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ness in their watan。 Hamid Karzai s caracul hat and green chapan became famous。
Sohrab sleepwalked through it all。
Soraya and I became involved in Afghan projects； as much out of a sense of civil duty as the need for something……anything……to fill the silence upstairs； the silence that sucked everything in like a black hole。 I had never been the active type before； but when a man named Kabir； a former Afghan ambassador to Sofia； called and asked if I wanted to help him with a hospital project； I said yes。 The small hospital had stood near the Afghan…Pakistani border and had a small surgical unit that treated Afghan refugees with land mine injuries。 But it had closed down due to a lack of funds。 I became the project manager； Soraya my anager。 I spent most of my days in the study； e…mailing people around the world； applying for grants； organizing fund…raising events。 And telling myself that bringing Sohrab here had been the right thing to do。
The year ended with Soraya and me on the couch； blanket spread over our legs； watching Dick Clark on TV。 People cheered and kissed when the silver ball dropped； and confetti whitened the screen。 In our house； the new year began much the same way the last one had ended。 In silence。
THEN； FOUR DAYS AGO； on a cool rainy day in March 2002； a small； wondrous thing happened。
I took Soraya； Khala Jamila； and Sohrab to a gathering of Afghans at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont。 The general had finally been summoned to Afghanistan the month before for a ministry position； and had flown there two weeks earlier……he had left behind his gray suit and pocket watch。 The plan was for Khala Jamila to join him in a few months once he had settled。 She missed him terribly……and worried about his health there……and we had insisted she stay with us for a while。
The previous Thursday； the first day of spring； had been the Afghan New Year s Day……the Sawl…e…Nau……and Afghans in the Bay Area had planned celebrations
throughout the East Bay and the peninsula。 Kabir； Soraya； and I had an additional reason to rejoice： Our little hospital in Rawalpindi had opened the week before； not the surgical unit； just the pediatric clinic。 But it was a good start； we all agreed。
It had been sunny for days； but Sunday morning； as I swung my legs out of bed； I heard raindrops pelting the window。 Afghan luck； I thought。 Snickered。 I prayed morning _namaz_ while Soraya slept……I didn t have to consult the prayer pamphlet I had obtained from the mosque anymore； the verses came naturally now； effortlessly。
We arrived around noon and found a handful of people taking cover under a large rectangular plastic sheet mounted on six poles spiked to the ground。 Someone was already frying bolani； steam rose from teacups and a pot of cauliflower aush。 A scratchy old Ahmad Zahir song was blaring from a cassette player。 I smiled a little as the four of us rushed across the soggy grass field； Soraya and I in the lead； Khala Jamila in the middle； Sohrab behind us； the hood of his yellow raincoat bouncing on his back。
What s so funny？ Soraya said； holding a folded newspaper over her head。
You can take Afghans out of Paghman； but you can t take Paghman out of Afghans； I said。
We stooped under the makeshift tent。 Soraya and Khala Jamila drifted toward an overweight woman frying spinach bolani。 Sohrab stayed under the canopy for a moment； then stepped back out into the rain； hands stuffed in the pockets of his raincoat； his hair……now brown and straight like Hassan s……plastered against his scalp。 He stopped near a coffee…colored puddle and stared at it。 No one seemed to notice。 No one call