Written Task 1 for Part 3 of the course, based on The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

Transcription

1 IB Diploma English A Language & Literature Written Task 1 for Part 3 of the course, based on The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini Rationale I have written an additional scene for the novel The Kite Runner in order to satisfy the Part 3 learning aim: understand the attitudes and values expressed by literary texts and their impact on readers. In Chapter 24, Amir and Sohrab meet a US consular official called Raymond Andrews, who tells them that it is almost impossible to get a visa for Sohrab. Although Andrews is only a minor character, I noticed that Hosseini carefully crafts him and the scene to explore the theme of immigration. The novel extensively contrasts the values of Afghanistan and the US. Immigration regulations are a formalisation of a nation s values, and their evenhanded application shows respect for fairness and rule of law. US citizen Amir feels entitled to help from the embassy, while the privileged Pashtun in him expects trust and charity to support their petition. When he finds the bureaucracy obstructive, he accuses the bureaucrat of a personal lack of sympathy. Andrews personifies the bureaucratic perspective, but Hosseini also gives him a human side: a personal tragedy (his daughter s suicide) that entices the reader to imagine the conflict between his personal and professional lives. My writing matches Hosseini s accessible and economical prose style as far as possible, though with Amir absent from this scene I use an omniscient narrator instead. Hosseini continually makes objects and actions symbolic of character traits and values, so I have followed suit by reusing aspects of Andrews s appearance, office and mannerisms 1 (e.g. the tomato plants, smoking) to develop their significance. In the dialogue I have attempted an American idiom and contrasted Andrews s ornery manner with Omar s apologetic, likeable nature. Hosseini s allusions to Les Miserables in the context of US immigration suggest the French-made Statue of Liberty, so I have Andrews muse on its famous inscription words Written Task Raymond Andrews s office door clicked shut behind Amir and Sohrab. Andrews picked up a bottle and sprayed a fine mist on the tomatoes. The sweet smell of ripening fruit rose from the plants and filled the office. Water glistened on their young skin like jewels or tears. Oh crap said Andrews aloud, realising there were tears in his own eyes. What right does he have to ask me His late daughter s face appeared in front of his eyes. She wasn t crying, she was beaming with joy and relief at the news that they would be returning to America. And will we live in DC again so I can be near Sally and Lucy? she had implored, her arms still around his neck. Yes, that s the plan. 1 See Appendix 2 2 See Appendix 1

2 Promise? I promise that s the plan. Oh Dad, I m so happy! Thank God I don t think I could survive another summer in this choking city. The vision faded, and Andrews found himself face to face with the drinks cabinet. The bottles of liquor winked enticingly at him in the afternoon sun. We can help you forget, they said. Four o clock a bit early for that, he told them. Turning back to his desk, he caught the eye of Jean Valjean in his mayoral robes, staring defiantly out from his Les Misérables poster. A fugitive criminal trying to find redemption in good deeds Andrews pondered the man with the wired jaw and the handsome boy. Clearly of different ethnicities. He could be a pederast trying to brazenly escort his catamite to America by the front door. This is why there are rules procedures, court hearings, files of evidence to stop the human traffickers and the other carrion birds that flock to a war zone. Not that it did stop them, of course, but at least it forced them to skulk in shadows, not to clothe themselves in respectability. Andrews sat in the overstuffed leather seat at his desk, opened a draw and removed a tissue from the box usually offered to visitors when desperation and frustration bubbled over in tears. The tall Afghan hadn t seemed like that though his indignation that the authorities couldn t just trust his word of honour had been touchingly naive. Either that or he was a fine actor. Privileged upbringing, Andrews guessed not used to having to stand in line with John Q. Public. He dabbed the corners of his eyes with his neat little hands and sat upright in his chair. A glance had been enough to take in the boy. He hadn t had that sulky insouciance of the child lovers you see tagging along with their nauseating patrons in seedy resort towns. He d noted the unaffected way he d rested his head on his uncle s hip. Clearly the guy was already a parent to him. So what? Even if they were just what they claimed, there was no point giving them false hope. Sadly, the US was no longer The New Colossus. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free Not anymore! Fat cats in gated communities wrote the rules now, and sent poor suckers like himself to make sure the wretched refuse of your teeming shore knew damn well that the lamp of welcome was out of oil. He picked up the packet of cigarettes and absently put one in his mouth. Then abruptly he took it out of his mouth, scowled at it, and put it back in the packet. He stood up, crossed to the window and opened it. A bit of fresh air will do us good, he explained to his tomato plants. Returning to his desk he looked up a number in his rolodex and dialled. Omar? Raymond Andrews here, from the US Consulate. Omar s voice came up the crackly line. Oh, I m sorry, I was just driving. One moment please...

3 Andrews waited, listening to the distant honks of car horns. After a moment, Omar came back on. It s nice to hear from you, Mr Andrews. How um, I mean well... we were all so sorry to hear the tragic news about your daughter. Thanks Omar. Andrews nodded glumly. The expat community in Islamabad was a small and very efficient grapevine. There wasn t a US citizen in the city who didn t feel sorry for him. I m sorry, but how is Mrs Andrews doing? She s fine. She s gone back to Washington. She s staying with her sister. Anyway Omar, I gave your card to someone today and I don t doubt that he ll get in touch. His name s Amir something-or-other, a US citizen of Pashtun heritage. He wants to adopt his half nephew a Hazara I guess, not that that makes any difference to us, but it s a bit unusual and take him back to the US. I see. But if you re referring him to me, I m guessing it won t be plain sailing? I put it to him straight: he hasn t got a snowball s chance in hell of getting the boy into the US anytime soon. Andrews sighed. Maybe I was a bit hard on him, but he wouldn t take it from me. He says he intends to pursue it so I figured he d need a lawyer. Perhaps you can persuade him he d be better off moving to Pakistan if he wants to be near the boy. Thank you for the referral, Mr Andrews. Maybe there ll be something I can do to help. Well, I hope so, Omar. I m sure he has a tale to tell and he sure wasn t going to tell it to me. I know you re a decent man. If you find out he s actually some kind of child-trafficking scumbag you ll send him packing, won t you. Absolutely, replied Omar. After they hung up, Andrews sat for a long time at his desk, staring into the still room like a statue gazing out to a stormy ocean. Eventually he pressed the intercom button. Gladys, how many have I seen today? Seven, Mr Andrews. Okay, time for one more. Send em in words -- Appendices Appendix 1: The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus (Written as an inscription on the Statue of Liberty, New York, USA in 1883.) Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name MOTHER OF EXILES. From her beacon-hand

4 Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Appendix 2: Extract from The Kite Runner (Chapter 24, leading up to the proposed additional passage) THE LAWN OUTSIDE the American embassy in Islamabad was neatly mowed, dotted with circular clusters of flowers, bordered by razor-straight hedges. The building itself was like a lot of buildings in Islamabad: flat and white. We passed through several road blocks to get there and three different security officials conducted a body search on me after the wires in my jaws set off the metal detectors. When we finally stepped in from the heat, the airconditioning hit my face like a splash of ice water. The secretary in the lobby, a fiftysomething, lean- faced blond woman, smiled when I gave her my name. She wore a beige blouse and black slacks the first woman I'd seen in weeks dressed in something other than a burqa or a shalwar-kameez. She looked me up on the appointment list, tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the desk. She found my name and asked me to take a seat. "Would you like some lemonade?" she asked. "None for me, thanks," I said. "How about your son?" "Excuse me?" "The handsome young gentleman," she said, smiling at Sohrab. "Oh. That'd be nice, thank you." Sohrab and I sat on the black leather sofa across the reception desk, next to a tall American flag. Sohrab picked up a magazine from the glass-top coffee table. He flipped the pages, not really looking at the pictures. "What?" Sohrab said. "Sorry?" "You're smiling." "I was thinking about you," I said.

5 He gave a nervous smile. Picked up another magazine and flipped through it in under thirty seconds. "Don't be afraid," I said, touching his arm. "These people are friendly. Relax." I could have used my own advice. I kept shifting in my seat, untying and retying my shoelaces. The secretary placed a tall glass of lemonade with ice on the coffee table. "There you go." Sohrab smiled shyly. "Thank you very much," he said in English. It came out as "Tank you wery match." It was the only English he knew, he'd told me, that and "Have a nice day." She laughed. "You're most welcome." She walked back to her desk, high heels clicking on the floor. "Have a nice day," Sohrab said. -- RAYMOND ANDREWS was a short fellow with small hands, nails perfectly trimmed, wedding band on the ring finger. He gave me a curt little shake; it felt like squeezing a sparrow. Those are the hands that hold our fates, I thought as Sohrab and I seated ourselves across from his desk. A Les Miserables poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U.S. A pot of tomato plants basked in the sun on the windowsill. "Smoke?" he asked, his voice a deep baritone that was at odds with his slight stature. "No thanks," I said, not caring at all for the way Andrews's eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance, or the way he didn't look at me when he spoke. He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack. He also produced a bottle of lotion from the same drawer. He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Then he closed the drawer, put his elbows on the desktop, and exhaled. "So," he said, crinkling his gray eyes against the smoke, "tell me your story." I felt like Jean Valjean sitting across from Javert. I reminded myself that I was on American soil now, that this guy was on my side, that he got paid for helping people like me. "I want to adopt this boy, take him back to the States with me," I said. "Tell me your story," he repeated, crushing a flake of ash on the neatly arranged desk with his index finger, flicking it into the trash can. I gave him the version I had worked out in my head since I'd hung up with Soraya. I had gone into Afghanistan to bring back my half brother's son. I had found the boy in squalid conditions, wasting away in an orphanage. I had paid the orphanage director a sum of money and withdrawn the boy. Then I had brought him to Pakistan. "You are the boy's half uncle?" "Yes." He checked his watch. Leaned and turned the tomato plants on the sill. "Know anyone who can attest to that?" "Yes, but I don't know where he is now." He turned to me and nodded. I tried to read his face and couldn't. I wondered if he'd ever tried those little hands of his at poker.

6 "I assume getting your jaws wired isn't the latest fashion statement," he said. We were in trouble, Sohrab and I, and I knew it then. I told him I'd gotten mugged in Peshawar. "Of course," he said. Cleared his throat. "Are you Muslim?" "Yes." "Practicing?" "Yes." In truth, I didn't remember the last time I had laid my forehead to the ground in prayer. Then I did remember: the day Dr. Amani gave Baba his prognosis. I had kneeled on the prayer rug, remembering only fragments of verses I had learned in school. "Helps your case some, but not much," he said, scratching a spot on the flawless part in his sandy hair. "What do you mean?" I asked. I reached for Sohrab's hand, intertwined my fingers with his. Sohrab looked uncertainly from me to Andrews. "There's a long answer and I'm sure I'll end up giving it to you. You want the short one first?" "I guess," I said. Andrews crushed his cigarette, his lips pursed. "Give it up." "I'm sorry?" "Your petition to adopt this young fellow. Give it up. That's my advice to you." "Duly noted," I said. "Now, perhaps you'll tell me why." "That means you want the long answer," he said, his voice impassive, not reacting at all to my curt tone. He pressed his hands palm to palm, as if he were kneeling before the Virgin Mary. "Let's assume the story you gave me is true, though I'd bet my pension a good deal of it is either fabricated or omitted. Not that I care, mind you. You're here, he's here, that's all that matters. Even so, your petition faces significant obstacles, not the least of which is that this child is not an orphan." "Of course he is." "Not legally he isn't." "His parents were executed in the street. The neighbors saw it," I said, glad we were speaking in English. "You have death certificates?" "Death certificates? This is Afghanistan we're talking about. Most people there don't have birth certificates." His glassy eyes didn't so much as blink. "I don't make the laws, sir. Your outrage notwithstanding, you still need to prove the parents are deceased. The boy has to be declared a legal orphan."

7 "But " "You wanted the long answer and I'm giving it to you. Your next problem is that you need the cooperation of the child's country of origin. Now, that's difficult under the best of circumstances, and, to quote you, this is Afghanistan we're talking about. We don't have an American embassy in Kabul. That makes things extremely complicated. Just about impossible." "What are you saying, that I should throw him back on the streets?" I said. "I didn't say that." "He was sexually abused," I said, thinking of the bells around Sohrab's ankles, the mascara on his eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," Andrews's mouth said. The way he was looking at me, though, we might as well have been talking about the weather. "But that is not going to make the INS issue this young fellow a visa." "What are you saying?" "I'm saying that if you want to help, send money to a reputable relief organization. Volunteer at a refugee camp. But at this point in time, we strongly discourage U.S. citizens from attempting to adopt Afghan children." I got up. "Come on, Sohrab," I said in Farsi. Sohrab slid next to me, rested his head on my hip. I remembered the Polaroid of him and Hassan standing that same way. "Can I ask you something, Mr. Andrews?" "Yes." "Do you have children?" For the first time, he blinked. "Well, do you? It's a simple question." He was silent. "I thought so," I said, taking Sohrab's hand. "They ought to put someone in your chair who knows what it's like to want a child." I turned to go, Sohrab trailing me. "Can I ask you a question?" Andrews called. "Go ahead." "Have you promised this child you'll take him with you?" "What if I have?" He shook his head. "It's a dangerous business, making promises to kids." He sighed and opened his desk drawer again. "You mean to pursue this?" he said, rummaging through papers.

8 "I mean to pursue this." He produced a business card. "Then I advise you to get a good immigration lawyer. Omar Faisal works here in Islamabad. You can tell him I sent you." I took the card from him. "Thanks," I muttered. "Good luck," he said. As we exited the room, I glanced over my shoulder. Andrews was standing in a rectangle of sunlight, absently staring out the window, his hands turning the potted tomato plants toward the sun, petting them lovingly. -- "TAKE CARE," the secretary said as we passed her desk. "Your boss could use some manners," I said. I expected her to roll her eyes, maybe nod in that "I know, everybody says that," kind of way. Instead, she lowered her voice. "Poor Ray. He hasn't been the same since his daughter died." I raised an eyebrow. "Suicide," she whispered. Bibliography Hosseini, Khaled. The Kite Runner. New York: Riverhead Books, 2003 Lazarus, Emma. "The New Colossus". Jewish Women's Archive - Retrieved 1 May 2017 Wikipedia contributors. "Les Misérables." Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, 1 May