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“Crow
knows the language of the crow”
Afghan proverb
 Unbiased
and open-minded readers only, please!
Actually,
the real novel writer is articulator of the dark corners, unspoken, and
untouched aspects of the horizontal and vertical socio-cultural domains of a
society that can not be found in an official cultural, social, geographical,
or political books. The real novel writer is pointing the most important and
crucial problem or question of the time in a society. If a novel becomes a
tool for blotting, insulting, devaluating of the real values and measures of
a nation, or a specific ethnic group, gaining some other financial and
political interests and benefits, could be very dangerous, discriminatory,
insane, seditious and/or inflammable.
Socio-cultural and ethical values and measures of a society, honestly kept
during the evolution and development of the story, could be developed
progressively during the span of the story. If a novel or story were lacking
these characters, it would not be a real one. Events, developments and
evolutions in a non-real novel or story theoretically are possible, but in
practice are not applicable.
One of the
important elements that have its special place in a novel is the imagination
on the bases of the actual geographic, social, cultural, economical,
psychological, and social psychology realities. If these imaginations are
not laid on these bases, they cannot find their place amongst society.
Ethnic
supremacy and priorities, shows selfishness, shortsightedness,
narrow-mindedness, and dogmatism only, while in every society there are many
ethnic groups. Recognition of persons, in a specific ethnic group or a
nation has its own importance and beauty in a dialectical relationship with
other ethnic groups or nations in a wide range of human beings and is
possible through an academic practical and strategic methodology. If there
is an experimental mistake, it is a great lesson, if it is intentional, how
unforgivable and irreparable it would be.
Being
literate only, is not sufficient to claim of being a real novel writer or
poet or artist. The novel is the most complex and developed genre of
literature that needs the precise, correct and complete knowledge of
history, philosophy, history of religion, culture, politics, economics,
socio-psychology and etc. Hereinafter, the real novel writer is an impartial
depositor, honest, responsible undertaker of the highest values and measures
of humanity and pointing the main problem and paradox of the society and
time. The real novel writer is trying and searching to articulate and shows
the ways of resolving the paradoxes with an academic/dynamic system of
research.
Hereinafter, the measuring and
criticizing of a novel needs the specific way of consumption and a thorough
capacity of that knowledge. If a person or institutions are lacking of this
capacity and capability, measuring or criticizing a novel irresponsibly, can
not tell you more then:
"A beautiful novel... ranks among the
best-written and provocative stories of the year so far. . . a heartbreaking
story of [an] unlikely friendship. . . This unusually eloquent story is also
about the fragile relationship between fathers and sons, humans and their
gods, men and their countries. Loyalty and blood are the ties that bind
their stories into one of the most lyrical, moving and unexpected books this
year."
-The Denver Post
"A marvelous first novel. . . the story of
two young boys who are friends in Afghanistan, and an incredible story of
the culture. It's an old-fashioned kind of novel that really sweeps you
away." -San Francisco Chronicle
"It is so powerful that for a
long time everything I read seemed bland." -Isabel Allende
"Brilliant, startling plot twists make this
book memorable both as a political chronicle and a deeply personal tale
about how childhood choices affect our adult lives. The character studies
alone would make this a noteworthy debut, from the portrait of the
sensitive, insecure Amir to the multilayered development of his father,
Baba, whose sacrifices and scandalous behavior are fully revealed only when
Amir returns to Afghanistan and learns the history and its ramifications in
both America and the Middle East. . . The result is a complete work of
literature that succeeds in exploring the culture of a previously obscure
nation that has become a pivotal point in the global politics of a new
millennium. It is rare that a book is at once so timely and of such high
literary quality."
-"Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
"A more personal plot, arising from Amir's
close friendship with Hassan, the son of his father's servant, turns out to
be the thread that ties the book together. The fragility of this
relationship, symbolized by the kites the boys fly together, is tested as
they watch their old way of life disappear. Hosseini's depiction of
pre-revolutionary Afghanistan is rich in warmth and humor but also tense
with the friction between the nation's different ethnic grouRs. . . . Full
of haunting images: a man, desperate to feed his children, trying to sell
his artificial leg in the market; an adulterous couple stoned to death in a
stadium during the halftime of a football match; a rouged young boy forced
into prostitution, dancing the sort of steps once performed by an organ
grinder's monkey."
-The New York Times
"It is not so much a story of Mideast
politics. . . as it is a story of life in a beautiful country torn asunder.
Through his characters and the plot, which is captivating and at times
quite disturbing, Hosseini offers a lesson on his culture and the history
of his beloved homeland."
-San Antonio Express-News
"The frame of the story is the rhythm of
life. This novel, set in Afghanistan in the 1970s and later in America, is a
work of universal interest because of the literary genius of Khaled
Hosseini. The culmination of the novel, too brutal and beautiful to reveal,
demonstrates the author's capacity to bring life full circle in a great arc
of grace and redeeming activity. A profound work of literature with a rare
healing power."
-The Buffalo News
"Khaled Hosseini brings his native country
to life with great sensitivity. [He] richly describes the Afghan customs and
traditions that tug on the immigrants as they mourn the loss of their
country and struggle to build an American life. In The Kite Runner
Hosseini has created a wise, thoughtful book in which redemption and
happiness are not necessarily the same thing."
-Houston
Chronicle
"This extraordinary novel locates the
personal struggles of everyday people in the terrible sweep of history."
-People
"Evocative. . . acute and genuine... One of
the great strengths of The Kite Runner is its sympathetic portrayal
of Afghans and Afghan culture. Hosseini writes with warmth and enviable
familiarity about Afghanistan and its people. . . a descriptive and easily
readable account." -Chicago Tribune
"A powerful book. . . no frills, no
nonsense, just hard spare prose. . . An intimate account of family and
friendship, betrayal and salvation that requires no atlas or translation to
engage and enlighten us. Parts of The Kite Runner are raw and
excruciating to read, yet the book in its entirety is lovingly written.
Hosseini clearly loves his country as much as he hates what has become of it
. . .
A tale told in simple brush strokes, closer
to Kawabata's Thousand Cranes than Mahfouz's Trilogy. Hosseini
is at his best describing moments of slow, silent agony."
-The Washington
Post Book World
"Demonstrates a love of storytelling and
respect for literary writing in equal measures. . . a big-hearted book with
plenty of winning qualities. One of the most appealing aspects of this novel
is its deceptively simple prose. Like Waiting, Ha Jin's novel of
love, politics and class issues, The Kite Runner blesses readers with
guileless storytelling."
-The Cleveland Plain Dealer
"A gripping and moving book that offers a
surprising reward: an understanding of, and empathy for, the people of
Afghanistan. . . The book's power resides in Hosseini's ability to bring
that culture to life on the page. . . almost impossible to put down."
-Iowa
City Press
"A vivid picture of Afghanistan thirty years
ago."
-The Wall Street Journal
"Hosseini shows how an engaging novel
begins-with simple, exquisite writing that compels the reader to turn the
page." -The Philadelphia Inquirer
"Provides an extraordinary perspective on
the struggles of a country that, until that doleful September day, had been
for too long ignored or misunderstood. And despite its grimmer episodes, the
novel ends with a note of optimism about Afghanistan's future, an optimism
that the whole world would prefer to see unspoiled. -BookPage
"Hosseini does tenderness and terror,
California dream, and Kabul nightmare with equal aplomb. . . . A ripping
yarn and ethical parable."
-Globe and Mail
"From the first lines of The Kite Runner,
Khaled Hosseini shows how an engaging novel begins-with simple,
exquisite writing that compels the reader to turn the page. . . . A
wonderfully conjured story that offers a glimpse into Afghanistan most
Americans have never seen, and depicts a side of the humanity rarely
revealed." -Contra Costa Times
"Here's a real find: a striking debut from
an Afghan now living in the U.S. His passionate story of betrayal and
redemption is framed by Afghanistan's tragic recent past. . . . Rather than
settle for a coming-of-age or travails-of-immigrant story, Hosseini has
folded them both into this searing spectacle of hardwon personal salvation.
All this, and a rich slice of Afghan culture too: irresistible."
-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
"Provides a vivid glimpse of life in
Afghanistan over the past quarter century. The characters of Amir and his
father, their relationships, and the relationship of Hassan and Amir are all
carefully and convincingly described and developed. Hosseini, now a doctor
in California, is possibly the only Afghan author writing in English, and
his first novel is recommended."
-Library Journal
If somebody asks crucial and
essential questions, simply, they cannot answer or make some general
comments. According to a master of literature, “They are like empty carrier
bags. If you shake them, only small particles will be floating randomly in
the air”.
I hope, as a very ordinary
reader of the book, to have the permission to see the scenes, events, and
courses of evolutions and developments of the story from the middle of
society upward to the top of the pyramids of institutions.
I would be more than grateful to
receive your constructive criticism and suggestions in this matter,
regardless of what it is.
Sincerely yours and begging your
pardons,
Safar A. Hanif,
Safar_h2000@yahoo.com
“The Kite
Runner” Narrated:
Birth of Amir’s father is
concurrent to the year of King Zaher’s accession to the throne. (King Nader
is father of King Zaher, he assassinated due to political motives by a
freedom fighter, Abdul Khaliq, a Hazara student, during a football players’
visit in the Estiqlal High school playground. Amir’s grandfather is a judge
at this time. This judge has a close relationship with King Nader. They took
a picture during dear hunting together a couple of years ago of
assassination. By narrator) The judge (he is from Pashtoon ethnic group,
Sayed and Sunni, the largest religious group in Afghanistan) has completed
the case of a traffic accident resulting in
the death of a Hazara couple, hit by a drunk driver in Paghman Way.
Only Ali, a five-year old son, survived from this accident. The judge took
Ali home and raised him in his house, as a servant. Ali is a Hazara (ethnic
group from central highlands of Afghanistan) and Shi-a (second
largest sect of Islam after Sunni in Afghanistan).
Amir’s father, Agha Saheb, is a
merchant. He married with Sophia Akrami, a literature professor. Amir’s
mother is dying during Amir’s birth in 1963. Ali
has married with his cousin, Sanaubar who is also Hazara and Shi-a and
escapes after five days of giving birth to Hassan and joined a traveling
dancers and singers clan. Hassan was born harelipped. Amir’s father
sponsored Hassan’s medical operation several years later and Hassan was
cured and could talk perfectly.
Amir attended
school in a proper time and got complete support, education and
accommodations. Hassan and Ali were busy serving Amir’s family. Hassan could
not get the opportunity to go to school, like his father (Ali) who has been
raised by Amir’s grandfather since his childhood, and did not get an
education. Ali and Hassan had one sort of relationship with their masters,
but Amir and his father had a different one to their servants.
During the
changing and challenging childhood of Amir and Hassan, Hassan performed
sacrifices and showed his friendship faithfulness towards Amir. Even Hassan
has been sexually offended by Amir’s rival Asif. Amir didn’t do anything and
did not defend Hassan. Because of this behavior, Amir is feeling ashamed. On
the top of this, he is trying to make a conspiracy to expel Ali and Hassan
from their house. Amir hided out his money and his watch under Hassan’s
cushion that he received during his birthday party. Amir complains to his
father about losing the money and his watch. Later they found them under
Hassan’s cushion. Hassan did not defend himself from this charge. Ali and
Hassan are compelled to shift to Hazarajat, Bamian.
Agha Saheb and
Amir Agha due to social chaos and surrounding turmoil and after changing of
several servants, they were also compelled to leave the country to Pakistan
and after that into California, the USA. Amir and his father are accepting
very harsh jobs during their early years of settlement. Amir’s father has
died of cancer and Amir is marrying with an Afghan military general’s
daughter. After several years they could not have a child.
Rahim Khan, friend
and business partner of Amir’s father is calling from Pakistan to come
there. He is sick. Amir is traveling there and after a warm welcome and
reception, he is cracking the secret that Hassan is his brother. But Hassan
has been killed by Taliban in his house in Kabul. Hassan’s son, Sohrab, is
kept by Amir’s rival, Asif in Kabul.
Amir is going to
Kabul and finds Sohrab. Asif kept Sohrab as an entertainment monkey for
dancing, in a cage. Amir is rescuing Sohrab by fighting with Asif, his
enemy, now he is a figure in Taliban government, inside his office in Kabul.
During the fight, Amir is getting serious injuries and several ribs have
been broken. Sohrab is attacking by his slingshot on Asif and blinds one of
his eyes. Finally Amir and Sohrab are making their way to escape from
Taliban office outside and then going to Peshawar, Pakistan. In Peshawar,
Taliban still are trying to find them in a hospital. Amir and Sohrab are
traveling to Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. During getting treatment
and medication, Amir is getting
the US Visa for Sohrab. Amir’s friends and his wife helped him. Finally they
are getting to California. Sohrab can not get along with other children
easily and Amir and his wife are trying to adjust him in this new
environment.
The End
After reading of this novel,
some main and general questions may arise, which are:
·
The writer of the novel is
considering Ali’s religious beliefs,
Shi-a, as Ali’s natural characteristics. Ali remained from his parents while
he is just five years old. He was raised
in a Sunni and Pashtoon family. How he could be a Shi-a by his religion?
·
The judge is working in the
(past) government and he is a close friend of the assassinated king.
Shouldn’t this judgment be affected
by this relationship? Why or why not?
·
By which authority and
constitution, the judge is keeping Ali in his custody as a servant/slave?
·
Why has
Ali not been handed over to his next of
kin?
·
Ali’s uncle, where did he come
from that he then arranged marriage of his daughter with Ali?
·
If Ali is castrated, why is he
marrying?
·
Whether the writer with such a
family, ethnic and religion relationships, did not write or achieved in such
a course of enmity and social suppress and injustice in favor of the tyrant
kings in Afghanistan?
·
Actually this novel has some
roots in real life of Afghan multi-cultural society with a sick perception.
·
Can the writer get an approval or admiration from a real novel writer?
·
Can the writer translate his book in Afghanistan and get the same
recommendations and admirations? Never think so.
Further more there could be tens
of questions about this novel. Now, with excuse, coy and begging your
pardon, here are some excerpts from the text of the novel for the judgment
of impartial readers to evaluate writer’s honesty, psychology, stances,
chastity and style of ethic measures according to Afghan society and
diasporas around the world.
Page 6 and 7;
It was in that small shack that Hassan’s
mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in
1964.
While his
mother hemorrhaged to death during childbirth, Hassan lost his less than a
week after he was born. Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse
than death. She ran off with a clan of traveling singers and dancer.
One day, we were walking from my father's
house to Cinema Zainab for a new Iranian movie, taking the shortcut through
the military barracks near Istiqlal Middle School-Baba
had
forbidden us to take that shortcut, but he
was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at
the time. We hopped the fence that surrounded the barracks, skipped over a
little creek, and broke into the open dirt field where old, abandoned
tanks collected dust. A group of soldiers huddled in the shade of
one of those tanks, smoking cigarettes and playing cards. One of them saw
us, elbowed the guy next to him, and called Hassan.
"Hey, you!" he said. "I know you."
We had never seen him before. He was a
squatty man with a shaved head and black stubble on his face. The way he
grinned at us, leered, scared me. "Just keep walking," I muttered to Hassan.
“You! The Hazara! Look at me when I'm
talking to you!" the soldier
barked He handed his cigarette to the guy next to him, made a circle
with the thumb and index finger of one hand. Poked the middle
finger of his other hand through the circle. Poked it in and
out. In and out. "I knew your mother, did you know that? I knew her
real good. I took her from behind by that creek over there.”
The soldiers laughed. One of them made a
squealing sound. I told Hassan to keep walking, keep walking.
"What a tight little sugary cunt she had!"
(This is not a good style of
writing in Afghanistan, especially those books which are published for all
genders and ages. Can the writer live prosperously amongst the multi-ethnic
society of Kabul with this kind of writing? This style of writing never been
used publicly in Afghanistan. narrator)
the soldier was saying, shaking hands with
the others, grinning. Later, in the dark, after the movie had started, I
heard Hassan next to me, croaking. Tears were sliding down his cheeks. I
reached across my seat, slung my arm around him, pulled him close. He rested
his head on my shoulder. "He took you for someone else," I
whispered. "He took you for someone else."
(If somebody tells Amir that you
are right, completely right, the soldier had taken Hassan for someone else.
Because, according to the writer’s depiction, a Hazara woman with flat nose,
narrow eyes, round face like Chinese doll, with no make-ups and good
dressing, can not attract or invoke sexual desire of a man. The soldier
ought to tell Amir, not Hassan! Can you feel comfort? Actually what is the
urgency or importance of depicting a stage like this in a novel generally
published for entire public including children, youth girls and boys, women
and men, adults and elders? The writer doesn’t know that touching on these
sensitive, tumult, and seditious points are not in benefit of any body on
the bases of differences of ethnic, religion, linguistics, regional at this
time. Fanning these kinds of differences only are pouring water to the mill
of the enemies of Afghanistan integrity, progress, development, and peaceful
co-existence of all ethnics and tribes residing in motherland. Afghanistan,
in the last quarter of century, has paid great price of almost two millions
sacrifices and millions of disabled and refugees around the world from all
ethnic groups including Pashtoons, Tajiks, Hazaras, Uzbeks, Turkmans,
Pasha-ees, Hindos and etc., and destruction of all infrastructures. They all
firmly and bravely stood and resisted against the super power invader,
internal and external regional enemies of integrity, peace, progress,
justice and independence. There are instances of disintegrations of
countries into parts during this period around the world. Afghanistan issue
is one the most complex and sophisticated global economic-political paradox
of the modern time. In spite of all these complexity, she remained intact
due to the richness and historic culture of that territory. Whether
depicting such a fascistic, seditious, schism, contemptible, enthusiastic
irritations of a nation are not unfair and oppressive?!
All Afghans know this that
military service for ordinary citizens were two
years. When Amir and Hassan wanted to go to see a movie alone, how old
should they be at that time? At least ten
years, right? How that soldier served at least eleven years in that
particular military unit and knew Hassan which he is the son of that woman
(Sanaubar) that he sexually offended, next
to that creek? According to the novel,
Sanaubar has fled home after five days of Hassan’s birth and joined
the traveling singers and dancers (Jatts or Kochies) clan. Whether,
medically, is she able to those kinds of activities? Bringing these kinds of
events is the writer’s particular Realism or Romantism?? The writer is
claiming that his novel is not the kind of novels that one can see in Indian
films. Justly, the writer is right; this is not like Indian films that could
be evaluated according to the values and measures of a school of literature.
Mr. Writer! Have you seen Anchor, Sadgathi, Lagaan, Khamoshi, Yogporosh,
Wajood, Kohram and Gholam-e Mostafa of Nana Patekar? All Indian movies are
not defendable though.
Those who studied in a school in
Kabul know that there was no Istiqlal middle school in Kabul or in whole
Afghanistan. There was Istiqlal high school near Arg (Presidential palace)
in Kabul. If writer means Istiqlal high school and not Istiqlal middle
school, this high school shifted in a military barrack in Shirpoor during
building construction of the school. But the military barrack has been
relocated to other place around Kabul. Military personnel know that there
were no tanks and barrack at that time at all. Whether this is also the
writer’s special Realism/Romantism?
In page 9;
"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 textbooks 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 Pashtoons, had persecuted and oppressed the Hazaras. It said
the Hazaras had tried to rise against the Pashtoons in the nineteenth
century, but the Pashtoons 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 Pashtoons had oppressed the Hazaras was that Pashtoons 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.
Excellency the writer, how
knowledgeable is you about Afghanistan Hazaras now? What kind of academic
researches did you performed and how did you articulate this dark spot of
the human tragedy in the history of Afghanistan? Can you refer us to your
articulated articles? You just repeated those atrocities once again to make
permanent to the memories of those which don’t know about these injustices
and oppressions and history of Afghanistan.
Page 9 and 10;
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.
And later we read;
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.
Don’t know whether the writer
himself was witnessed those events in his one year age or some body reported
to him? Maybe this is a new kind of Romantism? The translation of very
famous song in Afghanistan is just incorrect.
On a high mountain
I stood,
And crie'd the name of Ali,
Lion of God.
O Ali, Lion of
God, King of Men,
Bring joy to our sorrowful
hearts.
Page 13;
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.
The writer is not familiar to
Kabul map and geography, Qargha Lake, not Ghargha Lake, is located in the
west part of Kabul not north of Kabul. Maybe there is Ghargha Lake
undiscovered in Kabul so far. Great discovery! I suggest that lake to be
named after the inventor of the lake, Khalid Lake!
Page 63;
The biggest prize of all was still flying. I
sliced a bright yellow kite with a coiled white tail.
Kite runners know that the kind
of kites which are fighters in Kabul, don’t have coiled tails! Do you know
in what season and which direction the wind blow in Kabul?
Page 67;
Finally, I had my kite in hand. I wrapped
the loose string that had collected at my feet around the spool, shook a few
more hands, and trotted home. When I reached the wrought-iron gates, Ali was
waiting on the other side. He stuck his hand through the bars.
"Congratulations," he said.
1 gave him my kite and spool, shook his
hand. "Tashakor, Ali jan."
"I was praying for you the whole time."
"Then keep praying. We're not done yet."
I hurried back to the street. I didn't ask
Ali about Baba. 1 didn't want to see him yet. In my head, I had it all
planned: I'd make a grand entrance, a hero, prized trophy in my bloodied
hands.
Heads would turn and eyes would lock. Rostam
and Sohrab sizing,
each other up. A dramatic moment of silence.
Then the old warrior would walk to the young one, embrace him, acknowledge
his Worthiness. Vindication. Salvation. Redemption. And then? Well...
happily ever after, of course. What else?
What a wrong and un-appropriated
analogy and misusing of rich mythology? Greatness, Firmness,
Confidentiality, Clearness, Faithfulness, Honesty, Respectfulness,
Sacrifice, Bravery, Magnanimity, Humanity and … depicted from Rostam and
Sohrab in Shah-Nama don’t have least rational and relation with Amir and his
father. Adopting those characteristics and attaching to them is just unfair
and irrelevant. Where were Rostam and Sohrab and where are Amir and his
father?
Page 68
Four streets south of ours, I saw Omar, the
son of an engineer who was a friend of Baba's. He was dribbling a soccer
ball with his brother on the front lawn of their house. Omar was a pretty
good guy. We'd been classmates in fourth grade, and one time he'd given me a
fountain pen, the kind you had to load with a cartridge. "I heard you won,
Amir," he said. "Congratulations."
"Thanks. Have you seen Hassan?"
"Your Hazara?"
I nodded.
Omar headed the ball to his brother. "I hear
he's a great kite runner." His brother headed the ball back to him. Omar
caught it, tossed it up and down. "Although I've always wondered
how he manages. I mean, with those tight little eyes,
how does he see anything?"
His brother laughed, a short
burst, and asked for the baIl.
Omar ignored
him.
"Have you seen him?"
Omar flicked a thumb over
his shoulder, pointing southwest.
"I saw him running toward
the bazaar awhile ago."
"Thanks." I scuttled away.
By the time I reached the marketplace, the
sun had almost sunk behind the hills and-dusk had painted the sky pink and
purple. A few blocks away, from the Haji Yaghoub Mosque, the mullah
bellowed azan, calling for the faithful to unroll their rugs and bow
their heads west in prayer. Hassan never missed any of the
five
daily prayers. Even when we were out
playing, he'd excuse himself, draw water from the well in the yard, wash up,
and disappear into the hut. He'd come out a few minutes later, smiling,
find me sitting against the wall or perched on a tree. He was going to miss
prayer tonight, though, because of me.
The bazaar was emptying quickly, the
merchants finishing up their haggling for the day. I trotted in the mud
between rows of closely packed cubicles where you could buy a freshly
slaughtered pheasant in one stand and a calculator from the adjacent one. I
picked my way through the dwindling crowd, the lame beggars dressed in
layers of tattered rags, the vendors with rugs on their shoulders, the cloth
merchants and butchers closing shop for the day. I found no sign of Hassan.
I stopped by a dried fruit stand, described
Hassan to an old merchant loading his mule with crates of pine seeds
and raisins. He wore a powder blue turban.
He paused to look at me for
a long time before answering.
"I might have seen him."
"Which way did he go?"
He eyed me up and down. "What is a boy like
you doing here at this time of the day looking for a Hazara?"
In the brotherly, friendly,
cordial relationship of all ethnic groups and tribes residing in Afghanistan
at that time, depicting such an improper relationship on the bases of such
discriminatory manner is just unfair and incorrect. At that time, all people
were living very peacefully. Even during the darkest time of Taliban, we
have real examples of salvages that one could enjoy and energize for life.
And later we read;
"I need to find him, Agha."
"What is he to you?" he said. I didn't see
the point of his question, but I reminded myself that impatience wasn't
going to make him tell me any faster.
"He's our servant's son," I said.
The old man raised a pepper gray eyebrow.
"He is? Lucky Hazara, having such a concerned master.
His father should get on his knees, sweep the dust at your feet with
his eyelashes."
"Are you going to tell me or not?"
He rested an arm on the mule's back, pointed
south. "I think I saw the boy you described running that way.
He had a kite in his hand. A blue one."
"He did?" I said. For you a thousand
times over, he'd promised. Good old Hassan. Good old reliable
Hassan. He'd kept his promise and run the last kite for me.
"Of course, they've probably caught him by
now," the old merchant said, grunting and loading another box on the mule's
back.
"Who?"
"The other boys," he said. "The ones chasing
him. They were dressed like you." He glanced to the sky and
sighed. "Now, run along, you're making me late for namaz."
But I was already scrambling
down the lane.
For the next few minutes, I scoured the
bazaar in vain. Maybe the old merchant's eyes had betrayed him. Except he'd
seen the blue kite. The thought of getting my hands on that kite. . .
I poked my head behind every lane, every shop. No sign of Hassan.
I had begun to worry that darkness
would fall before I found Hassan
when I heard voices from up ahead. I'd reached a secluded, muddy road. It
ran perpendicular to the end of the main thoroughfare bisecting the bazaar.
I turned onto the rutted track and followed the voices. My boot squished in
mud with every step and my breath puffed out in white clouds before me. The
narrow path ran parallel on one side to a snow-filled ravine through which a
stream may have tumbled in the spring. To my other side stood rows of
snow-burdened cypress trees peppered among flat-topped clay houses-no more
than mud shacks in most cases-separated by narrow alleys.
I heard the voices again, louder this time,
coming from one of the alleys. I crept close to the mouth of the alley. Held
my breath. Peeked around the corner.
Hassan was standing at the blind end of the
alley in a defiant stance: fists curled, legs slightly apart. Behind him,
sitting on piles of scrap and rubble, was the blue kite. My key to
Baba's heart.
Blocking Hassan's way out of the alley were
three boys, the same three from that day on the hill, the day after Daoud
Khan's coup, when Hassan had saved us
with his slingshot. Wali was standing on one side, Kamal on the other, and
in the middle, Assef. I felt my body clench up, and something cold
rippled up my spine. Assef seemed relaxed, confident. He was
twirling his brass knuckles. The other two guys shifted nervously on their
feet, looking from Assef to Hassan, like they'd cornered some kind of wild
animal that only Assef could tame.
"Where is your slingshot, Hazara?"
Assef said, turning the brass knuckles in his hand. "What was it you said?
'They'll have to call you One-Eyed Assef.' That's right.
One-Eyed Assef. That was clever. Really clever. Then again,
it's easy to be clever when you're holding a loaded weapon." I
realized I still hadn't breathed out. I exhaled, slowly, quietly. I felt
paralyzed. I watched them close in on the boy I'd grown up with, the boy
whose harelipped face had been my first memory.
"But today is your lucky day, Hazara,"
Assef said. He had his back to me, but I would have bet he was
grinning. "I'm in a mood to forgive. What do you say to that, boys?"
"That's generous," Kamal
blurted, "Especially after the rude
manners he showed us last time." He was
trying to sound like Assef, except there was a tremor in his voice. Then I
understood: He wasn't afraid of Hassan, not really.
He was afraid because he had no idea what Assef had in mind.
Assef waved a dismissive hand.
"Bakhshida. Forgiven. It's done." His voice dropped a little. "Of
course, nothing is free in this world, and my pardon comes with a small
price."
"That's fair," Kamal said.
"Nothing is free," Wali added.
"You're a lucky Hazara," Assef said, taking
a step toward Hassan. "Because today, it's only going to cost you
that blue kite. A fair deal, boys, isn't it?"
"More than fair," Kamal said.
Even from where I was standing, I
could see the fear creeping into Hassan's eyes, but he shook his
head. "Amir agha won the tournament and I ran this kite for him. I ran it
fairly. This is his kite."
"A loyal Hazara. Loyal
as a dog," Assef said.
Kamal's laugh was a shrill, nervous sound.
"But before you sacrifice
yourself for him, think about this:
Would he do the same for you? Have you ever
wondered why he never includes you in games when he has guests? Why he only
plays with you when no one else is around? I'll tell you why, Hazara.
Because to him, you're nothing but an ugly pet. Something he can
play with when he's bored, something he can kick when he's angry. Don't ever
fool yourself and think you're something more."
"Amir agha and I are friends,"
Hassan said. He looked flushed. "Friends?" Assef said, laughing. "You
pathetic fool! Someday you'll wake up from your little fantasy and
learn just how good of a friend he is. Now, bas! Enough of this. Give
us that kite."
Hassan stooped and picked up a rock.
Assef flinched. He began to take a step
back, stopped. "Last chance, Hazara."
Hassan's answer was to cock the arm that
held the rock.
"Whatever you wish." Assef unbuttoned his
winter coat, took it off, folded it slowly and deliberately. He placed it
against the wall. I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost.
The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But
I didn't. I just watched. Paralyzed. Assef motioned with his hand, and the
other two boys separated, forming a half circle, trapping Hassan in the
alley.
"I've changed my mind," Assef said. "I'm
letting you keep the
kite, Hazara. I'll let you keep it so it
will always remind you of what I'm about to do."
Then he charged. Hassan hurled the rock. It
struck Assef in
the forehead. Assef yelped as he flung
himself at Hassan, knock
ing him to the ground. Wali and Kamal
followed.
I bit on my fist. Shut my eyes.
A havoc of scrap and rubble littered the
alley. Worn bicycle tires, bottles with peeled labels, ripped up magazines,
yellowed newspapers, all scattered amid a pile of bricks and slabs of
cement. A rusted cast-iron stove with a gaping hole on its side tilted
against a wall. But there were two things amid the garbage
that I couldn't stop looking at: One was the blue kite resting
against the wall, close to the cast-iron stove; the other was
Hassan's brown corduroy pants thrown on a heap of eroded bricks.
"I don't know,"
Wali was saying. "My father says it's sinful" He sounded unsure, excited,
scared, all at the same time. Hassan lay with his chest pinned to the
ground. Kamal and Wali each gripped an arm, twisted and bent at the elbow so
that Hassan's hands were pressed to his back. Assef was standing over them,
the heel of his snow boots crushing the back of Hassan's neck.
"Your father won't find
out," Assef said. "And there's nothing sinful about teaching a lesson
to a disrespectful donkey."
"I don't know," Wali
muttered.
"Suit yourself," Assef said.
He turned to Kamal. "What about you?"
"I... well..."
"It's just a Hazara,"
Assef said. But Kamal kept looking away. "Fine," Assef snapped. "All I want
you weaklings to do is hold him down. Can you manage that?"
Wali and Kamal nodded. They looked
relieved. Assef knelt behind Hassan, put his hands on Hassan's hips
and lifted his bare buttocks. He kept one hand on Hassan's back and undid
his own belt buckle with his free hand. He unzipped his jeans. Dropped his
underwear. He positioned himself behind Bassan. Hassan didn't struggle.
Didn't even whimper. He moved his head slightly and I caught a glimpse of
his face. Saw the resignation in it. It was a look I had seen before.
It was the look of the lamb.
This scene has been repeated
several times in this book. It seems that he had the opportunity to read
Hassan’s situation from his face and the other time he can see Asif’s
buttock and its muscles’ movement and his voice undulation and stimulation.
Actually, all of his efforts concentrated for depicting such an unreal
sexual offense is to get financial benefit and shows blind prejudice and
intolerance according to his doxological and tribal supremacy. This would
result only to more hate, repulsion, grievance, insulting and despising
between Pashtoon and Hazara ethnic groups.
I stopped watching, turned away from the
alley. Something warm was running down my
wrist. I blinked, saw I was still biting down on my fist,
hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles. I
realized something else. I was weeping. From just around the corner, I
could hear Assef's quick, rhythmic grunts.
I had one last chance to make a decision.
One final opportunity to decide who I was going to be. I could step into
that alley, stand up for Hassan-the way he'd stood up for me all those times
in the past-and accept whatever would happen to me. Or I could run.
In the end, I ran.
I ran because I was a
coward. I was afraid of Assef and what
he would do to me. I was afraid of getting
hurt. That's what I told myself as I turned my back to the alley, to Hassan.
That's what I made myself believe. I actually aspired to cowardice,
because the alternative, the real reason I was running, was that Assef
was right: Nothing was free in this world. Maybe Hassan was
the price I had to pay, the lamb I had to slay, to win Baba. Was it
a fair price? The answer floated to my conscious mind before I
could thwart it: He was just a Hazara, wasn't he?
I ran back the way I'd come. Ran back to the
all but deserted bazaar. I lurched to a cubicle and leaned against the
padlocked Swinging doors. I stood there panting, sweating, wishing things
had turned out some other way.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard voices
and running footfalls. I crouched behind the cubicle and watched Assef and
the other two sprinting by, laughing as they hurried down the deserted lane.
I forced myself to wait ten more minutes. Then I walked back to the rutted
track that ran along the snow-filled ravine. I squinted in the dimming light
and spotted Hassan walking slowly toward me. I met him by a leafless birch
tree on the edge of the ravine.
He had the blue kite in his hands;
that was the first thing I saw. And I can't lie now and say my
eyes didn't scan it for any rips. His chapan had mud
smudges down the front and his shirt Was ripped just below the collar. He
stopped. Swayed on his feet like he was going to collapse. Then he steadied
himself. Handed me the kite.
"Where were you? I looked for you," I said.
Speaking those words was like chewing on a rock.
Hassan dragged a sleeve across his face,
wiped snot and tears. I waited for him to say something, but we just stood
there in silence, in the fading light. I was grateful for the early-evening
shadows that fell on Hassan's face and concealed mine. I was glad I didn't
have to return his gaze. Did he know I knew? And if he knew, then what would
I see if I did look in his eyes? Blame? Indignation? Or, God forbid,
what I feared most: guileless devotion? That, most of all, I couldn't bear
to see.
He began to say something and his voice
cracked. He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. Took a step
back. Wiped his face. And that was as close as Hassan and I ever came to
dis' cussing what had happened in the alley. I thought he might burst
into tears, but, to my relief, he didn't, and I pretended I hadn't
heard the crack in his voice. Just like I pretended I hadn't seen the dark
stain in the seat of his pants. Or those tiny drops that fell from between
his legs and stained the snow black.
"Agha sahib will worry,"
was all he said. He turned from me and limped away.
It happened just the way I'd imagined.
I opened the door to the smoky study and stepped in. Baba and Rahim Khan
were drinking tea and listening to the news crackling on the radio. Their
heads turned. Then a smile played on my father's lips. He opened his
arms. I put the kite down and walked into his thick hairy arms.
I buried my face in the warmth of his chest and wept. Baba held
me close to him, rocking me back and forth. In his arms, I forgot what
I'd done. And that was good.
This is a fiction story, but
please read the psychology of doxology and supremacy of one ethnic group and
degrading, insulting and blotting of the other ethnic group!!!
After the reading of the story,
the conclusions and characteristics remaining in memories on the bases of
this book, would be as follows:
|
Master Family:
Sayed, Pashtoon, Sunni (religion) |
Servant/Slave Family :
casual, Hazara, Shi-a (religion) |
|
Amir:
loves his mother and try to remember her with pride, good student,
good writer, handsome, visionary, knowledgeable, smart, polite, son
of his father (legitimate), concerned, responsible, caretaker,
coward, liar and exceptional |
Hassan: doesn’t care about his mother, illiterate, damaged, not
confident on him-self, alienated, reliable and honest to his master,
obedient, property of his master, defenseless, dependant, oppressed,
selfless, faithful, he is not son of his father, Ali,
(illegitimate), rootless |
|
Amir’s Father: (Toofan Agha means Master Storm, due to paying
respect even his name not mentioned once ), powerful, wrestler,
tall, strong, brave, wealthy, famous, handsome, generous, merchant,
respectful, compassionate, benevolent, superior, independent,
glorious, graceful, pertaining to a big and honorable family,
modern-minded, doesn’t care about the ethical, social and religious
measures, exceptional |
Hassan’s Father: Ali, Babalou (bogyman), disabled, castrated, weak,
servant, dependent, awful (even he can not laugh), Koran reciter |
|
Amir’s Mother: Mrs. Sophia Akrami, literature professor, educated
and best woman, belongs to a big and honorable family, beautiful,
graceful, glorious, chaste, exceptional |
Hassan’s Mother: Sanaubar, uneducated, whore, unfaithful to her
husband, dancer and singer (very bad reputation in Afghanistan),
doesn’t like her child and her husband |
|
Amir’s Grandfather: famous, judge, reach, politician, had
connections with king |
Hassan’s Grandfather: not mentioned and had been killed in a traffic
accident and paid least attention by Amir’s grandfather, the judge
and administration |
Events development does not
accord with places and times in “The Kite Runner”. They are contradicting
and interferential. The writer repeated and injected scenes whenever he
wanted to convincing and memorizing the readers for accuracy and
correctness. If readers paying more attention into the course of the novel,
soonest will find the conflicts and will know the private motives and depth
of the writer’s disposition.
In “The Kite Runner”, actually
the scenes, events, places and times controlled by the writer. In spite,
these elements should develop by its internal laws and the struggle and
logical resolution, and resulting to the logical scenarios.
In this novel, the writer
knowingly or unknowingly is salting the chronological fistula wounds of
socio-cultural conflicts of Afghanistan, and proclaims and keeps the ill
relationship and proportion of the tyrant conflicting apparatus of the
previous social and historical orders.
Writer’s positioning in the
scenes and events, always been for irritation, degrading and misleading. But
tries to keep the medians “na seekh besooza, nay kabob (burning nor skewer
neither the meat)”. Speaking both conflicting sides reached to justice and
ethical, psychological and social balance and intactness.
Naming the book “The Kite
Runner”, it is like a cheating from a very famous and popular short story
written by a very famous master of literature of Afghanistan. The writer
knows this matter very well by him-self. “The Kite Runner” name doesn’t
accord with the course of the story. It should be named “The real man and
coward” though.
After reading novel of “The Kite
Runner”, general image and final results which remain in memories of
non-Afghan readers which know little about the many aspects about
Afghanistan would be not realistic, incorrect and misleading with private
motives. These images and results are not according the realities of the
Afghanistan culture and society. This novel became the best seller book of
the year in the USA; it means that most Americans got all these mishaps and
misleading information. This is not the message of real novel to a society.
Aren’t we live in a time that the number of good readers is less then the
number of good writers?
After all these evaluations, I,
as an ordinary reader of the book, cordially apologize from all those have
read the book and would like to say that this book is not a good sample of
Afghanistan real literature. Afghanistan is a country that there is no luck
of good and competent professionals and caretakers in every walk of
knowledge, but unfortunately there are some selfish private motivated
predirectors with support of the much known institutions coming forward.
They have their dirty and blotting messages to propagate around the world
and there are some ones responsibilities to enlighten and articulate the
essence of the dirty private motives. This would be unfair to misuse the
freedom of press to expressing and propagating hates amongst the nations and
tribes.
Safar A. Hanif
Safar_h2000@yahoo.com
December, 2005 |
