； scared； all at the same time。 Hassan lay with his chest pinned to the ground。 Kamal and Wali each gripped an arm； twisted and bent at the elbow so that Hassan s hands were pressed to his back。 Assef was standing over them； the heel of his snow boots crushing the back of Hassan s neck。
Your father won t find out； Assef said。 And there s nothing sinful about teaching a lesson to a disrespectful donkey。
I don t know； Wali muttered。
Suit yourself； Assef said。 He turned to Kamal。 What about you？
I。。。 well。。。
It s just a Hazara； Assef said。 But Kamal kept looking away。
Fine； Assef snapped。 All I want you weaklings to do is hold him down。 Can you manage that？
Wali and Kamal nodded。 They looked relieved。
Assef knelt behind Hassan； put his hands on Hassan s hips and lifted his bare buttocks。 He kept one hand on Hassan s back and undid his own belt buckle with his free hand。 He unzipped his jeans。 Dropped his underwear。 He positioned himself behind Hassan。 Hassan didn t struggle。 Didn t even whimper。 He moved his head slightly and I caught a glimpse of his face。 Saw the resignation in it。 It was a look I had seen before。 It was the look of the lamb。
TOMORROW IS THE TENTH DAY of Dhul…Hijjah； the last month of the Muslim calendar； and the first of three days of Eid AlAdha； or Eid…e…Qorban； as Afghans call it……a day to celebrate how the prophet Ibrahim almost sacrificed his own son for God。 Baba has handpicked the sheep again this year； a powder white one with crooked black ears。
We all stand in the backyard； Hassan； Ali； Baba； and I。 The mullah recites the prayer； rubs his beard。 Baba mutters； Get on with it； under his breath。 He sounds annoyed with the endless praying； the ritual of making the meat halal。 Baba mocks the story behind this Eid； like he mocks everything religious。 But he respects the tradition of Eid…e…Qorban。 The custom is to divide the meat in thirds； one for the family； one for friends； and one for the poor。 Every year； Baba gives it all to the poor。 The rich are fat enough already； he says。
The mullah finishes the prayer。 Ameen。 He picks up the kitchen knife with the long blade。 The custom is to not let the sheep see the knife。 All feeds the animal a cube of sugar……another custom； to make death sweeter。 The sheep kicks； but not much。 The mullah grabs it under its jaw and places the blade on its neck。 Just a second before he slices the throat in one expert motion； I see the sheep s eyes。 It is a look that will haunt my dreams for weeks。 I don t know why I watch this yearly ritual in our backyard； my nightmares persist long after the bloodstains on the grass have faded。 But I always watch。 I watch because of that look of acceptance in the animal s eyes。 Absurdly； I imagine the animal understands。 I imagine the animal sees that its imminent demise is for a higher purpose。 This is the look。。。
I STOPPED WATCHING； turned away from the alley。 Something warm was running down my wrist。 I blinked； saw I was still biting down on my fist； hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles。 I realized something else。 I was weeping。 From just around the corner； I could hear Assef s quick； rhythmic grunts。
I had one last chance to make a decision。 One final opportunity to decide who I was going to be。 I could step into that alley； stand up for Hassan……the way he d stood up for me all those times in the past……and accept whatever would happen to me。 Or I could run。
In the end； I ran。
I ran because I was a coward。 I was afraid of Assef and what he would do to me。 I was afraid of getting hurt。 That s what I told myself as I turned my back to the alley；