I became like myself today at 12 years old, on a frozen day in the winter of 1975. I still remember clearly, as I knelt behind the rubble of the clay wall, peering at the narrow alley that stretched near the frozen river. The event has long passed, but my experience has shown that we will never be able to bury the past. Because after all, the past will always rush to find a way out. Now, as I look back into the past, I realize that I have been peering at the abandoned alley for twenty-six years.
One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to visit him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver on my ear, I knew that it wasn't just Rahim Khan speaking on the telephone. The unforgivable sin of my past is also present there. After closing the connection, I strolled along Spreckles Lake on the northern outskirts of Golden Gate Park. The early twilight of the sun glittered over the surface of the water, where dozens of miniature boats sailed with a gentle breeze. When I looked up, I saw a pair of kites, red with a long blue tail, swinging in the sky. The two kites danced far away