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Soraya dropped her spoon。 Turned on her father。 You can tell them……
It s okay； Soraya； I said； taking her hand。 It s okay。 General Sahib is quite right。 People will ask。
Amir…… she began。
It s all right。 I turned to the general。 You see； General Sahib； my father slept with his servant s wife。 She bore him a son named Hassan。 Hassan is dead now。 That boy sleeping on the couch is Hassan s son。 He s my nephew。 That s what you tell people when they ask。
They were all staring at me。
And one more thing； General Sahib； I said。 You will never again refer to him as Hazara boy in my presence。 He has a name and it s Sohrab。
No one said anything for the remainder of the meal。
IT WOULD BE ERRONEOUS to say Sohrab was quiet。 Quiet is peace。 Tranquillity。 Quiet is turning down the VOLUME knob on life。
Silence is pushing the OFF button。 Shutting it down。 All of it。
Sohrab s silence wasn t the self…imposed silence of those with convictions； of protesters who seek to speak their cause by not speaking at all。 It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place； curled up all the edges and tucked them under。
He didn t so much live with us as occupy space。 And precious little of it。 Sometimes； at the market； or in the park； I d notice how other people hardly seemed to even see him； like he wasn t there at all。 I d look up from a book and realize Sohrab had entered the room； had sat across from me； and I hadn t noticed。 He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints。 He moved as if not to stir the air around him。 Mostly； he slept。
Sohrab s silence was hard on Soraya too。 Over that long…distance line to Pakistan； Soraya had told me about the things she was planning for Sohrab。 Swimming classes。 Soccer。 Bowling league。 Now she d walk past Sohrab s room and catch a glimpse of books sitting unopened in the wicker basket； the growth chart unmarked； the jigsaw puzzle unassembled； each item a reminder of a life that could have been。 A reminder of a dream that was wilting even as it was budding。 But she hadn t been alone。 I d had my own dreams for Sohrab。
While Sohrab was silent； the world was not。 One Tuesday morning last September； the Twin Towers came crumbling down and； overnight； the world changed。 The American flag suddenly appeared everywhere； on the antennae of yellow cabs weaving around traffic； on the lapels of pedestrians walking the sidewalks in a steady stream； even on the grimy caps of San Francisco s pan handlers sitting beneath the awnings of small art galleries and open…fronted shops。 One day I passed Edith； the homeless woman who plays the accordion every day on the corner of Sutter and Stockton； and spotted an American flag sticker on the accordion case at her feet。
Soon after the attacks； America bombed Afghanistan； the Northern Alliance moved in； and the Taliban scurried like rats into the caves。 Suddenly； people were standing in grocery store lines and talking about the cities of my childhood； Kandahar； Herat； Mazar…i…Sharif。 When I was very little； Baba took Hassan and me to Kunduz。 I don t remember much about the trip； except sitting in the shade of an acacia tree with Baba and Hassan； taking turns sipping fresh watermelon juice from a clay pot and seeing who could spit the seeds farther。 Now Dan Rather； Tom Brokaw； and people sipping lattes at Starbucks were talking about the battle for Kunduz； the Taliban s last stronghold in the north。 That December； Pashtuns； Tajiks； Uzbeks； and Hazaras gathered in Bonn and； under the watchful eye of the UN； began the process that might someday end over twenty years of unhappiness in thei