Baba pointed to someone."Amir, do you see that man sitting up there with thoseothermenaroundhim?"Idid."That's HenryKissinger.""Oh,I said.I didn't know who Henry Kissinger was, and I might haveasked. But at themoment,I watched with horror as oneofthe_chapandaz_fell offhis saddle and was trampledunder a score of hooves.His body was tossed and hurled in the stampedelike a rag doll, finallyrollingtoastopwhenthemeleemovedon.Hetwitchedonceandlaymotionless,hislegsbentatunnaturalangles,apoolofhisbloodsoakingthroughthesand.Ibegan to cry.I cried all the wayback home.I remember how Baba's hands clenched aroundthe steeringwheel.Clenchedandunclenched.Mostly,I will neverforgetBaba's valianteffortstoconcealthedisgustedlookonhisfaceashedroveinsilenceLaterthatnight,Iwaspassingbymyfather'sstudywhenIoverheardhimspeakingtoRahimKhan.Ipressedmyeartothecloseddoor."--gratefulthathe's healthy,"RahimKhanwassaying
_chapandaz_, a highly skilled horseman usually patronized by rich aficionados, has to snatch a goat or cattle carcass from the midst of a melee, carry that carcass with him around the stadium at full gallop, and drop it in a scoring circle while a team of other _chapandaz_ chases him and does everything in its power-kick, claw, whip, punch-to snatch the carcass from him. That day, the crowd roared with excitement as the horsemen on the field bellowed their battle cries and jostled for the carcass in a cloud of dust. The earth trembled with the clatter of hooves. We watched from the upper bleachers as riders pounded past us at full gallop, yipping and yelling, foam flying from their horses’ mouths. At one point Baba pointed to someone. “Amir, do you see that man sitting up there with those other men around him?” I did. “That’s Henry Kissinger.” “Oh,” I said. I didn’t know who Henry Kissinger was, and I might have asked. But at the moment, I watched with horror as one of the _chapandaz_ fell off his saddle and was trampled under a score of hooves. His body was tossed and hurled in the stampede like a rag doll, finally rolling to a stop when the melee moved on. He twitched once and lay motionless, his legs bent at unnatural angles, a pool of his blood soaking through the sand. I began to cry. I cried all the way back home. I remember how Baba’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. Clenched and unclenched. Mostly, I will never forget Baba’s valiant efforts to conceal the disgusted look on his face as he drove in silence. Later that night, I was passing by my father’s study when I overheard him speaking to Rahim Khan. I pressed my ear to the closed door. “-grateful that he’s healthy,” Rahim Khan was saying