This blog post deeply explores whether Amir in ‘The Kite Runner’ is a true hero or a man who acted to ease his guilt.
Chocolate is sweet. Anyone who puts chocolate in their mouth can feel the sweetness surge instantly. Yet, paradoxically, the reason chocolate is cherished more than equally sweet candies or jellies is precisely because of its bitterness. That absurd sensation—both sweet and bitter at the same time—leaves a lingering aftertaste. Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner did the same for me. Despite being a beautiful coming-of-age story, the ending wasn’t purely sweet after reading the book. No, rather, a bitter-sweet something spread somewhere deep within my heart.
I first encountered the novel The Kite Runner when I was probably twelve. Looking back, I read it because it was recommended. It was on the school’s assigned reading list, and since the teacher said it was a good book, I bought it and read it, believing that to be true. Naturally, I tried to find the moral lessons within. The taste was sweet. Hassan’s friendship, sacrificing himself for his friend Amir; the misunderstandings resolved between Baba and Amir; and the love that eventually blossomed. Even Amir’s growth, ultimately stepping forward to save his son for Hassan’s sake—everything was moving. But did it truly touch my heart? If someone had asked me then if this novel was moving, I would have said yes. But if they had asked if it was a novel that truly moved my heart, I wouldn’t have been able to answer easily back then.
If a book truly moves my heart, I read it again and again. I become so familiar with it that I memorize every detail. But a moving novel is just that—moving—and easily forgotten. This is especially true for someone like me, who struggles to empathize with other people’s stories. If The Kite Runner had been merely the moving coming-of-age story of an Afghan boy, it would have been a book I would have forgotten. Fortunately, it wasn’t. Just as I was savoring its sweetness, a sudden wave of unease and bitterness washed over me. That taste is what made me revisit this book over the years.
The question that gripped me most was, “So is Amir a hero?” Amir, who saved Hassan’s son despite all the hardships to atone for his childhood sins. On the surface, he seemed brave and righteous enough to face his wrongdoing. Enough to write in an elementary school book report, “I want to be as brave as Amir.” But is that really the case? I reread the book, feeling a sense of unease about Amir’s life and actions, which other friends praised endlessly. Yet the more I read, the more questions remained.
Amir clearly betrayed Hassan’s devotion and trust, inflicting an irreparable wound on him. Of course, the incident also left Amir scarred; even after fleeing Afghanistan to live in America, he couldn’t let go of what happened. But in the end, Amir never sought out Hassan first. Decades later, he attempts at atonement by rescuing not Hassan himself, but Hassan’s son. I don’t know. To me, Amir’s actions seemed less about confronting past wrongs and more about trying to ease his own guilt. In the end, he never apologized to Hassan. Amir could have reached out to Hassan anytime, through many channels, if he truly wanted to, but he didn’t.
Of course, in today’s intensely individualistic society, living with guilt itself might be a remarkable feat. But that makes it all the more bitter. In other words, the very fact that being relatively brave and just is enough to be treated as a hero in this era weighs heavily on me. Taking responsibility for one’s mistakes may be praiseworthy, but it shouldn’t be celebrated as heroic. In truth, it’s simply what one ought to do.
Moreover, was Hassan’s son Sohrab truly saved? Sohrab, rescued through Amir’s efforts, ultimately gets hurt by Amir. Amir then exhausts every effort to heal this wound, finally attempting a beautiful conclusion by showing Sohrab smiling at the story’s end. But why is this a beautiful ending? Inflicting wounds at will, then applying salve, feeling satisfied when the salve works. To me, Sohrab appeared only as an object of pity. A novel I once found moving now struck me as cruel. The rich sweetness I once felt vanished, leaving only bitterness to envelop the book.
So I read more. I didn’t want to leave this book behind like this. After reading it several more times, I suddenly focused on the title. Who is the kite runner in The Kite Runner? I naturally thought it was Amir, but other possibilities existed. The reason the author deliberately didn’t specify the child’s name—couldn’t it mean that The Kite Runner could be Amir, but also Hassan, Sohrab, or even Baba? The author wasn’t portraying Amir as a hero. No, even if he had intended to, Amir no longer came across as a hero to me. Amir was merely struggling. It must have been incredibly difficult for him, yet he struggled to become a slightly better person. To borrow the book’s own words, Amir, Hassan, Sohrab, and Baba were desperately trying to live like Afghans. Even if it meant inflicting wounds and making mistakes along the way, they kept moving forward. They were living lives that blended sweetness and bitterness.
Truthfully, I still don’t fully understand Amir. Hassan feels less kind and more foolish. Baba’s duplicity is also deeply uncomfortable. Yet, even if I can’t understand them, I think I can embrace them. It might sound silly coming from a child, but isn’t that what life is? Sweet and bitter, yet precisely because of that, something worth getting up and living through again. Like chocolate, and like this book. Perhaps The Kite Runner isn’t purely beautiful, but that’s precisely why it might be the most realistic coming-of-age novel.
