Hassan and I grew up a generation later。 Baba was always telling us about the mischief he and Ali used to cause； and Ali would shake his head and say； But； Agha sahib； tell them who was the architect of the mischief and who the poor laborer？ Baba would laugh and throw his arm around Ali。
But in none of his stories did Baba ever refer to Ali as his friend。
The curious thing was； I never thought of Hassan and me as friends either。 Not in the usual sense； anyhow。 Never mind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands； or to build a fully functional homemade camera out of a cardboard box。 Never mind that we spent entire winters flying kites； running kites。 Never mind that to me； the face of Afghanistan is that of a boy with a thin…boned frame； a shaved head； and low…set ears； a boy with a Chinese doll face perpetually lit by a harelipped smile。
Never mind any of those things。 Because history isn t easy to overe。 Neither is religion。 In the end； I was a Pashtun and he was a Hazara； I was Sunni and he was Shi a； and nothing was ever going to change that。 Nothing。
But we were kids who had learned to crawl together； and no history； ethnicity； society； or religion was going to change that either。 I spent most of the first twelve years of my life playing with Hassan。 Sometimes； my entire childhood seems like one long lazy summer day with Hassan； chasing each other between tangles of trees in my father s yard； playing hide…and…seek； cops and robbers； cowboys and Indians； insect torture……with our crowning achievement undeniably the time we plucked the stinger off a bee and tied a string around the poor thing to yank it back every time it took flight。
We chased the _Kochi_； the nomads who passed through Kabul on their way to the mountains of the north。 We would hear their caravans approaching our neighborhood； the mewling of their sheep； the _baa_ing of their goats； the jingle of bells around their camels necks。 We d run outside to watch the caravan plod through our street； men with dusty； weather…beaten faces and women dressed in long； colorful shawls； beads； and silver bracelets around their wrists and ankles。 We hurled pebbles at their goats。 We squirted water on their mules。 I d make Hassan sit on the Wall of Ailing Corn and fire pebbles with his slingshot at the camels rears。
We saw our first Western together； _Rio Bravo_ with John Wayne； at the Cinema Park； across the street from my favorite bookstore。 I remember begging Baba to take us to Iran so we could meet John Wayne。 Baba burst out in gales of his deepthroated laughter……a sound not unlike a truck engine revving up……and； when he could talk again； explained to us the concept of voice dubbing。 Hassan and I were stunned。 Dazed。 John Wayne didn t really speak Farsi and he wasn t Iranian！ He was American； just like the friendly； longhaired men and women we always saw hanging around in Kabul； dressed in their tattered； brightly colored shirts。 We saw _Rio Bravo_ three times； but we saw our favorite Western； _The Magnificent Seven_； thirteen times。 With each viewing； we cried at the end when the Mexican kids buried Charles Bronson……who； as it turned out； wasn t Iranian either。
We took strolls in the musty…smelling bazaars of the Shar…e…Nau section of Kabul； or the new city； west of the Wazir Akbar Khan district。 We talked about whatever film we had just seen and walked amid the bustling crowds of _bazarris_。 We snaked our way among the merchants and the beggars； wandered through narrow alleys cramped with rows of tiny； tightly packed stalls。 Baba gave us each a weekly allowance of ten Afghanis and we spent it on warm Coca…Cola and rosewater ice cream topped with crushed pistachios。
During the school year； we had a daily routine。 By the time I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered to the bathroom； Hassan had already washed up； prayed the morning _namaz_ with Ali； and prepared my breakfast： hot black tea with three sugar cubes and a slice of toasted _naan_ topped with my favorite sour cherry marmalade； all neatly placed on the dining table。 While I ate and plained about homework； Hassan made my bed； polished my shoes； ironed my outfit for the day； packed my books and pencils。 I d hear him singing to himself in the foyer as he ironed； singing old Hazara songs in his nasal voice。 Then； Baba and I drove off in his black Ford Mustang……a car that drew envious looks everywhere because it was the same car Steve McQueen had driven in _Bullitt_； a film that played in one theater for six months。 Hassan stayed home and helped Ali with the day s chores： hand…washing dirty clothes and hanging them to dry in the yard； sweeping the floors； buying fresh _naan_ from the bazaar； marinating meat for dinner； watering the lawn。
After school； Hassan and I met up； grabbed a book； and trotted up a bowl…shaped hill just north of my father s property in Wazir Akbar Khan。 There was an old
abandoned cemetery atop the hill with rows of unmarked headstones and tangles of brushwood clogging the aisles。 Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty and left the cemetery s low white stone walls in decay。 There was a pomegranate tree near the entrance to the cemetery。 One summer day； I used one of Ali s kitchen knives to carve our names on it： Amir and Hassan； the sultans of Kabul。 Those words made it formal： the tree was ours。 After school； Hassan and I climbed its branches and snatched its bloodred pomegranates。 After we d eaten the fruit and wiped our hands on the grass； I would read to Hassan。
Sitting cross…legged； sunlight and shadows of pomegranate leaves dancing on his face； Hassan absently plucked blades of grass from t