"Tell me, Hassan,"I said.Ismiled,thoughsuddenly the insecure writer inme wasn'tso sure hewantedtohearit."Well,"he said,"if Imayask, whydid the man kill his wife? In fact, whydid he ever haveto feelsadtoshedtears?Couldn'thehavejustsmelledanonion?"I was stunned.That particular point, so obvious it was utterly stupid, hadn'teven occurred tome.I moved my lips soundlessly.It appeared that on the same nightI had learned about oneofwriting'sobjectives,irony,Iwouldalsobeintroducedtooneofitspitfalls:thePlotHole.TaughtbyHassan,ofall people.Hassanwhocouldn'treadandhadneverwrittenasinglewordinhisentire life.A voice, cold and dark,suddenly whispered in my ear,_What does heknow,thatilliterateHazara?He'll neverbeanythingbutacook.Howdarehecriticizeyou?"Well"Ibegan,ButInever gottofinishthat sentenceBecausesuddenlyAfghanistanchangedforeverFIVESomethingroared likethunder.Theearth shook a little and weheardthe rat-a-tat-tat ofgunfire."Father!" Hassan cried. We sprung to ourfeet and raced out of the living room.WefoundAlihobblingfranticallyacrossthefoyer."Father!What'sthat sound?"Hassan yelped,his hands outstretchedtoward Ali.Ali wrappedhisarmsaroundus.Awhitelightflashed,litthesky in silver.Itflashedagainandwasfollowedbyarapidstaccatoofgunfire"They're hunting ducks,"Ali said in a hoarse voice."They huntducks at night, youknow.Don'tbeafraid."A siren went off in the distance. Somewhereglass shattered and someoneshouted.Iheardpeople on the street,joltedfrom sleep andprobablystill in theirpajamas,withruffled hair andpuffyeyes.Hassan was crying.Ali pulled himclose, clutched him with tenderness.Later,I wouldtell myselfI hadn'tfelt envious of Hassan. Not at all
“Tell me, Hassan,” I said. I smiled, though suddenly the insecure writer in me wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear it. “Well,” he said, “if I may ask, why did the man kill his wife? In fact, why did he ever have to feel sad to shed tears? Couldn’t he have just smelled an onion?” I wasstunned. That particular point, so obvious it was utterly stupid, hadn’t even occurred to me. I moved my lips soundlessly. It appeared that on the same night I had learned about one of writing’s objectives, irony, I would also be introduced to one of its pitfalls: the Plot Hole. Taught by Hassan, of all people. Hassan who couldn’t read and had never written a single word in his entire life. A voice, cold and dark, suddenly whispered in my ear, _What does he know, that illiterate Hazara? He’ll never be anything but a cook. How dare he criticize you?_ “Well,” I began. But I never got to finish that sentence. Because suddenly Afghanistan changed forever. FIVE Something roared like thunder. The earth shook a little and we heard the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of gunfire. “Father!” Hassan cried. We sprung to our feet and raced out of the living room. We found Ali hobbling frantically across the foyer. “Father! What’s that sound?” Hassan yelped, his hands outstretched toward Ali. Ali wrapped his arms around us. A white light flashed, lit the sky in silver. It flashed again and was followed by a rapid staccato of gunfire. “They’re hunting ducks,” Ali said in a hoarse voice. “They hunt ducks at night, you know. Don’t be afraid.” A siren went off in the distance. Somewhere glass shattered and someone shouted. I heard people on the street, jolted from sleep and probably still in their pajamas, with ruffled hair and puffy eyes. Hassan was crying. Ali pulled him close, clutched him with tenderness. Later, I would tell myself I hadn’t felt envious of Hassan. Not at all
Westayedhuddledthatwayuntiltheearlyhoursofthemorning.Theshootingsandexplosionshad lasted less than an hour, but they had frightened us badly,because none ofus had everheardgunshots inthestreets.Theywereforeignsoundstousthen.Thegeneration of Afghanchildren whoseears wouldknownothing butthe sounds of bombsand gunfirewasnotyet born.Huddledtogetherinthediningroomandwaitingforthesuntorise,noneofushadanynotionthata wayof life hadended.Our way of life.If notquiteyet,then at least it was the beginning ofthe end.The end, the_official_ end, would comefirstin April 1978 with thecommunistcoupd'état,andtheninDecember1979,whenRussiantankswouldroll intotheverysamestreetswhereHassanandIplayed,bringingthedeathoftheAfghanistanIknewandmarkingthestartof a still ongoing era of bloodletting.Justbefore sunrise, Baba's car peeled into the driveway.His doorslammed shutand his runningfootsteps poundedthe stairs.Then he appeared in thedoorwayandI saw something on hisface.SomethingI didn't recognize rightawaybecause I'd never seen it before:fear."Amir! Hassan!"he exclaimed as he ran to us,opening his arms wide.“They blocked all theroads and the telephone didn't work.I was so worried!"Welet him wrapus inhis arms and,forabrief insanemoment,I wasglad aboutwhatever hadhappenedthatnight.THEY WEREN'T SHOOTINGducks after all.As it turned out, theyhadn'tshot much of anythingthatnight ofJuly17,1973.Kabulawokethenextmorningtofindthat themonarchywasa thingofthepast.Theking,ZahirShah,wasawayinItaly.Inhisabsence,hiscousinDaoudKhanhadendedtheking'sforty-yearreignwithabloodless coup.IrememberHassanandIcrouchingthatnextmorningoutsidemyfather'sstudy,asBabaandRahimKhan sippedblack tea and listened tobreakingnewsof thecoup on Radio Kabul."Amiragha?"Hassanwhispered"What?""What'sa'republic'?
We stayed huddled that way until the early hours of the morning. The shootings and explosions had lasted less than an hour, but they had frightened us badly, because none of us had ever heard gunshots in the streets. They were foreign sounds to us then. The generation of Afghan children whose ears would know nothing but the sounds of bombs and gunfire was not yet born. Huddled together in the dining room and waiting for the sun to rise, none of us had any notion that a way of life had ended. Our way of life. If not quite yet, then at least it was the beginning of the end. The end, the _official_ end, would come first in April 1978 with the communist coup d’état, and then in December 1979, when Russian tanks would roll into the very same streets where Hassan and I played, bringing the death of the Afghanistan I knew and marking the start of a still ongoing era of bloodletting. Just before sunrise, Baba’s car peeled into the driveway. His door slammed shut and his running footsteps pounded the stairs. Then he appeared in the doorway and I saw something on his face. Something I didn’t recognize right away because I’d never seen it before: fear. “Amir! Hassan!” he exclaimed as he ran to us, opening his arms wide. “They blocked all the roads and the tele phone didn’t work. I was so worried!” We let him wrap us in his arms and, for a brief insane moment, I was glad about whatever had happened that night. THEY WEREN’T SHOOTING ducks after all. As it turned out, they hadn’t shot much of anything that night of July 17, 1973. Kabul awoke the next morning to find that the monarchy was a thing of the past. The king, Zahir Shah, was away in Italy. In his absence, his cousin Daoud Khan had ended the king’s forty-year reign with a bloodless coup. I remember Hassan and I crouching that next morning outside my father’s study, as Baba and Rahim Khan sipped black tea and listened to breaking news of the coup on Radio Kabul. “Amir agha?” Hassan whispered. “What?” “What’s a ‘republic’?
I shrugged."Idon'tknow."On Baba'sradio,they were sayingthat word,"republic,"overandoveragain."Amir agha?""What?""Does'republicmeanFatherandIwill havetomoveaway?""Idon'tthinkso,"Iwhisperedback.Hassan considered this."Amiragha?""What?""Idon'twantthemtosendmeandFatheraway."Ismiled."_Bas_youdonkey.Noone'ssendingyouaway.""Amir agha?""What?""Doyouwanttogoclimb ourtree?"Mysmilebroadened.ThatwasanotherthingaboutHassan.Healwaysknewwhentosaytherightthing--thenewson theradiowasgettingprettyboring.Hassanwenttohisshack togetreadyand I ran upstairstograb abook.ThenIwentto thekitchen,stuffedmypockets with
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” On Baba’s radio, they were saying that word, “republic,” over and over again. “Amir agha?” “What?” “Does ‘republic’ mean Father and I will have to move away?” “I don’t think so,” I whispered back. Hassan considered this. “Amir agha?” “What?” “I don’t want them to send me and Father away.” I smiled. “_Bas_, you donkey. No one’s sending you away.” “Amir agha?” “What?” “Do you want to go climb our tree?” My smile broadened. That was another thing about Hassan. He always knew when to say the right thing-the news on the radio was getting pretty boring. Hassan went to his shack to get ready and I ran upstairs to grab a book. Then I went to the kitchen, stuffed my pockets with
handfulsof pinenuts,and ran outsidetofind Hassanwaitingforme.Weburstthroughthefrontgatesandheadedforthehill.Wecrossed theresidential street and weretrekking througha barren patch of roughland thatledtothehill when,suddenly,arockstruckHassanintheback.Wewhirledaroundandmyheartdropped.Assefand two of his friends, Wali and Kamal, were approaching us.Assefwas the son of one ofmy father'sfriends, Mahmood, an airline pilot. Hisfamily lived a fewstreetssouthofourhome,inaposh,high-walledcompoundwithpalmtrees.IfyouwereakidlivingintheWazirAkbarKhansectionofKabul,youknewaboutAssefandhisfamousstainlesssteelbrassknuckles,hopefullynotthroughpersonalexperience.BorntoaGermanmotherandAfghanfather,theblond,blue-eyedAsseftoweredovertheotherkids.Hiswell-earnedreputation for savageryprecededhimon the streets.Flanked by his obeying friends,he walkedtheneighborhood likea Khan strolling throughhis land withhis eager-to-pleaseentourage.Hiswordwaslaw,andifyouneededalittlelegaleducation,thenthosebrassknuckleswerejusttheright teaching tool.Isaw him use thoseknuckles once on a kid from the Karteh-Chardistrict.1will neverforget how Assef's blue eyes glinted with a light not entirely sane and how he grinned,howhe_grinned_ashepummeledthatpoorkidunconscious.SomeoftheboysinWazirAkbarKhan had nicknamedhim Assef_Goshkhor_,or Assef"the Ear Eater."Ofcourse, noneof themdared utter it to his face unless they wishedto suffer the same fate as the poorkid whohadunwittingly inspired that nickname when he had fought Assefovera kite and ended upfishinghisright earfromamuddygutter.Yearslater,I learnedan EnglishwordforthecreaturethatAssefwas,awordforwhichagoodFarsiequivalentdoesnotexist:"sociopath."Of all theneighborhood boys whotorturedAli, Assef was byfarthemost relentless.He was,infact, theoriginatorofthe Babalu jeer,_Hey,Babalu,whodid youeat today?Huh?Come on,Babalu,giveus a smile!_Andon days when hefelt particularly inspired,he spiced up hisbadgering a little,_Hey,youflat-nosed Babalu,who did youeattoday?Tell us,youslant-eyeddonkey!_Nowhewas walkingtowardus,hands on his hips,hissneakerskickinguplittlepuffsof dust."Goodmorning,_kunis_!"Assefexclaimed,waving."Fag,"thatwasanotherofhis favoriteinsults. Hassan retreated behind me as the three older boys closed in.They stood before us,threetall boysdressed in jeans andT-shirts.Toweringoverus all, Assefcrossed histhick arms on
handfuls of pine nuts, and ran outside to find Hassan waiting for me. We burst through the front gates and headed for the hill. We crossed the residential street and were trekking through a barren patch of rough land that led to the hill when, suddenly, a rock struck Hassan in the back. We whirled around and my heart dropped. Assef and two of his friends, Wali and Kamal, were approaching us. Assef was the son of one of my father’s friends, Mahmood, an airline pilot. His family lived a few streets south of our home, in a posh, high-walled compound with palm trees. If you were a kid living in the Wazir Akbar Khan section of Kabul, you knew about Assef and his famous stainlesssteel brass knuckles, hopefully not through personal experience. Born to a German mother and Afghan father, the blond, blue-eyed Assef towered over the other kids. His well-earned reputation for savagery preceded him on the streets. Flanked by his obeying friends, he walked the neighborhood like a Khan strolling through his land with his eager-to-please entourage. His word was law, and if you needed a little legal education, then those brass knuckles were just the right teaching tool. I saw him use those knuckles once on a kid from the Karteh-Char district. I will never forget how Assef’s blue eyes glinted with a light not entirely sane and how he grinned, how he _grinned_, as he pummeled that poor kid unconscious. Some of the boys in Wazir Akbar Khan had nicknamed him Assef _Goshkhor_, or Assef “the Ear Eater.” Of course, none of them dared utter it to his face unless they wished to suffer the same fate as the poor kid who had unwittingly inspired that nickname when he had fought Assef over a kite and ended up fishing his right ear from a muddy gutter. Years later, I learned an English word for the creature that Assef was, a word for which a good Farsi equivalent does not exist: “sociopath.” Of all the neighborhood boys who tortured Ali, Assef was by far the most relentless. He was, in fact, the originator of the Babalu jeer, _Hey, Babalu, who did you eat today? Huh? Come on, Babalu, give us a smile!_ And on days when he felt particularly inspired, he spiced up his badgering a little, _Hey, you flat-nosed Babalu, who did you eat today? Tell us, you slant-eyed donkey!_ Now he was walking toward us, hands on his hips, his sneakers kicking up little puffs of dust. “Good morning, _kunis_!” Assef exclaimed, waving. “Fag,” that was another of his favorite insults. Hassan retreated behind me as the three older boys closed in. They stood before us, three tall boys dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Towering over us all, Assef crossed his thick arms on
his chest, a savage sortof grin on his lips.Not forthefirst time, it occurred to me that Assefmight notbe entirelysane.It also occurred tome howlucky I wasto have Baba as myfather,thesolereason,Ibelieve,AssefhadmostlyrefrainedfromharassingmetoomuchHe tipped his chin to Hassan."Hey,Flat-Nose,"he said.“"How is Babalu?"Hassansaidnothingandcreptanotherstepbehindme."Have youheard the news,boys?"Assefsaid, his grin neverfaltering."Theking is gone.Goodriddance.Long live the president!Myfatherknows DaoudKhan,didyouknowthat,Amir?""SodoesmyfatherIsaid.Inreality,Ihadnoideaifthatwastrueornot."So does my father, Assef mimicked me in a whining voice. Kamal and Wali cackled in unison.1wished Babawerethere."Well,DaoudKhandinedatourhouselastyear"Assefwenton."Howdoyoulikethat,Amir?"I wondered if anyonewould hear us scream in this remotepatch of land.Baba's housewas agoodkilometeraway.Iwishedwe'd stayedat the house."Do youknow whatI will tell Daoud Khan the nexttime he comesto our housefor dinner?"Assef said."I'm going to havea little chatwith him,man to man,_mard_to_mard_.Tell himwhatItoldmymother.AboutHitler.Now,therewasaleader.Agreatleader.Amanwithvision.I'lltellDaoudKhantorememberthatiftheyhadletHitlerfinishwhathehadstarted,theworld bea better placenow""Baba says Hitler was crazy,that he ordered a lot of innocent people killed,"I heard myself saybeforeIcouldclampahandonmymouth
his chest, a savage sort of grin on his lips. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that Assef might not be entirely sane. It also occurred to me how lucky I was to have Baba as my father, the sole reason, I believe, Assef had mostly refrained from harassing me too much. He tipped his chin to Hassan. “Hey, Flat-Nose,” he said. “How is Babalu?” Hassan said nothing and crept another step behind me. “Have you heard the news, boys?” Assef said, his grin never faltering. “The king is gone. Good riddance. Long live the president! My father knows Daoud Khan, did you know that, Amir?” “So does my father,” I said. In reality, I had no idea if that was true or not. “So does my father,” Assef mimicked me in a whining voice. Kamal and Wali cackled in unison. I wished Baba were there. “Well, Daoud Khan dined at our house last year,” Assef went on. “How do you like that, Amir?” I wondered if anyone would hear us scream in this remote patch of land. Baba’s house was a good kilometer away. I wished we’d stayed at the house. “Do you know what I will tell Daoud Khan the next time he comes to our house for dinner?” Assef said. “I’m going to have a little chat with him, man to man, _mard_ to _mard_. Tell him what I told my mother. About Hitler. Now, there was a leader. A great leader. A man with vision. I’ll tell Daoud Khan to remember that if they had let Hitler finish what he had started, the world be a better place now” “Baba says Hitler was crazy, that he ordered a lot of innocent people killed,” I heard myself say before I could clamp a hand on my mouth