I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn’t.

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.

After everything he'd built, planned, fought for, fretted over, dreamed of, this was the summation of his life; one disappointing son and two suitcases.

Life goes on, unmindful of beginning, end…crisis or catharsis, moving forward like a slow, dusty caravan of kochis (nomads).

A boy who won't stand up for himself becomes a man who can't stand up to anything.

There was brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that even time could not break. - Amir

Gone. Vanished. Nothing left. Nothing said.