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The Kite Runner

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Lauren Hoogerland

on 1 May 2013

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Transcript of The Kite Runner

Khaled Hosseini The Kite Runner Summary Takes place in Afghanistan, Pakistan and America from early 1970s to the early 2000's.
Pashtun and Hazara
1979: Soviet army sets up in Kabul
6.2 million refugees from Afghanistan
1996: Once the Soviets were defeated, the Taliban, Islamic leaders, came and took over. Biography Born in Kabul, Afghanistan in 1965
Father was a diplomat and mother taught Farsi
Friends with his family's Hazara cook, who he taught to read and write.
When the Afghan government was overthrown, the Hosseini family were granted political asylum in the U.S and moved to California.
His family lived on welfare and relied on money earned while working at a local flea market.
Studied biology and medicine at Santa Clara University and University of California, San Diego while he was writing The Kite Runner. History Kite Running Kite fighting- kite with string made of glass and use your own string to cut someone else's kite free.

Kite running takes place when the kite has been cut free.

Children will chase the loose kite down and try to be the one to catch it. Symbolism Pomegranate Tree Lamb Sacrifice
Harelip Monster in the lake dream Lauren Hoogerland, Megan Bean,
Courtney Caulkins, Allison VanDenBos The Taliban Sought to impose an extreme interpretation of Islam
Committed massive human rights violations, particularly directed against women and girls.
They were not allowed to work outside the home or pursue an education.
They couldn't leave their homes without a male relative,
Forced o wear a traditional body-covering garment called the burka.
Committed crimes against Shi'a Hazara ethnic group, and killed noncombatants “I actually aspired to cowardice, because the alternative, the real reason I was running, was that Assef was right: Nothing was free in this world. Maybe Hassan was the price I had to pay, the lamb I had to slay, to win Baba.” Themes The Search for Redemption: “That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.” Story of a wealthy young boy and his best friend, who is their lower-class Muslim minority servant, who live in Afghanistan before collapse of monarchy.
Amir longs for the attention of his father and he is extremely jealous towards his friend, who his father seems to favor over him.
After Afghanistan’s king is overthrown, the well-off district Amir lives in becomes unsettled and bullies viciously torment Amir and Hassan.
Amir is weak and can never stand up for himself, always expecting Hassan to be there to defend him-- abandons his friend when he needs him most because of his cowardice.
Amir begins to feel so uncomfortable around Hassan that he forces him and his father out of the house.
Amir and father escape to America.
Amir is haunted his whole life about how selfish and cowardly he was as a boy--not standing up for Hassan.
The rest of his life is spent trying to find retribution for the mistakes of his past, and the memory of Hassan influences his every action.
Goes back to Afghanistan years later to rescue the now orphaned son of Hassan and confront the people he should have when he was a boy.
When Amir returns to Kabul, he is shocked at the destruction the Taliban has caused in his once affluent, culture-filled neighborhood. “A boy who won’t stand up for himself becomes a man who can’t stand up to anything.” The novel revolves around Amir's need to redeem himself, first in Baba's eyes, and then in his own.
His mother died giving birth to him, and he feels responsible. To redeem himself to Baba, Amir thinks he has to win the kite-tournament and bring Baba the losing kite (A great honor in their community).
Secondly, the majority of his need for redemption is rooted in his guilt regarding Hassan.
That guilt influences Amirs major actions in he story, including Amir’s journey to Kabul to find Sohrab and his confrontation with Assef (the childhood "bully").
As a boy, Amir never learned to stand up for himself. As an adult, he can only redeem himself by proving he has the courage to stand up for what is right. Themes The Lasting Influence of the Past: "I became what I am today at the age of twelve"
Amir's identity completely revolved around his past, and his guilt about past mistakes guides every step he takes.
Amir even feels responsible for the death of Hassan because he thinks he set in motion the events that led to Hassan’s death when when he pushed Hassan and Ali out of Baba’s house. I don't know at what point I started laughing, but I did. It hurt to laugh, hurt my jaws, hurt my ribs, hurt my throat... What was so funny was that, for the first time since the winter of 1975, I felt at peace. I laughed because i saw that, in some hidden corner of my mind, I'd even been looking forward to this. I remembered the day on the hill I had pelted Hassan with pomegranates and tried to provoke him. He'd just stood there, doing nothing, red juice soaking through his shirt like blood. Then he'd taken the pomegranate from my hand, crushed it against his forehead. Are you satisfied now? he'd hissed. Do you feel better? I hadn't been happy and i hadn't felt better, not at all. But i did now. My body was broken-just how badly I wouldn't find out until later- but i felt healed. Healed at last. I laughed. "That was the thing about kite running. Your mind drifted with the kite." "We may be hard headed and I know we're far too proud, but, in the hour of need, believe me that there's no one you'd rather have at your side than a Pashtun." "The impact had cut your upper lip in two, he had said, clean down the middle. Clean down the middle. Like a harelip." "I wanted to tell them all that I was the snake in the grass, the monster in the lake. I wasn't worthy of this sacrifice; I was a liar, a cheat, and a thief." Mostly, I remember this: His brass knuckles flashing in the afternoon light; how cold they felt with the first few blows and how quickly they warmed with my blood. Getting thrown against the wall,a nail where a framed picture may have hung once jabbing at my back. Sohrab screaming. Tabla, harmoniun, a dil-roba. Getting hurled against the wall. The knuckles shattering my jaw. Choking on my own teeth, swallowing them, thinking about the countless hours I'd spent flossing and brushing. Getting hurled against the wall. Lying on the floor, blood from my split upper lip staining the mauve carpet, pain ripping through my belly; and wondering when I'd be able to breathe again. The sound of my ribs snapping like the tree branches Hassan and i used to break to Swordfight like Sinbad in those old movies. Sohrab screaming. The side of my face slamming against the corner of the television stand. That snapping sound again, this time just under my left eye. Music. Sohrab screaming. Fingers grasping my hair, pulling my head back, the twinkle of stainless steel. Here they come. That snapping sound yet again, now my nose. Biting down in pain, noticing how my teeth didn't align like they used to. Getting kicked. Sohrab screaming. Mostly, I remember this: His brass knuckles flashing in the afternoon light; how cold they felt with the first few blows and how quickly they warmed with my blood. Getting thrown against the wall,a nail where a framed picture may have hung once jabbing at my back. Sohrab screaming. Tabla, harmoniun, a dil-roba. Getting hurled against the wall. The knuckles shattering my jaw. Choking on my own teeth, swallowing them, thinking about the countless hours I'd spent flossing and brushing. Getting hurled against the wall. Lying on the floor, blood from my split upper lip staining the mauve carpet, pain ripping through my belly; and wondering when I'd be able to breathe again. The sound of my ribs snapping like the tree branches Hassan and i used to break to Swordfight like Sinbad in those old movies. Sohrab screaming. The side of my face slamming against the corner of the television stand. That snapping sound again, this time just under my left eye. Music. Sohrab screaming. Fingers grasping my hair, pulling my head back, the twinkle of stainless steel. Here they come. That snapping sound yet again, now my nose. Biting down in pain, noticing how my teeth didn't align like they used to. Getting kicked. Sohrab screaming. Mostly, I remember this: His brass knuckles flashing in the afternoon light; how cold they felt with the first few blows and how quickly they warmed with my blood. Getting thrown against the wall,a nail where a framed picture may have hung once jabbing at my back. Sohrab screaming. Tabla, harmoniun, a dil-roba. Getting hurled against the wall. The knuckles shattering my jaw. Choking on my own teeth, swallowing them, thinking about the countless hours I'd spent flossing and brushing. Getting hurled against the wall. Lying on the floor, blood from my split upper lip staining the mauve carpet, pain ripping through my belly; and wondering when I'd be able to breathe again. The sound of my ribs snapping like the tree branches Hassan and i used to break to Swordfight like Sinbad in those old movies. Sohrab screaming. The side of my face slamming against the corner of the television stand. That snapping sound again, this time just under my left eye. Music. Sohrab screaming. Fingers grasping my hair, pulling my head back, the twinkle of stainless steel. Here they come. That snapping sound yet again, now my nose. Biting down in pain, noticing how my teeth didn't align like they used to. Getting kicked. Sohrab screaming. I don't know at what point I started laughing, but I did. It hurt to laugh, hurt my jaws, hurt my ribs, hurt my throat... What was so funny was that, for the first time since the winter of 1975, I felt at peace. I laughed because i saw that, in some hidden corner of my mind, I'd even been looking forward to this. I remembered the day on the hill I had pelted Hassan with pomegranates and tried to provoke him. He'd just stood there, doing nothing, red juice soaking through his shirt like blood. Then he'd taken the pomegranate from my hand, crushed it against his forehead. Are you satisfied now? he'd hissed. Do you feel better? I hadn't been happy and i hadn't felt better, not at all. But i did now. My body was broken-just how badly I wouldn't find out until later- but i felt healed. Healed at last. I laughed. I don't know at what point I started laughing, but I did. It hurt to laugh, hurt my jaws, hurt my ribs, hurt my throat... What was so funny was that, for the first time since the winter of 1975, I felt at peace. I laughed because i saw that, in some hidden corner of my mind, I'd even been looking forward to this. I remembered the day on the hill I had pelted Hassan with pomegranates and tried to provoke him. He'd just stood there, doing nothing, red juice soaking through his shirt like blood. Then he'd taken the pomegranate from my hand, crushed it against his forehead. Are you satisfied now? he'd hissed. Do you feel better? I hadn't been happy and i hadn't felt better, not at all. But i did now. My body was broken-just how badly I wouldn't find out until later- but i felt healed. Healed at last. I laughed.
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