I unfolded the letter. It was written in Farsi. No dots were omitted, no crosses forgotten, no words blurred together--the handwriting was almost childlike in its neatness. I began to read: In the name of Allah the most beneficent, the most merciful, Amir agha, with my deepest respects. Farzana jan, Sohrab, and I pray that this latest letter finds you in good health and in the light of Allah’s good graces. Please offer my warmest thanks to Rahim Khan sahib for carrying it to you. I am hopeful that one day I will hold one of your letters in my hands and read of your life in America. Perhaps a photograph of you will even grace our eyes. I have told much about you to Farzana jan and Sohrab, about us growing up together and playing games and running in the streets. They laugh at the stories of all the mischief you and I used to cause! Amir agha, Alas the Afghanistan of our youth is long dead. Kindness is gone from the land and you cannot escape the killings. Always the killings. In Kabul, fear is everywhere, in the streets, in the stadium, in the markets, it is a part of our lives here, Amir agha. The savages who rule our watan don’t care about human decency. The other day, I accompanied Farzana Jan to the bazaar to buy some potatoes and _naan_. She asked the vendor how much the potatoes cost, but he did not hear her, I think he had a deaf ear. So she asked louder and suddenly a young Talib ran over and hit her on the thighs with his wooden stick. He struck her so hard she fell down. He was screaming at her and cursing and saying the Ministry of Vice and Virtue does not allow women to speak loudly. She had a large purple bruise on her leg for days but what could I do except stand and watch my wife get beaten? If I fought, that dog would have surely put a bullet in me, and gladly! Then what would happen to my Sohrab? The streets are full enough already of hungry orphans and every day I thank Allah that I am alive, not because I fear death, but because my wife has a husband and my son is not an orphan. I wish you could see Sohrab. He is a good boy. Rahim Khan sahib and I have taught him to read and write so he does not grow up stupid like his father. And can he shoot with that slingshot! I take Sohrab around Kabul sometimes and buy him candy. There is still a monkey man in Shar-e Nau and if we run into him, I pay him to make his monkey dance for Sohrab. You should see how he laughs! The two of us often walk up to the cemetery on the hill. Do you remember how we used to sit under the pomegranate tree there and read from the _Shahnamah_? The droughts have dried the hill and the tree hasn’t borne fruit in years, but Sohrab and I still sit under its shade and I read to him from the _Shahnamah_. It is not necessary to tell you that his favorite part is the one with his namesake, Rostam and Sohrab. Soon he will be able to read from the book himself. I am a very proud and very lucky father. 我展開那封信。用法爾西語寫的，沒有漏寫的標點，沒有遺忘的筆畫，沒有模糊的字詞——字跡整潔得近乎孩子氣。我看了起來： 以最仁慈、最悲憫的安拉之名我最尊敬的阿米爾少爺：親愛的法莎娜、索拉博和我祈望你見信安好，蒙受安拉的恩寵。請替我謝謝拉辛汗老爺，將這封信帶給你。我希望有朝一日，我能親手捧着你的來信，讀到你在美國的生活。也許我們還會有幸看到你的照片。我告訴親愛的法莎娜和索拉博很多次，那些我們過去一起長大、玩遊戲、在街上追風箏的事情。聽到我們過去的惡作劇，他們會大笑起來！ 阿米爾少爺，你少年時的那個阿富汗已經死去很久了。這個國度不再有仁慈，殺戮無從避免。在喀布爾，恐懼無所不在，在街道上，在體育館中，在市場裏面；在這裏，這是生活的一部分，阿米爾少爺。統治我們祖國的野蠻人根本不顧人類的尊嚴。有一天，我陪着親愛的法莎娜到市場去買土豆和饢餅。她問店主土豆多少錢，但他充耳不聞，我以爲他是個聾子。所以她提高聲音，又問了一句。突然間有個年輕的塔利班跑過來，用他的木棒打她的大腿。他下手很重，她倒了下去。他朝她破口大罵，說“道德風化部”禁止婦女高聲說話。她腿上浮出一大塊淤腫，好幾天都沒消，但我除了束手無策地站在一旁看着自己的妻子被毆打之外，還能做什麼呢？如果我反抗，那個狗雜碎肯定會給我一顆子彈，並洋洋自得。那麼我的索拉博該怎麼辦？街頭巷尾已經滿是飢腸轆轆的孤兒，每天我都會感謝安拉，讓我還活着，不是因爲我怕死，而是爲了我的妻子仍有丈夫，我的兒子不致成爲孤兒。 我希望你能見到索拉博，他是個乖男孩。拉辛汗老爺和我教他讀書識字，所以他長大成人之後，不至於像他父親那樣愚蠢。而且他還會射彈弓！有時我帶索拉博到喀布爾遊玩，給他買糖果。沙裏諾區那邊仍有個耍猴人，如果我們到他那兒去，我會付錢給他，讓猴子跳舞給索拉博看。你應該見到他笑得多麼開心！我們兩個常常走上山頂的墓地。你還記得嗎，過去我們坐在那兒的石榴樹下面，念着《沙納瑪》的故事？旱災令山上變得很乾，那株樹已經多年沒有結果實了，但索拉博和我仍坐在樹下，我給他念《沙納瑪》。不用說你也知道，他最喜歡的部分是他名字的來源，羅斯坦和索拉博的故事。很快他就能夠自己看書了。我真是個非常驕傲和非常幸運的父親。
