“As long as there is one Afghan in this country,” said another old man at the campfire, “there will be an Afghanistan.” My padar had said that same thing so many times. When we didn’t have any electricity in Kabul or we sat around by candlelight, and he read to us or recited poetry, he’d always end the session by saying that to us. As if he were trying to give us some hope that our country and our people would survive these troubling times. And now sitting up here in this rocky cave, a village man in traditional dress, with a full beard and rustic ways, said the same thing.
