e and gave himself a self…satisfied look in the rearview mirror。 He was a Tajik； a lanky； dark man with a weather…beaten face； narrow shoulders； and a long neck punctuated by a protruding Adam s apple that only peeked from behind his beard when he turned his head。 He was dressed much as I was； though I suppose it was really the other way around： a rough…woven wool blanket wrapped over a gray pirhan…tumban and a vest。 On his head； he wore a brown pakol； tilted slightly to one side； like the Tajik hero Ahmad 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 th