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And kites； of course。 Flying kites。 And running them。
For a few unfortunate kids； winter did not spell the end of the school year。 There were the so…called voluntary winter courses。 No kid I knew ever volunteered to go to these classes； parents； of course； did the volunteering for them。 Fortunately for me； Baba was not one of them。 I remember one kid； Ahmad； who lived across the street from us。 His father was some kind of doctor； I think。 Ahmad had epilepsy and always wore a wool vest and thick blackrimmed glasses……he was one of Assef s regular victims。 Every morning； I watched from my bedroom window as their Hazara servant shoveled snow from the driveway； cleared the way for the black Opel。 I made a point of watching Ahmad and his father get into the car； Ahmad in his wool vest and winter coat； his schoolbag filled with books and pencils。 I waited until they pulled away； turned the corner； then I slipped back into bed in my flannel pajamas。 I pulled the blanket to my chin and watched the snowcapped hills in the north through the window。 Watched them until I drifted back to sleep。
I loved wintertime in Kabul。 I loved it for the soft pattering of snow against my window at night； for the way fresh snow crunched under my black rubber boots； for the warmth of the cast…iron stove as the wind screeched through the yards； the streets。 But mostly because； as the trees froze and ice sheathed the roads； the chill between Baba and me thawed a little。 And the reason for that was the kites。 Baba and I lived in the same house； but in different spheres of existence。 Kites were the one paper thin slice of intersection between those spheres。
EVERY WINTER； districts in Kabul held a kite…fighting tournament。 And if you were a boy living in Kabul； the day of the tournament was undeniably the highlight of the cold season。 I never slept the night before the tournament。 I d roll from side to side； make shadow animals on the wall； even sit on the balcony in the dark； a blanket wrapped around me。 I felt like a soldier trying to sleep
in the trenches the night before a major battle。 And that wasn t so far off。 In Kabul； fighting kites was a little like going to war。
As with any war； you had to ready yourself for battle。 For a while； Hassan and I used to build our own kites。 We saved our weekly allowances in the fall； dropped the money in a little porcelain horse Raba had brought one time from Herat。 When the winds of winter began to blow and snow fell in chunks； we undid the snap under the horse s belly。 We went to the bazaar and bought bamboo； glue； string； and paper。 We spent hours every day shaving bamboo for the center and cross spars； cutting the thin tissue paper which made for easy dipping and recovery And then； of course； we had to make our own string； or tar。 If the kite was the gun； then _tar_； the glass…coated cutting line； was the bullet in the chamber。 We d go out in the yard and feed up to five hundred feet of string through a mixture of ground glass and glue。 We d then hang the line between the trees； leave it to dry。 The next day； we d wind the battle…ready line around a