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Shah Massoud……referred to by Tajiks as the Lion of Panjsher。
It was Rahim Khan who had introduced me to Farid in Peshawar。 He told me Farid was twenty…nine； though he had the wary； lined face of a man twenty years older。 He was born in Mazar…i…Sharif and lived there until his father moved the family to Jalalabad when Farid was ten。 At fourteen； he and his father had joined the jihad against the Shorawi。 They had fought in the Panjsher Valley for two years until helicopter gunfire had torn the older man to pieces。 Farid had two wives and five children。 He used to have seven； Rahim Khan said with a rueful look； but he d lost his two youngest girls a few years earlier in a land mine blast just outside Jalalabad； the same explosion that had severed toes from his feet and three fingers from his left hand。 After that； he had moved his wives and children to Peshawar。
Checkpoint； Farid grumbled。 I slumped a little in my seat； arms folded across my chest； forgetting for a moment about the nausea。 But I needn t have worried。 Two Pakistani militia approached our dilapidated Land Cruiser； took a cursory glance inside； and waved us on。
Farid was first on… the list of preparations Rahim Khan and I made； a list that included exchanging dollars for Kaldar and Afghani bills； my garment and pakol……ironically； I d never worn either when I d actually lived in Afghanistan……the Polaroid of Hassan and Sohrab； and； finally； perhaps the most important item： an artificial beard； black and chest length； Shari a friendly……or at least the Taliban version of Shari a。 Rahim Khan knew of a fellow in Peshawar who specialized in weaving them； sometimes for Western journalists who covered the war。
Rahim Khan had wanted me to stay with him a few more days； to plan more thoroughly。 But I knew I had to leave as soon as possible。 I was afraid I d change my mind。 I was afraid I d deliberate； ruminate； agonize； rationalize； and talk myself into not going。 I was afraid the appeal of my life in America would draw me back； that I would wade back into that great； big river and let myself forget； let the things I had learned these last few days sink to the bottom。 I was afraid that I d let the waters carry me away from what I had to do。 From Hassan。 From the past that had e calling。 And from this one last chance at redemption。 So I left before there was any possibility of that happening。 As for
Soraya； telling her I was going back to Afghanistan wasn t an option。 If I had； she would have booked herself on the next flight to Pakistan。
We had crossed the border and the signs of poverty were every where。 On either side of the road； I saw chains of little villages sprouting here and there； like discarded toys among the rocks； broken mud houses and huts consisting of little more than four wooden poles and a tattered cloth as a roof。 I saw children dressed in rags chasing a soccer ball outside the huts。 A few miles later； I spotted a cluster of men sitting on their haunches； like a row of crows； on the carcass of an old burned…out Soviet tank； the wind fluttering the edges of the blankets thrown around them。 Behind them； a woman in a brown burqa carried a large clay pot on her shoulder； down a rutted path toward a string of mud houses。
Strange； I said。
What？
I feel like a tourist in my own country； I said； taking in a goatherd leading a half…dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road。
Farid snickered。 Tossed his cigarette。 You still think of this place as your country？
I think a part of me always will； I said； more defensively than I had intended。
After twenty years of living in America； he said； swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball。
I nodded。 I grew up in Afghanistan。 Farid snickered again。
Why do you do that？
Never mind； he murmured。
No； I want to know。 Why do you do that？
In his rearview mirror； I saw something flash in his eyes。 You want to know？ he sneered。 Let me imagine； Agha sahib。 You probably lived in a big two… or three…story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees。 All gated； of course。 Your father drove an American car。 You had servants； probably Hazaras。 Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw； so their friends would e over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America。 And I would bet my first son s eyes that this is the first time you ve ever worn a pakol。 He grinned at me； revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth。 Am I close？
Why are you saying these things？ I said。
Because you wanted to know； he spat。 He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path； a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back。 That s the real Afghanistan； Agha sahib。 That s the Afghanistan I know。 You？ You ve always been a tourist here； you just didn t know it。
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm wele in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars。 I m sorry about your father； I said。 I m sorry about your daughters； and I m sorry about your hand。
That means nothing to me； he said。 He shook his head。 Why are you ing back here anyway？ Sell off your Baba s land？ Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America？
My mother died giving birth to me； I said。
He sighed and lit another cigarette。 Said nothing。
Pull over。
What？
Pull over； goddamn it！ I said。 I m going to be sick。 I tumbled out of the truck as it was ing to a rest on the gravel alongside the road。
BY LATE AFTERNOON； the terrain had changed from one of sun…beaten peaks and barren cliffs to a greener； more rural land scape。 The main pass had descended from Landi Kotal through Shinwari territory to Landi Khana。 We d entered Afghanistan at Torkham。 Pine trees flanked the road； fewer than I remembered and many of them bare； but it was good to see trees again after the arduous drive through the Khyber Pass。 We were getting closer to Jalalabad； where Farid had a brother who would take us in for the night。
The sun hadn t quite set when we drove into Jalalabad； capital of the state of Nangarhar；