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interrogation. After traversing the desert and visiting Herat, Ghazni, and Kandahar, I climbed into the mountains toward Bamyan and Band-e Amir National Park— and discovered another Afghanistan.
Up there, the roads were smooth again, the asphalt flawless. I saw road signs, guardrails. Women showed their faces— unveiled, smiling. The dust was gone, but the welcome remained.
The mountains glowed in shifting colours— yellow, orange, red— against the green of cultivated fields. Streams ran alongside the road, flanked by orchards, beehives, and fruit sellers. For a moment, everything seemed normal.
At Bamyan, the great mountain carved with the Buddhas came into view. The sight of the empty niches— where they once stood— was heartbreaking. The larger figure, the
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