Dear Khodayar, I dreamt that I journeyed to Afghanistan – to
the place where you were born. It was night-time and I was on a bus with other
people. We travelled in the dark across a great plain toward a range of
mountains. At the foot of the mountain the city stretched out. All along the
edge of the plain we could see the lights coming from buildings of the city. I
didn’t know the name of the city.
It was too dangerous for us to get out of the bus. All we
could do was look out the windows. All around us Afghans walked and rode
motorbikes through the light of our headlights. They were mainly young men –
like you Khodayar. Even though I didn’t know the name of the city I knew that
it was very old; almost as old as civilisation itself. It was time for us to
return to where we had come from. With the doors still shut tight, the bus
driver spun the wheel, the bus hissed and heaved and our bus turned around back
toward the border. Love Stephen
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