I told him everything that had happened. Told him about my meeting with Rahim Khan, the trek to Kabul, the orphanage, the stoning at Ghazi Stadium.
“God,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I have such fond memories of Kabul. Hard to believe it’s the same place you’re telling me about.”
“Have you been there lately?”
“God no.”
“It’s not Berkeley, I’ll tell you that,” I said.
“Go on.”
I told him the rest, the meeting with Assef, the fight, Sohrab and his slingshot, our escape back to Pakistan. When I was done, he scribbled a few notes, breathed in deeply, and gave me a sober look. “Well, Amir, you’ve got a tough battle ahead of you.”
“One I can win?”
He capped his pen. “At the risk of sounding like Raymond Andrews, it’s not likely. Not impossible, but hardly likely.” Gone was the affable smile, the playful look in his eyes.
“But it’s kids like Sohrab who need a home the most,” I said. “These rules and regulations don’t make any sense to me.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Amir,” he said. “But the fact is, take current immigration laws, adoption agency policies, and the political situation in Afghanistan, and the deck is stacked against you.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. I wanted to hit something. “I mean, I get it but I don’t get it.”
Omar nodded, his brow furrowed. “Well, it’s like this. In the aftermath of a disaster, whether it be natural or man-made--and the Taliban are a disaster, Amir, believe me--it’s always difficult to ascertain that a child is an orphan. Kids get displaced in refugee camps, or parents just abandon them because they can’t take care of them. Happens all the time. So the INS won’t grant a visa unless it’s clear the child meets the definition of an eligible orphan. I’m sorry, I know it sounds ridiculous, but you need death certificates.”
“You’ve been to Afghanistan,” I said. “You know how improbable that is.”
“I know,” he said. “But let’s suppose it’s clear that the child has no surviving parent. Even then, the INS thinks it’s good adoption practice to place the child with someone in his own country so his heritage can be preserved.”“What heritage?” I said. “The Taliban have destroyed what heritage Afghans had. You saw what they did to the giant Buddhas in Bamiyan.”“I’m sorry, I’m telling you how the INS works, Amir,” Omar said, touching my arm. He glanced at Sohrab and smiled. Turned back to me. “Now, a child has to be legally adopted according to the laws and regulations of his own country. But when you have a country in turmoil, say a country like Afghanistan, government offices are busy with emergencies, and processing adoptions won’t be a top priority.”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. A pounding headache was settling in just behind them.“But let’s suppose that somehow Afghanistan gets its act together,” Omar said, crossing his arms on his protruding belly. “It still may not permit this adoption. In fact, even the more moderate Muslim nations are hesitant with adoptions because in many of those countries, Islamic law, Shari’a, doesn’t recognize adoption.”
“You’re telling me to give it up?” I asked, pressing my palm to my forehead.
n. 许可证,执照
v. 允许,许可