Some Comments on The Kite Runner

Jonaid Sharif

I am writing these notes with tremendous respect for the author, although I almost know nothing about him. But it is a requirement of real respect that I offer a reading that reflects my honest opinion as an Afghan immigrant and a literary critic. That literary criticism in our part of the world has been traditionally rather subjective and frequently extreme, in both directions, makes it even more imperative that these comments be uninhibited rather than merely polite.

These comments are not really a review, as I assume that my readers have read the novel already. The parenthetical references indicate chapter numbers followed by page numbers from the Riverhead Trade paperback edition of 2004.

The first thing we need to do is place the book in an appropriate category. Novel is too vague a set which includes works by Toni Morrison and Leo Tolstoy on the one hand and entertainment focused, audience driven romances on the other. The Kite Runner, with several complex characters and a tragic, deeply human message, is perhaps somewhere in the between. Within that category, I would say it deserves the recognition and praise that it seems to have received. I have to confess I am writing this review purely based on my own reading, since the only review I read about it on the Internet, written by an Iranian fellow, made me so sick that I shut down my computer and vowed not to read any reviews, in Farsi in any case. But from what I hear from my own friends and relatives, few have any serious complaints, and everyone of them has enjoyed the story.

What are the strengths? To depart from the predominant mode of Farsi criticism, which generally leans towards social and political commentary, the first thing I like in The Kite Runner structurally is its wonderfully drawn characters. Topping the list is of course the father, affectionately called Baba. Opinionated, benevolent, considerate, easily provoked to anger, somewhat introvert, ready to start his evening with a drink -- quite typical of his generation, Pashtun or otherwise. At times, he is idealized as when he challenges the Russian soldier or refuses the food stamps. At times his language sounds tailored to an American audience, as in phrases like "peanut eater" referring to Jimmy Carter (11, 126). But Baba has within his psychology some room to accommodate eccentricity and role modeling. I like him best when he gets mad at the convenience store owner who would not accept his personal check without an ID, or when he comes across as a victim of tragedy: "After everything he'd built, planned, fought for, fretted over, dreamed of, this was the summation of his life: one disappointing son and two suitcases" (10, 124).

The narrator himself is likable too. With all the mischief and betrayal, with all the latent prejudice and selfishness, we manage to sympathize with him. We know his frailty, his capacity for evil, yet we identify with his brutal honesty and his potential "to be good again" (14, 192). The good that he does may have brought him redemption, but a more powerful force at work is revenge: Amir exacts this revenge by settling for a life stripped of any real flavor much less glamour. "For me, America was a place to bury my memories," he declares (11, 129). We know that has not happened. What has happened is a mundane existence suppressed by a shadow, obscured by a cloud. It is only fitting that a vice in relationships should be punished in relationships:

"Sometimes, Soraya sleeping next to me, I lay in bed and listened to the screen door swinging open and shut with the breeze, to the crickets chirping in the yard. And I could almost feel the emptiness in Soraya's womb, like it was a living, breathing thing. It had seeped into our marriage, that emptiness, into our laughs, and our lovemaking. And late at night, in the darkness of our room, I'd feel it rising from Soraya and settling between us. Sleeping between us. Like a newborn child" (13, 189).

Hassan, the half-brother, may not be a complex character in the technical sense of the word, but I read him and like him as a mythic, almost divine entity appropriately associated with the epic Shah Naama and also appropriately linked to the sacrificial tradition of the Shii'a. The author may have had in mind the "inverted" Oedipal conflict--minus the incest-- which constitutes one of the central themes of the Shah Naama (The Epic of the Kings): A father kills his son unknowingly, recognizing him only when it is too late. Hassan is the embodiment of loyalty, brotherly love and friendship, intelligence, even talent. Recall the anger that Amir experiences when he finds out that Hassan understands plot and irony better than he does.

These are values idealized in the culture of the region and thousands actually live by them, thousands more aspiring to do so. They are an integral part of the folklore and history of all ethnicities that make up the area. So Hassan, named after the Prophet's grandson and the Fourth Calif Ali's son, himself a victim of murder and intrigue, offers us a powerful creation, albeit one that does not and is not intended to meet realistic criteria.. Incidentally, I do not mean to suggest that these names are symbolic and allegorical, since Hassan, Hussain, Ali and Reza are names of choice among the Shii'a.

To skip some other well-developed characters -- Khala Jamila, for example -- let me be blunt about those I don't think are complex or interesting. One central figure that appears abstract and uninteresting is Rahim Khan, who functions more like a voice of wisdom and reason than a real person. He does not even pray his namaz in the correct direction "bowing eastward," while it should be westward from Pakistan. I am not quite sure if this is an oversight on the author's part, or there is something I don't understand about the sentence (18, 227). At any rate, so much about him is expedience and convention. "I see America has infused you with the optimism that has made her so great." (15, 201). "''Collateral damage', Rahim Khan said." (15, 200). These are not things a real Rahim Khan, who has barely left Afghanistan, would have thought or said. One also wonders why so many characters had to meet their death in that one story within the story that Rahim Khan has to tell.

Unfortunately, Sohrab, Hassan's son, is not very believable either. In fact, the narrative becomes melodramatic as soon as Amir leaves Fremont. Aristotle had told us long ago that poetry is more true than truth itself. What we see happening to Hassan, Sohrab, Amir, Farzana (Hassan's wife), the hanged bodies, Assef... may be based on actual facts, but they still contaminate the story with too many events too hastily narrated to retain complexity or depth.

Traces of such forced narration and execution (pun intended) can be found earlier on also. One of my least favorite chapters is 10, which describes the escape. Again, not entirely unlikely, the events smell of anecdotes and newspaper accounts. Especially annoying is the Russian soldier who sings the "Ahesta boro." The intention here, as in the dance that Sohrab performs at Assef's, seems to be a theatrical absurdity, but somehow the scenes stand out as quick-paced and shallow.

Fortunately, the story comes back to its fondness for emotional undercurrents and for pathos in the last chapter. The apparent happy ending remains refreshingly low key and solemn.

My personal take on literature and poetry has been, for years now, rather formalistic and language centered. To me, a work of art must speak on more than one level, must have more than one layer of meaning. Perhaps I missed them, but no symbols emerged for me other than the kite itself, which is, in addition to an image of identity and childhood, a suggestion of freedom. Car sickness may be another exception, but if vomit is intended as a symbol of moral sickness, it is neither novel nor very effective.

As for language, Hassan's refrain "For you a thousand times over" as the translation of "hazaar daf'a" is one of the best lines, and Mr. Housseini makes good use of it throughout as well as at the end when he reverses the roles and utters it himself for Hassan's son. There are other poetic and rhetorical triumphs too. But for the most part, the discourse remains thin and prosaic.

The Kite Runner describes the Afghan urban culture rather well, but this culture does not resonate in the language it has constructed. I am thinking of a blending of language and culture, for example, that Chinua Achebe achieved in Things Fall Apart. The Farsi words and expressions that punctuate the prose here and there are sometimes a nice addition, but not enough to transform the discourse.

In fact, at times those expressions themselves sound unidiomatic. The word kursi for example, to any Afghan I know, does not mean what the author means by it (6, 57). The Dari word for the "low table covered with a thick, quilted blanket" is sandali. Kursi is the Iranian equivalent. The word for proposing is not khas te gari. It is khast garias Afghans pronounce it. Even the ahesta boro song that the Russian soldier sings so ridiculously can't possibly be sung as it is spelled. To sing it, you need to pronounce it astaa boro (10, 114).

One more complaint about words: The way Afghans use the word "Allah" is different from the way Americans generally "expect" them to use it. The most common word for God in Farsi is "khudaa," which is the word both Afghans and Iranians have used for centuries. Allah in Arabic is literally "the god" and Farsi speakers have not adopted that word. They may use it in some contexts, but it certainly is no substitute for khudaa. So when Hassan writes in his letter, "I thank Allah that I am alive," we know this can't be Hassan speaking.

Also, there is a whole series of words whose spelling or transcription seems off: Ghargha for Qargha (6, 56); qurma for qorma (6,48); chalow for chalaw (13, 173). These are perhaps details that can be excused, but an Afghan reader will find them annoying.

I said that I would only comment on matters of art, not message, although I understand the distinction is artificial. But let me say this much: Whatever our individual impressions of its fairness and accuracy may be -- and a novel is not supposed to be objective -- The Kite Runner poses some very provocative and very timely questions. Expatriates, especially when their homeland is invaded, ruined, and torn to pieces, may easily forget that a culture without self-criticism is ultimately dead. So one cannot but admire an immigrant Afghan writer who musters the courage to assert his culture without falling prey to self-congratulation on the one hand and victimization on the other. It is refreshing to note that even the untouchable subject of nang and namoos has received its fair share of blame. Believe me, when an Afghan narrative transcends the temptation to laaf (brag) and cloak itself in hopeless rhetoric, it has taken a historic step forward.

abstract: The novel has tragedy and pathos, some complex characters and several nice poetic moments. However, it creates far too many characters, some of whom remain artificial and stereotypical. There is virtually no symbolic discourse, and the language in it does not recreate the culture that it represents. Some of the Farsi expressions are used unidiomatically and many words have been transcribed in a confused or inaccurate way. By and large, The Kite Runner is a mixed bag that fortunately returns to it low-key pathos towards the end after a detour of high, simplistic melodrama in the middle.

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