Kite Runner

My Journey

Moving to a different country at the age of ten was as much of an adventure for me as it was pure torture for my mother. On a voyage that took more than twenty-four hours, the eager, wide eyes of my sister and I had not shut once, and neither had my mother's. At one o'clock in the morning, we squealed and fought for a glimpse out the plane's tiny window, as my exhausted mother apologized continuously to the sleep-deprived passengers. After seven years, I still can remember peeping out and gasping, gazing upon the bright lights of Cairo. A million specks of color, each one brilliant and full of possibilities lay beneath my feet. I was coming upon a country full of stars, and according to my mother, it was to be my new country; I could not tear my eyes away.

The first year of my new life in America was a year of firsts. It was the first time I had ever run under a sky so stunningly clear and blue, and so impossibly huge; it was the first time I had played with my sister in our own yard (with grass in it!), and not seen one skyscraper, it was the very first year I held in my chubby hands, the cold, white, amazing substance that is snow; and it was the first year that I fell in love with America.

However hard I worked, however much my body was drained from exhaustion, my mind weary from lack of sleep, I could not seem to gain ground in my race to be accepted. How can I, when I am labeled an "alien"; when I peer into the mirror and see a strange boy, with big eyes, brown skin, and a black hair starring back?

I returned to my native country a few years ago, where my mother's roots are, and where I had been too young to leave mine. I do not think I have to say the hope that was in my heart--but I was disappointed. The faces of my relatives crowed around me, unfamiliar and foreign. My mind, indulged with open skies and wide spaces, rebelled against the crowded streets and dusty atmosphere of Cairo. This too, then, was not were I belonged. At that moment, I felt lost--like a dandelion seed in a wild, relentless wind, tossed from one place to another, never to settle down.

Now, in my room, with an Egyptian poster on one wall, and a Beatles poster on the other, I stare at my college applications: international student is checked, government financial aid is not. I look out my window, and through my tears, street lamps, and lighted windows called