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 generation of Afghan children whose ears would know nothing but the sounds of bombs and gunfire was not yet born.

that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.

“Children aren’t coloring books. You don’t get to fill them with your favorite colors.”

despite his illiteracy, or maybe because of it, Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words, seduced by a secret world forbidden to him.

Because the past claws its way out.

that, I believe, is what true redemption is, Amir jan, when guilt leads to good.

“Remember, Amir agha. There’s no monster, just a beautiful day.” How could I be such an open book to him when, half the time, I had no idea what was milling around in his head? I was the one who went to school, the one who could read, write. I was the smart one. Hassan couldn’t read a first-grade textbook but he’d read me plenty. That was a little

I see how universal some human experiences are: shame, guilt, regret, friendship, love, forgiveness, atonement.