“Bar!” an excited voice shouted over the phone.
“Shabir?” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Rasoul has run away to Kabul!” Shabir sounded frantic.
“Is your son so afraid of you that he had to run all the way to the other side of the world to get away from you?” I laughed.
“This is no joke, Bar!” Shabir said, annoyed. “He’s supposed to be in Australia studying English. He’s only eighteen and doesn’t know how dangerous Kabul is. I’m afraid for him. You must find him, Bar, and send him back home to Japan.”
“He’s too much like his father,” I said, “and will be difficult to persuade. But don’t worry, Shabir. I’ll find him and make sure he’s safe.”
“Tashakor, Bar. Please, find him quickly.”
I called everyone I could think of who might know about a Japanese Afghan teenager who had recently arrived in Kabul but could find out nothing. I did not want to give Shabir this news and delayed calling him. Two days later I answered my phone. “Uncle Baryalai? It’s Rasoul.”
“Rasoul?” I said excitedly. “Your father has been trying to find you. He’s very worried. Where are you?”
“I’m staying with a man I met on the plane. He thought I should call you and let you know I’m here.”
I rushed over.
When the door opened, I found myself looking into the apprehensive almond eyes of a young man dressed in a gebi.
“You’re a good-looking young man,” I said. “I can see your father in you. It gives me great joy to finally meet you.”
His apprehension quickly dissolved into the happiness that only family can bring, and he hugged me like he’d found home.
I called Shabir with the good news.
“Thank God,” Shabir said, relief in his voice. “We’ve been so worried. Ever since he was a boy, he’s been obsessed with Afghanistan. He doesn’t know the culture. He doesn’t know how dangerous the country is.”
“Our children have minds of their own,” I said. “Remember that night in Paghman on the walk home from the party in the garden when you were so happy? You said you’d found paradise and never wanted to leave Afghanistan. You did leave. But now, through your son, you have come home.”
As for me, my heart is in two places now—California and Afghanistan. “You should sell those houses!” my family keeps telling me. But I cannot. Why? Maybe it’s because I’m stubborn. Maybe it’s because of the memories they hold for me.
Or maybe it’s because I know that if I did, part of me would be lost forever.