In early 1999, I was watching TV, when I came across a story on Afghanistan. It was a story about the Taliban and the restrictions they were imposing on the Afghan people, most notably women. At some point in the story, there was a casual reference to them having banned the game of kite fighting. This detail struck a personal chord with me, as I had grown up in Kabul flying kite with my friends.

People in the countryside carry a sense of dignity. They wear it, don't they? Like a badge? I'm being genuine.

Those who saw Kite Runner loved the film, for the most part, people seemed to really like the film.

People find meaning and redemption in the most unusual human connections.

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.

The story of what has happened to women in Afghanistan, however, is a very important one, and fertile ground for fiction.

My father and I did work for a while at the flea market and there really are rows of Afghans working there, some of whom I am related to.