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drooping between his shoulders。 His knees roll on the hard ground and bleed through his pants as he rocks in prayer。 It is late afternoon and his long shadow sways back and forth on the gravel。 He is muttering something under his breath。 I step closer。 A thousand times over； he mutters。 For you a thousand times over。 Back and forth he rocks。 He lifts his face。 I see a faint scar above his upper lip。
We are not alone。
I see the barrel first。 Then the man standing behind him。 He is tall； dressed in a herringbone vest and a black turban。 He looks down at the blindfolded man before him with eyes that show nothing but a vast； cavernous emptiness。 He takes a step back and raises the barrel。 Places it on the back of the kneeling man s head。 For a moment； fading sunlight catches in the metal and twinkles。
The rifle roars with a deafening crack。
I follow the barrel on its upward arc。 I see the face behind the plume of smoke swirling from the muzzle。 I am the man in the herringbone vest。
I woke up with a scream trapped in my throat。
I STEPPED OUTSIDE。 Stood in the silver tarnish of a half…moon and glanced up to a sky riddled with stars。 Crickets chirped in the shuttered darkness and a wind wafted through the trees。 The ground was cool under my bare feet and suddenly； for the first time since we had crossed the border； I felt like I was back。 After all these years； I was home again； standing on the soil of my ancestors。 This was the soil on which my great…grandfather had married his third wife a year before dying in the cholera epidemic that hit Kabul in 1915。 She d borne him what his first two wives had failed to； a son at last。 It was on this soil that my grandfather had gone on a hunting trip with King Nadir Shah and shot a deer。 My mother had died on this soil。 And on this soil； I had fought for my father s love。
I sat against one of the house s clay walls。 The kinship I felt suddenly for the old land。。。 it surprised me。 I d been gone long enough to forget and be forgotten。 I had a home in a land that might as well be in another galaxy to the people sleeping on the other side of the wall I leaned against。 I thought I had forgotten about this land。 But I hadn t。 And； under the bony glow of a halfmoon； I sensed Afghanistan humming under my feet。 Maybe Afghanistan hadn t forgotten me either。
I looked westward and marveled that； somewhere over those mountains； Kabul still existed。 It really existed； not just as an old memory； or as the heading of an AP story on page 15 of the San Francisco Chronicle。 Somewhere over those mountains in the west slept the city where my harelipped brother and I had run kites。 Somewhere over there； the blindfolded man from my dream had died a
needless death。 Once； over those mountains； I had made a choice。 And now； a quarter of a century later； that choice had landed me right back on this soil。
I was about to go back inside when I heard voices ing from the house。 I recognized one as Wahid s。
……nothing left for the children。
We re hungry but we re not savages！ He is a guest！ What was I supposed to do？ he said in a strained voice。