For You, A Thousand Times Over

I was told by a friend that I should read this book, The Kite Runner, prior to watching the movie... and so I did. I lapped it all up in one night. I am now ready to brave myself to watch the movie version.

The novel is more than a typical coming-of-age story - rather, it is about friendship, betrayal, personal salvation, redemption and healing on a very personal level. It is very rare for me to do so, but I need to set the "stage" by quoting from the first pages of the book:

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.

The Kite Runner, a novel by Afghan-American writer Khaled Hosseini, is the first novel to be written in English by an Afghan, and spans the period from before the 1979 Soviet invasion until the reconstruction following the fall of the odious Taliban. The themes are universal: familial relationships, particularly father and son; the price of disloyalty; the inhumanity of a rigid class system; and the horrific realities of war.

In Afghanistan, young Amir's earliest memories of life in Kabul are blessed with a cultural heritage that values tradition, blood ties and a deeply rooted cultural identity. Upper class Pashtuns, Amir enjoys the luxury of education, material comfort and a constant playmate, the son of his father's longtime Hazara servant, Hassan.

Twice in his lifetime Amir is morally tested in his relationship with Hassan. The first time, he is a victim of his own arrogance. Amir is cruel to Hassan, just as much as he values his friendship and loves him in his own way. Hassan stands up for Amir time and again, but Amir fails his friend, and on one particular day, the day of the famous kite flying contest, he fails him in a way which haunts him for years to come. Hiding behind the superiority of class, Amir chooses the path of least resistance, but the scar of betrayal cuts through his soul and never heals. That first failure dictates Amir's inner dialogue throughout his life, even in America, until he is offered another chance at personal redemption. Returned to his homeland at the request of an old family friend, the second challenge is equally perilous, and Amir recognizes the very real implications of his decision. This internal struggle is the underlying theme of the novel, which spans Afghanistan's history from the peaceful 70's to the repressive rule of the late '90s.

Played out on the world stage, a desperate battle to preserve the cultural heritage of Afghanistan spans Amir's life in Kabul and America. While Amir and his father reside safely in America, their homeland is decimated by constant warfare - streets lined with beggars, fatherless children whose future is marginalized by poverty: "There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood." The sweet simplicity of youthful winters spent "kite running" with Hassan seem light years away, illuminated by the boys' unfettered innocence.

Against this stark landscape, the adult Amir is challenged as never before, charged with the protection of a young life already scarred by the random violence visited upon the disenfranchised. With inordinate compassion and stunning simplicity, Hosseini portrays Amir's impossible dilemma. Complications abound, but the answer lies in humanity's capacity for kindness. The grace of acceptance heals the wounds of brutality, for with forgiveness anything is possible, even the wild joy of soaring kites against a winter sky.

Though we are told the story entirely from Amir's perspective, the "ghost" of Hassan lingers throughout the book. While Amir takes us primarily on a journey of redemption, Hassan takes us on a journey of love. He says to Amir, "For you, a thousand times over!" and these lines echoes twice more in the book, connecting Amir's destiny with Hassan's. Hassan is completely selfless; he never stops giving, even after he and Amir have parted. This is the path Amir struggles to find - the road that will lead him to forgiveness, peace, and eventually a changed heart that only wants to give, the kind of heart that he first experienced in knowing Hassan.

In the end, Amir, who grew up being served, has learned how to serve others. He knows that the mistakes he made in the past have been forgiven, and this allows him to be able to forgive himself.

This book resonates deeply with the messages of loyalty, love and forgiveness. Such things can never be too often written about, or talked about, or read about. Most of us are probably more like Amir than we would care to admit, but we constantly struggle to become like Hassan. Sometimes giving of ourselves hurts, and sometimes it seems like what we do is of no consequence anyway. But there is always a reason, because God has it all worked out in His Plan. And we can only stand in wonder - carrying out those plans, and with our arms opened, say to Him and to those around us: "for You, a thousand times over!"

At our human level, do we have our own "Amir" whom we would selflessly do anything for him "a thousand times over"?