Disclaimer: all characters belong to Khaleed Hosseini, the author of breathtaking book, Kite Runner.

This is my first attempt to write fanfiction of anything but Naruto and Muse, in English. Any constructive criticism and flame are welcome!



Dear Hassan,

I can't believe how time flies. I remember when you were a baby. I was holding you in my arms. You were so small, so fragile. Your small eyes and harelips never seem to blame your mother for leaving you. Neither have they seemed to blame me for giving you back to the wise crippled-man whom you call "father". You seem to take for granted every wrong thing people have done to you.

It hurts me deeply. But I have to hide it.

Now you've grown. Shorter than your brother. Quieter than him. Wiser than him. Braver than him. I wish you had his schooled brain. I wish he had you courage. I wish he could defend himself from anyone. I wish you don't have to stand up for him anymore. I wish you two had the same courage and intellect.

But people can't have them all. Not even two siblings. One must sacrifices. And it's always you.

I wish you could curse at me for denying you, condemn your mother for leaving you, or slap your brother for slanting you. Yes, I know he did. I don't know why, but I know he did it to you. We all do our part in hurting you. Your deformed lips were my punishment. Looking at them always bring me back to filthy things that I've done. They seem pointing at me and saying, "You did this to me. You stay but you leave me. What kind of father are you?"

A disgusting one.

I let you call that poor and crippled man father. I let you learn to serve me and your brother with your life, your full existence. I let you lower yourself so low that nobody thinks you're worth of our honor. I let you defend your brother's betrayal in a way that I couldn't imagine. I let you leave us and walk towards poverty and insignificance.

I tried to stop you. But I didn't try hard enough. I didn't tell you everything you should know. I didn't try to make you feel attached to us, to our bloodline.

But maybe, you'd refused me. When dignity is all that's left, would you trade it for wealth and social ladder? I know you wouldn't. You're my son, after all.

Dear Hassan,

I wish you were here, with me and your brother. People consume cracks, shoot handgun here and there. Things are not all pretty here. We have no mansion to run around freely or to store your brother's book collections. We have no wealth to indulge ourselves. Some people still call us agha or jan, but most people don't bother to watch their language when they speak to us. We lack many things we had and loved back then. Yes, we fled. It means we lack bravery to bear a living in once beautiful but now downtrodden country. But there are things we lack, and we're happy about it.

We lack canon firing and tanks roaming.

I can't imagine how your life there, in our beloved country. You're a pure soul living in human-made hell. You're an angel afflicted by vicious and dirty hands. Yes, you're an angel. It's you, not a long-bearded guy in white robes who gives any shit to be written in holy verses and chanted by stupid mullahs to camouflage their low moral. If God exists, angel must be someone like you. If God exists, Kabul would not be a firing field with human corpses as the fertilizers. If God does exist, He would not allow our beloved country torn into pieces and be the joke of the world. If God does exist, He would not let Hazaras be insulted and treated like shit. If God does exist, He would make you call me Baba since the first day you know what the word means. If God really exists, you and your brother would go to college, or join the army, and make my grandchildren wear my surname.

But after all, I'm a Pashtun and you're only a Hazara.