one thing that hadn t changed in Kabul after all：
The kabob was as succulent and delicious as I remembered。
That night； I took the bed and Farid lay on the floor； wrapped himself with an extra blanket for which the hotel owner charged me an additional fee。 No light came into the room except for the moonbeams streaming through the broken window。 Farid said the owner had told him that Kabul had been without electricity for two days now and his generator needed fixing。 We talked for a while。 He told me about growing up in Mazar…i…Sharif； in Jalalabad。 He told me about a time shortly after he and his father joined the jihad and fought the Shorawi in the Panjsher Valley。 They were stranded without food and ate locust to survive。 He told me of the day helicopter gunfire killed his father； of the day the land mine took his two daughters。 He asked me about America。 I told him that in America you could step into a grocery store and buy any of fifteen or twenty different types of cereal。 The lamb was always fresh and the milk cold； the fruit plentiful and the water clear。 Every home had a TV； and every TV a remote； and you could get a satellite dish if you wanted。 Receive over five hundred channels。
Five hundred？ Farid exclaimed。
Five hundred。
We fell silent for a while。 Just when I thought he had fallen asleep； Farid chuckled。 Agha； did you hear what Mullah Nasrud din did when his daughter came home and plained that her husband had beaten her？ I could feel him smiling in the dark and a smile of my own formed on my face。 There wasn t an Afghan in the world who didn t know at least a few jokes about the bumbling mullah。
What？
He beat her too； then sent her back to tell the husband that Mullah was no fool： If the bastard was going to beat his daughter； then Mullah would beat his wife in return。
I laughed。 Partly at the joke； partly at how Afghan humor never changed。 Wars were waged； the Internet was invented； and a robot had rolled on the surface of Mars； and in Afghanistan we were still telling Mullah Nasruddin jokes。 Did you hear about the time Mullah had placed a heavy bag on his shoulders and was riding his donkey？ I said。
No。
Someone on the street said why don t you put the bag on the donkey？ And he said； That would be cruel； I m heavy enough already for the poor thing。
We exchanged Mullah Nasruddin jokes until we ran out of them and we fell silent again。
Amir agha？ Farid said； startling me from near sleep。
Yes？
Why are you here？ I mean； why are you really here？
I told you。
For the boy？
For the boy。
Farid shifted on the ground。 It s hard to believe。
Sometimes I myself can hardly believe I m here。
No。。。 What I mean to ask is why that boy？ You e all the way from America for。。。 a Shi a？
That killed all the laughter in me。 And the sleep。 I am tired； I said。 Let s just get some sleep。
Farid s snoring soon echoed through the empty room。 I stayed awake； hands crossed on my chest； staring into the starlit night through the broken window； and thinking that maybe what people said about Afghanistan was true。 Maybe it was a hopeless place。
A BUSTLING CROWD was filling Ghazi Stadium when we walked through the entrance tunnels。 Thousands of people milled about the tightly packed concrete terraces。 Children played in the aisles and chased each other up and down the steps。 The scent of garbanzo beans in spicy sauce hung in the air； mixed with the smell of dung and sweat。 Farid and I walked past street peddlers selling cigarettes； pine nuts； and biscuits。
A scrawny boy in a tweed jacket grabbed my elbow and spoke into my ear。 Asked me if I wanted to buy some sexy pictures。
Very sexy； Agha； he said； his alert eyes darting side to side…… reminding me of a girl who； a few years earlier； had tried to sell me crack in the Tenderloin district in San Francisco。 The kid peeled one side of his jacket open and gave me a fleeting glance of his sexy pictures： postcards of Hindi movies showing
doe…eyed sultry actresses； fully dressed； in the arms of their leading men。 So sexy； he repeated。
Nay； thanks； I said； pushing past him。
He gets caught； they ll give him a flogging that will waken his father in the grave； Farid muttered。
There was no assigned seating； of course。 No one to show us politely to our section； aisle； row； and seat。 There never had been； even in the old days of the monarchy。 We found a decent spot to sit； just left of midfield； though it took some shoving and elbowing on Farid s part。
I remembered how green the playing field grass had been in the 70s when Baba used to bring me to soccer games here。 Now the pitch was a mess。 There were holes and craters everywhere； most notably a pair of deep holes in the ground behind the southend goalposts。 And there was no grass at all； just dirt。 When the two teams finally took the field……all wearing long pants despite the heat……and play began； it became difficult to follow the ball in the clouds of dust kicked up by the players。 Young； whip…toting Talibs roamed the aisles； striking anyone who cheered too loudly。
They brought them out shortly after the halftime whistle blew。 A pair of dusty red pickup trucks； like the ones I d seen around town since I d arrived； rode into the stadium through the gates。 The crowd rose to its feet。 A woman dressed in a green burqa sat in the cab of one truck； a blindfolded man in the other。 The trucks drove around the track； slowly； as if to let the crowd get a long look。 It had the desired effect： People craned their necks； pointed； stood on tiptoes。 Next to me； Farid s Adam s apple bobbed up and down as he mumbled a prayer under his breath。
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