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Authors: Khaled Hosseini
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string, or tar. If the kite was the gun, then tar, the glass-coated cutting line, was the bullet in the chamber. We’d go out in the yard and feed up to five hundred feet of
string through a mixture of ground glass and glue. We’d then hang the line between the trees, leave it to dry. The next day,
we’d wind the battle-ready line around a wooden spool. By the time the snow melted and the rains of spring swept in, every
boy in Kabul bore telltale horizontal gashes on his fingers from a whole winter of fighting kites. I remember how my classmates
and I used to huddle, compare our battle scars on the first day of school. The cuts stung and didn’t heal for a couple of
weeks, but I didn’t mind. They were reminders of a beloved season that had once again passed too quickly. Then the class captain
would blow his whistle and we’d march in a single file to our classrooms, longing for winter already, greeted instead by the
specter of yet another long school year.
But it quickly became apparent that Hassan and I were better kite fighters than kite makers. Some flaw or other in our design
always spelled its doom. So Baba started taking us to Saifo’s to buy our kites. Saifo was a nearly blind old man who was a moochi by profession—a shoe repairman. But he was also the city’s most famous kite maker, working out of a tiny hovel on Jadeh Maywand,
the crowded street south of the muddy banks of the Kabul River. I remember you had to crouch to enter the prison cell–sized
store, and then had to lift a trapdoor to creep down a set of wooden steps to the dank basement where Saifo stored his coveted
kites. Baba would buy us each three identical kites and spools of glass string. If I changed my mind and asked for a bigger
and fancier kite, Baba would buy it for me—but then he’d buy it for Hassan too. Sometimes I wished he wouldn’t do that. Wished
he’d let me be the favorite.
The kite-fighting tournament was an old winter tradition in Afghanistan. It started early in the morning on the day of the
contest and didn’t end until only the winning kite flew in the sky—I remember one year the tournament outlasted daylight.
People gathered on sidewalks and roofs to cheer for their kids. The streets filled with kite fighters, jerking and tugging
on their lines, squinting up to the sky, trying to gain position to cut the opponent’s line. Every kite fighter had an assistant—in
my case, Hassan—who held the spool and fed the line.
One time, a bratty Hindi kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood told us that in his hometown, kite fighting
had strict rules and regulations. “You have to play in a boxed area and you have to stand at a right angle to the wind,” he
said proudly. “And you can’t use aluminum to make your glass string.”
Hassan and I looked at each other. Cracked up. The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the century,
and what the Russians would eventually learn by the late 1980s: that Afghans are an independent people. Afghans cherish custom
but abhor rules. And so it was with kite fighting. The rules were simple: No rules. Fly your kite. Cut the opponents. Good
luck.
Except that wasn’t all. The real fun began when a kite was cut. That was where the kite runners came in, those kids who chased
the windblown kite drifting through the neighborhoods until it came spiraling down in a field, dropping in someone’s yard,
on a tree, or a rooftop. The chase got pretty fierce; hordes of kite runners swarmed the streets, shoved past each other like
those people from Spain I’d read about once, the ones who ran from the bulls. One year a neighborhood kid climbed a pine tree
for a kite. A branch snapped under his weight and he fell thirty feet. Broke his back and never walked again. But he fell
with the kite still in his hands. And when a kite runner had his hands on a kite, no one could take it from him. That
string through a mixture of ground glass and glue. We’d then hang the line between the trees, leave it to dry. The next day,
we’d wind the battle-ready line around a wooden spool. By the time the snow melted and the rains of spring swept in, every
boy in Kabul bore telltale horizontal gashes on his fingers from a whole winter of fighting kites. I remember how my classmates
and I used to huddle, compare our battle scars on the first day of school. The cuts stung and didn’t heal for a couple of
weeks, but I didn’t mind. They were reminders of a beloved season that had once again passed too quickly. Then the class captain
would blow his whistle and we’d march in a single file to our classrooms, longing for winter already, greeted instead by the
specter of yet another long school year.
But it quickly became apparent that Hassan and I were better kite fighters than kite makers. Some flaw or other in our design
always spelled its doom. So Baba started taking us to Saifo’s to buy our kites. Saifo was a nearly blind old man who was a moochi by profession—a shoe repairman. But he was also the city’s most famous kite maker, working out of a tiny hovel on Jadeh Maywand,
the crowded street south of the muddy banks of the Kabul River. I remember you had to crouch to enter the prison cell–sized
store, and then had to lift a trapdoor to creep down a set of wooden steps to the dank basement where Saifo stored his coveted
kites. Baba would buy us each three identical kites and spools of glass string. If I changed my mind and asked for a bigger
and fancier kite, Baba would buy it for me—but then he’d buy it for Hassan too. Sometimes I wished he wouldn’t do that. Wished
he’d let me be the favorite.
The kite-fighting tournament was an old winter tradition in Afghanistan. It started early in the morning on the day of the
contest and didn’t end until only the winning kite flew in the sky—I remember one year the tournament outlasted daylight.
People gathered on sidewalks and roofs to cheer for their kids. The streets filled with kite fighters, jerking and tugging
on their lines, squinting up to the sky, trying to gain position to cut the opponent’s line. Every kite fighter had an assistant—in
my case, Hassan—who held the spool and fed the line.
One time, a bratty Hindi kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood told us that in his hometown, kite fighting
had strict rules and regulations. “You have to play in a boxed area and you have to stand at a right angle to the wind,” he
said proudly. “And you can’t use aluminum to make your glass string.”
Hassan and I looked at each other. Cracked up. The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the century,
and what the Russians would eventually learn by the late 1980s: that Afghans are an independent people. Afghans cherish custom
but abhor rules. And so it was with kite fighting. The rules were simple: No rules. Fly your kite. Cut the opponents. Good
luck.
Except that wasn’t all. The real fun began when a kite was cut. That was where the kite runners came in, those kids who chased
the windblown kite drifting through the neighborhoods until it came spiraling down in a field, dropping in someone’s yard,
on a tree, or a rooftop. The chase got pretty fierce; hordes of kite runners swarmed the streets, shoved past each other like
those people from Spain I’d read about once, the ones who ran from the bulls. One year a neighborhood kid climbed a pine tree
for a kite. A branch snapped under his weight and he fell thirty feet. Broke his back and never walked again. But he fell
with the kite still in his hands. And when a kite runner had his hands on a kite, no one could take it from him. That
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