ttering the edges of the blankets thrown around them。 Behind them； a woman in a brown burqa carried a large clay pot on her shoulder； down a rutted path toward a string of mud houses。
Strange； I said。
What？
I feel like a tourist in my own country； I said； taking in a goatherd leading a half…dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road。
Farid snickered。 Tossed his cigarette。 You still think of this place as your country？
I think a part of me always will； I said； more defensively than I had intended。
After twenty years of living in America； he said； swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball。
I nodded。 I grew up in Afghanistan。 Farid snickered again。
Why do you do that？
Never mind； he murmured。
No； I want to know。 Why do you do that？
In his rearview mirror； I saw something flash in his eyes。 You want to know？ he sneered。 Let me imagine； Agha sahib。 You probably lived in a big two… or three…story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees。 All gated； of course。 Your father drove an American car。 You had servants； probably Hazaras。 Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw； so their friends would e over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America。 And I would bet my first son s eyes that this is the first time you ve ever worn a pakol。 He grinned at me； revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth。 Am I close？
Why are you saying these things？ I said。
Because you wanted to know； he spat。 He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path； a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back。 That s the real Afghanistan； Agha sahib。 That s the Afghanistan I know。 You？ You ve always been a tourist here； you just didn t know it。
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm wele in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars。 I m sorry about your father； I said。 I m sorry about your daughters； and I m sorry about your hand。
That means nothing to me； he said。 He shook his head。 Why are you ing back here anyway？ Sell off your Baba s land？ Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America？
My mother died giving birth to me； I said。
He sighed and lit another cigarette。 Said nothing。
Pull over。
What？
Pull over； goddamn it！ I said。 I m going to be sick。 I tumbled out of the truck as it was ing to a rest on the gravel alongside the road。
BY LATE AFTERNOON； the terrain had changed from one of sun…beaten peaks and barren cliffs to a greener； more rural land scape。 The main pass had descended from Landi Kotal through Shinwari territory to Landi Khana。 We d entered Afghanistan at Torkham。 Pine trees flanked the road； fewer than I remembered and many of them bare； but it was good to see trees again after the arduous drive through the Khyber Pass。 We were getting closer to Jalalabad； where Farid had a brother who would take us in for the night。
The sun hadn t quite set when we drove into Jalalabad； capital of the state of Nangarhar； a city once renowned for its fruit and warm climate。 Farid drove past the buildings and stone houses of the city s central district。 There weren t as many palm trees there as I remembered； and some of the homes had been reduced to roofless walls and piles of twisted clay。
Farid turned onto a narrow unpaved road and parked the Land Cruiser along a dried…up gutter。 I slid out of the truck； stretched； and took a deep breath。 In the old days； the winds swept through the irrigated plains around Jalalabad where