ess woman who plays the accordion every day on the corner of Sutter and Stockton； and spotted an American flag sticker on the accordion case at her feet。
Soon after the attacks； America bombed Afghanistan； the Northern Alliance moved in； and the Taliban scurried like rats into the caves。 Suddenly； people were standing in grocery store lines and talking about the cities of my childhood； Kandahar； Herat； Mazar…i…Sharif。 When I was very little； Baba took Hassan and me to Kunduz。 I don t remember much about the trip； except sitting in the shade of an acacia tree with Baba and Hassan； taking turns sipping fresh watermelon juice from a clay pot and seeing who could spit the seeds farther。 Now Dan Rather； Tom Brokaw； and people sipping lattes at Starbucks were talking about the battle for Kunduz； the Taliban s last stronghold in the north。 That December； Pashtuns； Tajiks； Uzbeks； and Hazaras gathered in Bonn and； under the watchful eye of the UN； began the process that might someday end over twenty years of unhappiness 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 called him back in。 With time； the queries about our adopted……and decidedly eccentric……little boy had mercifully ceased； and； considering how tactless Afghan queries can be sometimes； that was a considerable relief。 People stopped asking why he never spoke。 Why he didn t play with the other kids。 And best of all； they stopped suffocating us with their exaggerated empathy； their slow head shaking； their tsk tsks； their Oh gung bichara。 Oh； poor little mute one。 The novelty had worn off。 Like dull wallpaper； Sohrab had blended into the background。
I shook hands with Kabir； a small； silver…haired man。 He introduced me to a dozen men； one of them a retired teacher； another an engineer； a former architect； a surgeon who was now running a hot dog stand in Hayward。 They all said they d known Baba in Kabul； and they spoke about him respectfully。 In one way or another； he had touched all their lives。 The men said I was lucky to have had such a great man for a father。
We chatted about the difficult and maybe thankless