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Description

Product Description

The #1 New York Times bestselling novel that introduced Khaled Hosseini to millions of readers the world over.

“A vivid and engaging story that reminds us how long his people [of Afghanistan] have been struggling to triumph over the forces of violence—forces that continue to threaten them even today." –New York Times Book Review

 
The unforgettable, heartbreaking story of the unlikely friendship between a wealthy boy and the son of his father’s servant, caught in the tragic sweep of history, The Kite Runner transports readers to Afghanistan at a tense and crucial moment of change and destruction. A powerful story of friendship, it is also about the power of reading, the price of betrayal, and the possibility of redemption; and an exploration of the power of fathers over sons—their love, their sacrifices, their lies.
 
Since its publication in 2003 Kite Runner has become a beloved, one-of-a-kind classic of contemporary literature, touching millions of readers, and launching the career of one of America''s most treasured writers.

Review

"[A] powerful first novel... political events, even as dramatic as the ones that are presented in  The Kite Runner, are only a part of this story. In  The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini gives us a vivid and engaging story that reminds us how long his people have been struggling to triumph over the forces of violence—forces that continue to threaten them even today." —The New York Times Book Review

"A beautiful novel... 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

"This extraordinary novel locates the personal struggles of everyday people in the terrible sweep of history." -- People

"A moving portrait of modern Afghanistan."  —Entertainment Weekly

"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."—The Washington Post Book World

"An astonishing, powerful book."—Diane Sawyer

About the Author

Khaled Hosseini was born in Kabul, Afghanistan, and moved to the United States in 1980. He is the author of the New York Times bestsellers The Kite Runner, A Thousand Splendid Suns, and And the Mountains Echoed. He is A U.S. Goodwill Envoy to the United Nations Refugee Agency, and the founder of The Khaled Hosseini Foundation, a nonprofit that provides humanitarian assistance to the people of Afghanistan.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.



KHALED HOSSEINI was born in Kabul, Afghanistan, the son of a diplomat whose family received political asylum in the United States in 1980. He lives in northern California, where he is a physician. The Kite Runner is his first novel.

KHALED HOSSEINI

THE KITE RUNNER

RIVERHEAD BOOKS
NEW YORK








ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to the following colleagues for their advice, assistance, or support: Dr. Alfred Lerner, Dori Vakis, Robin Heck, Dr. Todd Dray, Dr. Robert Tull, and Dr. Sandy Chun. Thanks also to Lynette Parker of East San Jose Community Law Center for her advice about adoption procedures, and to Mr. Daoud Wahab for sharing his experiences in Afghanistan with me. I am grateful to my dear friend Tamim Ansary for his guidance and support and to the gang at the San Francisco Writers Workshop for their feedback and encouragement. I want to thank my father, my oldest friend and the inspiration for all that is noble in Baba; my mother who prayed for me and did nazr at every stage of this book’s writing; my aunt for buying me books when I was young. Thanks go out to Ali, Sandy, Daoud, Walid, Raya, Shalla, Zahra, Rob, and Kader for reading my stories. I want to thank Dr. and Mrs. Kayoumy—my other parents—for their warmth and unwavering support.

I must thank my agent and friend, Elaine Koster, for her wisdom, patience, and gracious ways, as well as Cindy Spiegel, my keen-eyed and judicious editor who helped me unlock so many doors in this tale. And I would like to thank Susan Petersen Kennedy for taking a chance on this book and the hardworking staff at Riverhead for laboring over it.

Last, I don’t know how to thank my lovely wife, Roya—to whose opinion I am addicted—for her kindness and grace, and for reading, re-reading, and helping me edit every single draft of this novel. For your patience and understanding, I will always love you, Roya jan.

THE KITE RUNNER

ONE

December 2001

I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.

One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to come see him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn’t just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my past of unatoned sins. After I hung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Golden Gate Park. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze. Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky. They danced high above the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating side by side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now call home. And suddenly Hassan’s voice whispered in my head: For you, a thousand times over. Hassan the harelipped kite runner.

I sat on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up, almost as an afterthought. There is a way to be good again. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came along and changed everything. And made me what I am today.

TWO

When we were children, Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my father’s house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their homes with a shard of mirror. We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches, our naked feet dangling, our trouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts. We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing. I can still see Hassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood: his flat, broad nose and slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked, depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire. I can still see his tiny low-set ears and that pointed stub of a chin, a meaty appendage that looked like it was added as a mere afterthought. And the cleft lip, just left of midline, where the Chinese doll maker’s instrument may have slipped, or perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless.

Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor’s one-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to, but if I asked, really asked, he wouldn’t deny me. Hassan never denied me anything. And he was deadly with his slingshot. Hassan’s father, Ali, used to catch us and get mad, or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get. He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree. He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer. “And he laughs while he does it,” he always added, scowling at his son.

“Yes, Father,” Hassan would mumble, looking down at his feet. But he never told on me. Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbor’s dog, was always my idea.

The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought-iron gates. They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my father’s estate. The house sat on the left side of the brick path, the backyard at the end of it.

Everyone agreed that my father, my Baba, had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, a new and affluent neighborhood in the northern part of Kabul. Some thought it was the prettiest house in all of Kabul. A broad entryway flanked by rosebushes led to the sprawling house of marble floors and wide windows. Intricate mosaic tiles, handpicked by Baba in Isfahan, covered the floors of the four bathrooms. Gold-stitched tapestries, which Baba had bought in Calcutta, lined the walls; a crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling.

Upstairs was my bedroom, Baba’s room, and his study, also known as “the smoking room,” which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon. Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner. They stuffed their pipes—except Baba always called it “fattening the pipe”—and discussed their favorite three topics: politics, business, soccer. Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway. “Go on, now,” he’d say. “This is grown-ups’ time. Why don’t you go read one of those books of yours?” He’d close the door, leave me to wonder why it was always grown-ups’ time with him. I’d sit by the door, knees drawn to my chest. Sometimes I sat there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter.

The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custom-built cabinets. Inside sat framed family pictures: an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in 1931, two years before the king’s assassination; they are standing over a dead deer, dressed in knee-high boots, rifles slung over their shoulders. There was a picture of my parents’ wedding night, Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white. Here was Baba and his best friend and business partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one smiling—I am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim. I’m in his arms, but it’s Rahim Khan’s pinky my fingers are curled around.

The curved wall led into the dining room, at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guests—and, given my father’s taste for extravagant parties, it did just that almost every week. On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime.

A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees. Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall: tomatoes, mint, peppers, and a row of corn that never really took. Hassan and I used to call it “the Wall of Ailing Corn.”

On the south end of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants’ home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father.

It was there, in that little shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, just one year after my mother died giving birth to me.

In the eighteen years that I lived in that house, I stepped into Hassan and Ali’s quarters only a handful of times. When the sun dropped low behind the hills and we were done playing for the day, Hassan and I parted ways. I went past the rosebushes to Baba’s mansion, Hassan to the mud shack where he had been born, where he’d lived his entire life. I remember it was spare, clean, dimly lit by a pair of kerosene lamps. There were two mattresses on opposite sides of the room, a worn Herati rug with frayed edges in between, a three-legged stool, and a wooden table in the corner where Hassan did his drawings. The walls stood bare, save for a single tapestry with sewn-in beads forming the words Allah-u-akbar. Baba had bought it for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad.

It was in that small shack that Hassan’s mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in 1964. While my 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 dancers.

Hassan never talked about his mother, as if she’d never existed. I always wondered if he dreamed about her, about what she looked like, where she was. I wondered if he longed to meet her. Did he ache for her, the way I ached for the mother I had never met? 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!” 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.”

I’m told no one was really surprised when Sanaubar eloped. People had raised their eyebrows when Ali, a man who had memorized the Koran, married Sanaubar, a woman nineteen years younger, a beautiful but notoriously unscrupulous woman who lived up to her dishonorable reputation. Like Ali, she was a Shi’a Muslim and an ethnic Hazara. She was also his first cousin and therefore a natural choice for a spouse. But beyond those similarities, Ali and Sanaubar had little in common, least of all their respective appearances. While Sanaubar’s brilliant green eyes and impish face had, rumor has it, tempted countless men into sin, Ali had a congenital paralysis of his lower facial muscles, a condition that rendered him unable to smile and left him perpetually grim-faced. 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 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 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.

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.

Baba hired the same nursing woman who had fed me to nurse Hassan. Ali told us she was a blue-eyed 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 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 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.”

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’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,” 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 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 Khayyám, Hãfez, 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, Hãfez, 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 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.

“I know, I know. But he’s always buried in those books or shuffling around the house like he’s lost in some dream.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t like that.” Baba sounded frustrated, almost angry.

Rahim Khan laughed. “Children aren’t coloring books. You don’t get to fill them with your favorite colors.”

“I’m telling you,” Baba said, “I wasn’t like that at all, and neither were any of the kids I grew up with.”

“You know, sometimes you are the most self-centered man I know,” Rahim Khan said. He was the only person I knew who could get away with saying something like that to Baba.

“It has nothing to do with that.”

“Nay?”

“Nay.”

“Then what?”

I heard the leather of Baba’s seat creaking as he shifted on it. I closed my eyes, pressed my ear even harder against the door, wanting to hear, not wanting to hear. “Sometimes I look out this window and I see him playing on the street with the neighborhood boys. I see how they push him around, take his toys from him, give him a shove here, a whack there. And, you know, he never fights back. Never. He just…drops his head and…”

“So he’s not violent,” Rahim Khan said.

“That’s not what I mean, Rahim, and you know it,” Baba shot back. “There is something missing in that boy.”

“Yes, a mean streak.”

“Self-defense has nothing to do with meanness. You know what always happens when the neighborhood boys tease him? Hassan steps in and fends them off. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And when they come home, I say to him, ‘How did Hassan get that scrape on his face?’ And he says, ‘He fell down.’ I’m telling you, Rahim, there is something missing in that boy.”

“You just need to let him find his way,” Rahim Khan said.

“And where is he headed?” Baba said. “A boy who won’t stand up for himself becomes a man who can’t stand up to anything.”

“As usual you’re oversimplifying.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re angry because you’re afraid he’ll never take over the business for you.”

“Now who’s oversimplifying?” Baba said. “Look, I know there’s a fondness between you and him and I’m happy about that. Envious, but happy. I mean that. He needs someone who…understands him, because God knows I don’t. But something about Amir troubles me in a way that I can’t express. It’s like…” I could see him searching, reaching for the right words. He lowered his voice, but I heard him anyway. “If I hadn’t seen the doctor pull him out of my wife with my own eyes, I’d never believe he’s my son.”

 

THE NEXT MORNING, as he was preparing my breakfast, Hassan asked if something was bothering me. I snapped at him, told him to mind his own business.

Rahim Khan had been wrong about the mean streak thing.

FOUR

In 1933, the year Baba was born and the year Zahir Shah began his forty-year reign of Afghanistan, two brothers, young men from a wealthy and reputable family in Kabul, got behind the wheel of their father’s Ford roadster. High on hashish and mast on French wine, they struck and killed a Hazara husband and wife on the road to Paghman. The police brought the somewhat contrite young men and the dead couple’s five-year-old orphan boy before my grandfather, who was a highly regarded judge and a man of impeccable reputation. After hearing the brothers’ account and their father’s plea for mercy, my grandfather ordered the two young men to go to Kandahar at once and enlist in the army for one year—this despite the fact that their family had somehow managed to obtain them exemptions from the draft. Their father argued, but not too vehemently, and in the end, everyone agreed that the punishment had been perhaps harsh but fair. As for the orphan, my grandfather adopted him into his own household, and told the other servants to tutor him, but to be kind to him. That boy was Ali.

Ali and Baba grew up together as childhood playmates—at least until polio crippled Ali’s leg—just like Hassan and I grew up a generation later. Baba was always telling us about the mischief he and Ali used to cause, and Ali would shake his head and say, “But, Agha sahib, tell them who was the architect of the mischief and who the poor laborer?” Baba would laugh and throw his arm around Ali.

But in none of his stories did Baba ever refer to Ali as his friend.

The curious thing was, I never thought of Hassan and me as friends either. Not in the usual sense, anyhow. Never mind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands, or to build a fully functional homemade camera out of a cardboard box. Never mind that we spent entire winters flying kites, running kites. Never mind that to me, the face of Afghanistan is that of a boy with a thin-boned frame, a shaved head, and low-set ears, a boy with a Chinese doll face perpetually lit by a harelipped smile.

Never mind any of those things. Because history isn’t easy to overcome. Neither is religion. In the end, I was a Pashtun and he was a Hazara, I was Sunni and he was Shi’a, and nothing was ever going to change that. Nothing.

But we were kids who had learned to crawl together, and no history, ethnicity, society, or religion was going to change that either. I spent most of the first twelve years of my life playing with Hassan. Sometimes, my entire childhood seems like one long lazy summer day with Hassan, chasing each other between tangles of trees in my father’s yard, playing hide-and-seek, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, insect torture—with our crowning achievement undeniably the time we plucked the stinger off a bee and tied a string around the poor thing to yank it back every time it took flight.

We chased the Kochi, the nomads who passed through Kabul on their way to the mountains of the north. We would hear their caravans approaching our neighborhood, the mewling of their sheep, the baaing of their goats, the jingle of bells around their camels’ necks. We’d run outside to watch the caravan plod through our street, men with dusty, weather-beaten faces and women dressed in long, colorful shawls, beads, and silver bracelets around their wrists and ankles. We hurled pebbles at their goats. We squirted water on their mules. I’d make Hassan sit on the Wall of Ailing Corn and fire pebbles with his slingshot at the camels’ rears.

We saw our first Western together, Rio Bravo with John Wayne, at the Cinema Park, across the street from my favorite bookstore. I remember begging Baba to take us to Iran so we could meet John Wayne. Baba burst out in gales of his deep-throated laughter—a sound not unlike a truck engine revving up—and, when he could talk again, explained to us the concept of voice dubbing. Hassan and I were stunned. Dazed. John Wayne didn’t really speak Farsi and he wasn’t Iranian! He was American, just like the friendly, longhaired men and women we always saw hanging around in Kabul, dressed in their tattered, brightly colored shirts. We saw Rio Bravo three times, but we saw our favorite Western, The Magnificent Seven, thirteen times. With each viewing, we cried at the end when the Mexican kids buried Charles Bronson—who, as it turned out, wasn’t Iranian either.

We took strolls in the musty-smelling bazaars of the Shar-e-Nau section of Kabul, or the new city, west of the Wazir Akbar Khan district. We talked about whatever film we had just seen and walked amid the bustling crowds of bazarris. We snaked our way among the merchants and the beggars, wandered through narrow alleys cramped with rows of tiny, tightly packed stalls. Baba gave us each a weekly allowance of ten Afghanis and we spent it on warm Coca-Cola and rosewater ice cream topped with crushed pistachios.

During the school year, we had a daily routine. By the time I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered to the bathroom, Hassan had already washed up, prayed the morning namaz with Ali, and prepared my breakfast: hot black tea with three sugar cubes and a slice of toasted naan topped with my favorite sour cherry marmalade, all neatly placed on the dining table. While I ate and complained about homework, Hassan made my bed, polished my shoes, ironed my outfit for the day, packed my books and pencils. I’d hear him singing to himself in the foyer as he ironed, singing old Hazara songs in his nasal voice. Then, Baba and I drove off in his black Ford Mustang—a car that drew envious looks everywhere because it was the same car Steve McQueen had driven in Bullitt, a film that played in one theater for six months. Hassan stayed home and helped Ali with the day’s chores: hand-washing dirty clothes and hanging them to dry in the yard, sweeping the floors, buying fresh naan from the bazaar, marinating meat for dinner, watering the lawn.

After school, Hassan and I met up, grabbed a book, and trotted up a bowl-shaped hill just north of my father’s property in Wazir Akbar Khan. There was an old abandoned cemetery atop the hill with rows of unmarked headstones and tangles of brushwood clogging the aisles. Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty and left the cemetery’s low white stone walls in decay. There was a pomegranate tree near the entrance to the cemetery. One summer day, I used one of Ali’s kitchen knives to carve our names on it: “Amir and Hassan, the sultans of Kabul.” Those words made it formal: the tree was ours. After school, Has-san and I climbed its branches and snatched its bloodred pomegranates. After we’d eaten the fruit and wiped our hands on the grass, I would read to Hassan.

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Top reviews from the United States

Concerned adult
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Why is this book on approved high school reading lists?
Reviewed in the United States on February 5, 2019
I had never heard of this book until last September at back to school night. My daughter''s sophomore English teacher listed the books they would be reading this school year and as he read off Kite Runner, he said "it had one disturbing part". Well, that meant I needed to... See more
I had never heard of this book until last September at back to school night. My daughter''s sophomore English teacher listed the books they would be reading this school year and as he read off Kite Runner, he said "it had one disturbing part". Well, that meant I needed to read it before my daughter did.

I found many more than one part of it disturbing especially as a novel for teenagers. Kite Runner is dark, depressing, descriptive of violence and in my opinion, not a good choice for high school students.

Khaled Hosseini is a talented writer but I fail to understand why high school students should be analyzing a fictional novel dramatizing so many dark topics and adult subject matter. I thought I had read the "one disturbing part" in Chapter 7, homosexual rape, but Kite Runner continues with a series of painful, life altering, distressing and depressing event after event throughout the book to the very last chapter.

I''ve never read a book with so much trauma happening to it''s characters (and then I read Hosseini''s other book A Thousand Splendid Suns). Kite Runner starts with a dysfunctional family (a son who does not feel loved by his single father) and a dysfunctional "friendship" between boys due to their cultural cast system. A physical birth disfigurement, cowardice, cover up lies, and betrayal are touched on. War atrocities are covered including more homosexual rape, gun violence, power struggles, and the flight of refugees. This novel also ties in cancer, infertility, adultery, a bastard child, deception, more violence including a public stoning, innocent victims killed in broad daylight, child servitude and attempted suicide. Many reviews mention the main character''s courage to seek redemption but I found the circumstances overly dramatized and any meaningful aspects of redemption washed out.

Kite Runner ends with a glimmer of hope for better times but after the countless events of trauma, violence and brutality, emotionally and physically throughout the book, the hopeful ending only makes a dull thud against the depressing, dark, adult topics depicted and graphically described throughout the book.

I fail to see why Kite Runner is being selected over countless other great pieces of literature. I do not feel this book is a necessary read to understanding the complex differences of Afghanistan''s culture nor it''s history. I am not opposed to high school students being exposed to different cultures or adult topics but of the literary options that are available, I do not feel Kite Runner offers educational value that exceeds the depressing nature of this book and the descriptive imagery of countless depressing adult topics that have happened in Afghanistan and are probably still happening in Afghanistan. I prefer my 15 year old to learn about Afghanistan in a neutral, historical style rather than taking an emotional ride with fictional characters.

It astounds me that over 4,000 readers rate this book with 5 stars. My question to them is how many of them would choose this book over another book for their high school students.
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LovetoRead
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
like me, have not read a book like it
Reviewed in the United States on December 2, 2017
There are so many ways that this book has touched me; it''s difficult to find a place to begin. I read this book after reading "A Thousand Splendid Suns" because I was beginning to really become aware of how many of our fellow brothers and sisters in other... See more
There are so many ways that this book has touched me; it''s difficult to find a place to begin.
I read this book after reading "A Thousand Splendid Suns" because I was beginning to really become aware of how many of our fellow brothers and sisters in other places in the world have the same desires that we do in the United States: to raise our children with a sense of morality, the determination to make more of oneself, and the endurance to keep going in horrific times and situations.
The narrator of this story is so breathtakingly honest that I feel that his conscience is only open to me. This story allows me to recognize that more than likely every human who has ever walked this earths has had moments of deep regret, and that if we could, we would go back and redo as we examine how life could have been different if other choices were made.
Reading this book has made this far away place seem so much closer - and its people much more understandable to me. It''s an emotional read but a must-read for all who, like me, have not read a book like it.
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Ronald S. Everett
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Brutal But a Great Read
Reviewed in the United States on July 2, 2016
My 16 year old daughter was assigned this book to read in school. I often read my high school aged children''s literature assignments but rarely have I been so riveted by one. This story is not for the faint of heart. It''s down right brutal at times and the language and... See more
My 16 year old daughter was assigned this book to read in school. I often read my high school aged children''s literature assignments but rarely have I been so riveted by one. This story is not for the faint of heart. It''s down right brutal at times and the language and subject matter are such that adults should think carefully before allowing their younger teens to read. But for older and more mature teens, there are important lessons to be learned. And for a born and bred American, it''s refreshing to get a middle eastern perspective on the world that is honest and thoughtful. I don''t know if it''s accurate to say I enjoyed reading this book but I was certainly enriched by the experience.
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melissa Triola
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Unhappy reader....with spoiler
Reviewed in the United States on January 2, 2020
Hated the book. Ruthlessly brutal for no reason other than shock value. I read to help my nephew with his junior report and he couldn’t make it through half the book. I finished it. But was questioning the school board for the book selection the entire read. We’re they... See more
Hated the book. Ruthlessly brutal for no reason other than shock value. I read to help my nephew with his junior report and he couldn’t make it through half the book. I finished it. But was questioning the school board for the book selection the entire read. We’re they going for a cultural introduction?...100 books could have accomplished this. We’re there going for showing a caste system? Again 100 books could show this. We’re they going for a book showing the importance’s of the choices you make haunting you through your life? Heck the Christmas Carroll accomplishes this. But to have high schoolers (not even seniors) reading this with sodomization, child rape, caste segregation, mass murder
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JenP
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
One of my favorite books of all time
Reviewed in the United States on January 7, 2019
This was a great book. I really did enjoy it. The story is of a wealthy boy in Kabul, Afghanistan and a servant boy at his home who become friends. The wealthy boy pines for his father''s affection (his mother died giving birth to him) but he never fully gets it (or his... See more
This was a great book. I really did enjoy it. The story is of a wealthy boy in Kabul, Afghanistan and a servant boy at his home who become friends. The wealthy boy pines for his father''s affection (his mother died giving birth to him) but he never fully gets it (or his dad''s approval). The boys are each other''s playmates until they are about 10 when something terrible happens to the servant boy. The wealthy boy witnessed it, but ran instead of helped. And the wealthy boy never saw the servant boy again.

The wealthy boy moves to America with his father when the Taliban takes over Kabul and there he finds college, a wife, and a new life. Until one day, he gets a call from an old family friend asking him to return to Kabul because he has to see him. And this is where I will end my review because I do not want to give away what happens when he returns.

It really was a great story. I found myself gripping the book tightly in the end. I wondered what had happened to the servant boy and if the wealthy boy would ever see him again.

I encourage you to read this book. There is even a movie that goes along with it!
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Brianna Rogers
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Haunting
Reviewed in the United States on November 20, 2018
Per The synopsis in other reviews, I just have to add that this is by far the most eviscerating and haunting book I have ever read. I have never been so simultaneously ripped apart and healed by a book. The depth of the plot and the complexities of the characters mirror a... See more
Per The synopsis in other reviews, I just have to add that this is by far the most eviscerating and haunting book I have ever read. I have never been so simultaneously ripped apart and healed by a book. The depth of the plot and the complexities of the characters mirror a story so realistic, I had trouble believing it was fiction. I disliked the narrator, Amir, primarily because I found that his faults are similar to ones I despise in myself. As I was able to relate to him in some aspects, I felt his shame, regret, and grief but also his redemption
This was not merely a book; it waa an experience.
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Leib Gershon Mitchell
3.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
History, imagined?
Reviewed in the United States on March 18, 2020
On the one hand, if you want an idea about some snapshot in time..... biographies / semi-biographical novels are probably the best way to go. They lend character development and humanity in a way that a simple historical book never could. On the other hand..... I... See more
On the one hand, if you want an idea about some snapshot in time..... biographies / semi-biographical novels are probably the best way to go. They lend character development and humanity in a way that a simple historical book never could.

On the other hand..... I know that most dramatizations of things like this are something like 100% false. I have in mind Alice Walker''s "The Color Purple."

There are several telltale signs.

1. The first is that this author left when he was 12 years old, and people don''t "see" many things at that age. His memories of the country may have been a bit.....suspect.

2. The second is that there was the tried-and-true Reductio ad Hitlerum. In a country with a literacy rate less than 15% and people who thought that John Wayne was Persian, how many of them could be expected to know about Adolf Hitler? Let alone enough to find a biography in Farsi and present it as a gift.

3. The "dancing boys" (bacha bazi) have been covered in more than one documentary about Afghanistan. As much as the author tried to use the pedophilia of the pedophiles who happened-to-be-Taliban to smear them, this tradition of dancing boys LONG predated them.

Does it really make sense that there would be no pedophilia for however-long Afghanistan-existed, and then in the last few years after the Taliban took over that they would suddenly come out of the woodwork?

Is it a coincidence that the antagonist was 50% German? And then, that that antagonist showed up decades later conveniently for the denouement? (Let me sum it up again, because the plausibility is so low: 1/2 blooded German who happens to be a fan of Adolf Hitler joins the Taliban and provides a biography--in Farsi-- and then he shows up for the final fight.)

In a way (p.232), the author concedes that he may have had a romanticized / incomplete view of his life in Afghanistan. (Let''s remember that he lived out of it more years than he lived in it, and he was 12 years old when he left.)

If you talk to the few remaining black people who lived through Jim Crow in the United States, you will find that they lived in a somewhat comfortable modus vivendi with their white neighbors. It is only later authors that made the events much worse than what they likely were, even though they did not live through it. (Mildred Taylor. "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry" Alice Walker. "The Color Purple")

I''m not sure what reason I have to believe that it would be any different with the Hazara (i.e., they too would have found some way to live with their Pashtun neighbors)

The book had a great deal of (undeveloped) potential:

1. There is the rich tapestry of ethnicities that makes up Afghanistan. (Their theme was not developed; If Hosseini could have just even given us a single paragraph about each of them, we would have come away a lot richer).

I found myself looking up information on Wikipedia that was not offered in the book-- and it should have been. (For instance, did you know that there are actually more Tajiks living in Afghanistan than in Tajikistan proper?)

2. Could he have given us a better picture of Hazara? What does it means for the author to keep stating that Hazara cannot read. (Afghanistan has an illiteracy rate of 68%, and Hazara are only 10~12% of the country.)

3. There was a cursory glance at an extremely middle Eastern culture. But Afghanis are not Arabs, nor are they Persians. Although they did follow and almost identical historical trajectory to the Persians (a relatively moderate Islamic society under a decadent government that fell and was replaced Islamic hardliners) but how were they different?

Could the purpose of this book have been to humanize Muslim refugees? (We see how well that''s worked out in Germany and other parts of Europe.)

The book itself has a LOT of, um, feminine overtones:

1. The protagonist is extremely girlish.

Weeping and crying and vomiting all over the place.

As an adult in the book, he does not act particularly manly about approaching his love interest. More like a love-struck junior high school girl.

2. Everything is such a *big* secret. "Big secrets" are the backdrop of a large number of novels written for women.

3. Lots of whinging about the unequal status of Afghani women. Is this something that men really think about? Especially if they''re on the winning side of it.

A glossary would really have been nice.

Verdict: $6 and a couple of afternoons of reading time.

And that''s about what it was worth.

It was a decent read, but won''t be a re-read.
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Amazon Customer
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
I was very intrigued and satisfied as it was a very good read
Reviewed in the United States on April 16, 2017
When I picked this book up, I was very intrigued and satisfied as it was a very good read. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini details a life story of a young boy, Amir who grows up looking for redemption as a result of his betrayal to his half-brother Hassan. Throughout... See more
When I picked this book up, I was very intrigued and satisfied as it was a very good read. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini details a life story of a young boy, Amir who grows up looking for redemption as a result of his betrayal to his half-brother Hassan. Throughout the novel, Hosseini delves into the mind of Amir who, in the beginning of the novel, is a young boy living with his father and best friend/half brother in Kabul, Afghanistan. As a loyal friend, Hassan, despite being a Hazara, always defends Amir and himself against the pashtun boys for being friends despite Amir and Hassan’s difference in social stature. Soon, they split apart after Amir betrays Hassan. Feeling the consequences of his cowardice, Amir sets out to find redemption for his inaction as he goes to save Hassan’s son from the Taliban after Hassan passes.
Throughout the novel, Hosseini recounts the story through the first person mind of Amir whose guilt-driven consciousness drives the plot. Hosseini weaves the idea that redemption is important because sin is enduring throughout the story. He explains that Amir seeks to help Sohrab, Hassan’s son, as he realizes that he has been “peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.” It becomes apparent that his cowardice and betrayal towards Hassan has plagued his consciousness with guilt. Without relief, he cannot live a normal life that he had tried to build in the United States.
The title of the book also reveals an important aspect of the plot as the kite fighting tournaments become essential to understanding the underlying meaning of the story. Kite fighting in the beginning of the novel represents the distinct dichotomy that was occurring at that in Afghanistan between the Pashtuns and the Hazaras, but it also represents the strong bond between the half brothers. In the end, the kite fighting represents the promising future that was ahead of Sohrab and Amir. Hosseini reveals that Amir had “looked down at Sohrab. One corner of his mouth curled up just so. A smile.” Although, he has sinned in the beginning, Amir finally finds his redemption and relief within Sohrab.
Overall, this book was very captivating as it keeps readers on their toes throughout the entire story. One can feel a sort of connection with the narrator further aiding the reader the importance of redemption. I would give this book five stars.
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sam warburton
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Answered my questions.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 2, 2021
I served in Kabul, Afghanistan with the British army in 2017, we use to stag on (guard duty) in sangars (guard towers) from which we could see almost all of the city, I saw so much from those towers, sand storms, stray dogs, bomb blasts, the mountains that seemed to be...See more
I served in Kabul, Afghanistan with the British army in 2017, we use to stag on (guard duty) in sangars (guard towers) from which we could see almost all of the city, I saw so much from those towers, sand storms, stray dogs, bomb blasts, the mountains that seemed to be surrounded by higher ones, flares falling from the sky like wings of an angel shot out of NATO helicopters from time to time, the huge Afghan flag on a hill thats name I have forgotten, diving board towers that I thought were ANA sangars at a camp untill I realised they were diving board towers at an old swimming pool, research told me the Taliban used to execute people from them when they took power, the pollution that was on another level, hundreds of people on there way to the mosques to pray when ever the songs played, the list could go on and on and on... The one thing I saw as I eyed the sky for Taliban drones was kites, despite everything else that happened there I think it''s the one thing I will always remember, they were mesmerising to watch, i had always wondered what kind of a childhood the children flying them would have? how long they would know the innocence of child hood? it''s a tough place for a soldier at times let alone a kid, this book I guess answered it for me, it was hard for me to read, I cried and laughed, had to put it down and then come back to it, I will admit I thought it was a memoir right untill the final word. To me Kabul was a sad place, somewhere I would not want to go back too, but I''m a hopefull person and I hope life will get better for the people of Afghan, I know in places and some ways it has. This book is sad, beautiful and honest. It reminded me of the Afghanis I met, the places I went, I could see the streets the author wrote about, the characters too. Ultimately, It''s made me want to continue to be a better person, and its answered some of my questions. "tashakor", Khaled Hosseini.
41 people found this helpful
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Aditi Bansal
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
It''s so touch but heartbreaking at the same time.
Reviewed in India on July 27, 2018
This is a story about friendship, sacrifice, love, lies, repentance, tragedy, pain and redemption. Amir and Hassan, who lives in Afghanistan were nursed by a same woman as both of them lost their mothers immediately after their birth. As they grew up together in a same home...See more
This is a story about friendship, sacrifice, love, lies, repentance, tragedy, pain and redemption. Amir and Hassan, who lives in Afghanistan were nursed by a same woman as both of them lost their mothers immediately after their birth. As they grew up together in a same home they became inseparable. Hassan was the closest thing to a best friend Amir ever had. But he never accepted that in public as they both belonged to a different community. Hassan was a Hazara boy who belonged to Shi''a community. He was the son of Amir''s servant. Whereas Amir was a Pashtun and was the son of one of the most renowned man of the town, a Sunni. Hassan was a brave and honest boy, a loyal friend and he was the best "kite runner" of the town. He was deadly with his slingshot. He was a pure soul and a true friend. Whereas Amir was a coward, mean and an egoistic boy. His head was always buried in books. He had become a good writer and a poet at a very young age. Hassan on the other hand never went to school. Amir used to read Hassan various stories but sometimes he teased Hassan for the words he had never heard of as he was an illiterate. Hassan being innocent and kind never minded that. When Amir was young he used to long for his father''s love. He could go to any length to achieve his father''s affection and love which was missing from his life. In the winter of 1975, Amir won the "Kite fighting tournament" and won his father''s love too. But that happiness didn''t last too long as in the same winter a horrible event occured which destroyed everything. Hassan had always went out of his way to help Amir. Whenever they were in trouble Hassan used to take stand for Amir and always saved him from any ruckus. But when Amir''s time came to pay Hassan back for what he had done for him, he backed out. He betrayed his own friend who had always been there for him like his own brother. Amir pretended as if he didn''t see anything. Little did he know that thing will haunt him forever and even after 26 years he will not be able to sleep peacefully at night. So this is the story of Amir''s search for redemption and peace. That how he returned back to a new but jeopardized Kabul from his comfortable life in America and how he got his peace back somehow but in broken pieces. The devastation of Afghanistan, the abolishment of monarchy, the Russian invasion and then Taliban rule has been described very boldly and is really heartbreaking. This book is not for the light-hearted people at all. This is a tragic story which will leave you sad and heartbroken. I have read the other two books of Khaled Hosseini as well. This book is a lot better than "And the mountains echoed" but still I like "A thousand splendid suns" the best.
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ashutosh
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Definitely a pirated copy.
Reviewed in India on May 1, 2019
This review is not about the book ''Kite Runner'', but this particular copy of book which I received. This was like one of those books that you get outside railway stations and on traffic signals. Text was blemished at many places and required some guesswork while reading,...See more
This review is not about the book ''Kite Runner'', but this particular copy of book which I received. This was like one of those books that you get outside railway stations and on traffic signals. Text was blemished at many places and required some guesswork while reading, margins were uneven and not straight like in pirated books. I was only concerned with the content of the book so I didn''t bother returning it but thought I should at least mention it. Edit: As I read further, I found some pages are not in right order (see picture) Page 133 is before Page 132. Reducing the Rating to 1. Ideally, It should be looked into and pirated books should not be allowed on Amazon.
98 people found this helpful
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Ritika Chhabra
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
a book that broke my heart and swept its pieces with my tears.
Reviewed in India on April 25, 2019
"For you, a thousand times over." This was the second time I read The Kite Runner and I wasn''t disappointed - nope, not at all. The Kite Runner is one book that has stayed close with me every time I have read it. I still remember the first time I went through it. It was on...See more
"For you, a thousand times over." This was the second time I read The Kite Runner and I wasn''t disappointed - nope, not at all. The Kite Runner is one book that has stayed close with me every time I have read it. I still remember the first time I went through it. It was on a very long train journey. I read it through whatever daylight was available and I ended up crying my heart out. Thanks for me, the second AC compartment had curtains to hide my eyes every time I teared up. What is more is that this book was the first book by Hosseini that I read and I ended up loving it so much that I just had to buy the other two as well. (I still don''t have Sea Prayer or a copy of this book but I''m trying to lay my hands on them soon enough. Books like these should end up in my bookshelf.) Now I know almost everyone has read this book so my review probably won''t even matter but I simply cannot not write about it. The Kite Runner was heartbreaking beautiful, heart-wrenching disastrous and a painful tearjerker. The book has everything - from rape, war, terrorism to friendship, love and heartbreak. It is also one of the few books that I have read on a tradition that has been forgotten since a long while now - of kite flying and running. I still remember when, as a kid, there was a Muslim family in my neighbourhood. They would be the first ones to fly kite in the winters. It didn''t snow like it did in Amir''s Afghanistan, but it was a pretty nice day. I remember how I would often look at the boy''s kite in awe, for it was the only kite that flew till the very end. And all of them were always so happy. Every year after the game was over, they would invite us over for dinner. We never went, until one day I woke up to find the house empty. It has been years now and till date, I have no clue why they left all of a sudden. Or rather, who sent them away but I remember thinking the reason behind it all. Here was a family, trying to enjoy, trying to create a life and they sent them away. The Kite Runner brought back those memories and so many other things. Hassan, for example, broke my heart. Or rather, what happened to him did it. How could he love a man so much despite everything that man had done to him? They moved to America and Amir never even contacted him. That was the least they could do. That was just the.... No matter how the story ends, I will always know Hassan as the boy who ran, the boy who got betrayed and the boy who was not given what he deserved. And why? All because he was a Hazara? I hate stereotypes and I hate when one culture is undermined for no valid reason. So when Hassan''s story was revealed in the end, it did nothing but kill me. Over and over again. But it''s alright. Because for you, a thousand times over.
79 people found this helpful
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Peter - The Reading Desk
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
A Bucket List Book
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 10, 2018
There is a sense reading this book that you are participating in a literary phenomenon. The story essentially relates to the lives of 2 boys Amir and Hassan, growing up in Kabul and told through the eyes of Amir. Amir is the son of a rich man, he is educated, more refined,...See more
There is a sense reading this book that you are participating in a literary phenomenon. The story essentially relates to the lives of 2 boys Amir and Hassan, growing up in Kabul and told through the eyes of Amir. Amir is the son of a rich man, he is educated, more refined, and most importantly, part of the Sunni ruling class. Hassan is the son of the household servant and is illiterate, more physically robust, and unfortunately for him, part of the Shia lower class. Hassan knows his place and lives a strange existence as Amir’s friend but also his servant. Following an incident where Hassan suffers greatly in protecting Amir, it leaves Amir with an unshakeable sense of guilt and culpability that manifests itself in a resentful disposition towards Hassan. The class system plays its part but the cowardice of Amir will haunt him throughout his life. The writing is really wonderful, how this is portrayed, and so imperceptibly built to capture emotions and our sentiments of injustice. Years later Amir who has now returned from the US to right some of these wrongs and seeks redemption with Hassan and make amends. Since Amir was last in Afghanistan the Taliban are now in control of the state, society and religion. The writing is so wonderfully paced and descriptive to bring both the emotional horrors and fear of the alien culture he now experiences. A really superb book on so many levels – the history, religion, social culture, character interaction and it’s ultimately dealing with human emotions of friendship, guilt, selflessness and selfishness. A must read!
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