Myers walks with three companions (the men in the foreground). Her appearance draws a crowd of curious admirers.

When Glenn, two student photographers and I pulled up alongside the edge of a camp on Kabul’s east side, we saw small tents and adobe structures crammed together and stray dogs and chickens roaming on the grounds. Children played with sticks amid rusted artillery. Garbage was everywhere, and the smell was nauseating.

A small boy, about 8 years old, pleaded with us to come to where his family stayed. I followed behind three others as we were ushered into a plastic tent about the size of my studio apartment in Kent. A family of 13 was living there.
I nearly jumped at the first thing I saw. A very sick infant lay unresponsive in a broken crib. Its naked body was wrapped in a sheer cloth and covered with flies.

I took a deep breath.

The mother of the family wanted to speak to me. I listened through the words of a translator.

Her name was Zaitoon, which means “olive.” She was 35 years old, but a life of hardship had aged her delicate features.

“Each morning I wake up and wish myself dead,” she said, cradling her 3-year-old daughter on her hip. “Every person has a dream for their life. I’m still waiting for mine to come true.”

She told me of her crippled husband, her family’s flight to Pakistan, the pain of hunger and being unable to care for her sick baby and the tears she sheds for her children’s future.

As she spoke, her eldest daughter set down a tray of orange juice for us. We refused, but she insisted.

“You are guests in my home,” Zaitoon said.

Tears began to sting my eyes, and Zaitoon smiled knowingly as she reached for me in a warm embrace. Across lines of language, ethnicity, age, circumstance and nationality, we were just two women lost in a moment.

As we walked around the rest of the camp, it became personal knowing that each pair of dark eyes held their own story. I prayed that at least some would have a happy ending.

reflections
Two years after the fall of the Taliban, happy endings still seem like foolish dreams. I wish I could tell you it’s getting better and everyone will live blissfully ever after. But that’s not real.

Afghanistan is not the picture of beauty and freedom we saw on glossy magazine covers when the women lifted their burkas to show their bare faces to the sun.

There is beauty, but it’s passing. There is freedom, but it’s volatile — and Afghans wrestle for every inch of it.

I like to think I made a difference, but I know it touched me even more.
I used to believe America could do no wrong, until I listened to a woman whose home was reduced to smoking ash and ruins after the American-led bombings.

I used to believe everything happens for a reason, until I met a 2-year-old girl who was too hungry to speak.

I used to believe in fighting for what you believe, until I lived in the remnants of war.

I used to believe in hope. Thankfully, I still do.*