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April 20^th, 2009, Washington  |  Joe Tsali 

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When I first arrived in Kabul, I hired a driver named, Hamid. Bearded and balding in his early thirties, he had very kind and honest eyes. He was one of the brilliant Pashtuns who in another life without war and forced displacement would have been a surgeon, a painter, or the son-in-law whom everyone is very happy to see at the family dinner.

Stuck behind a sandaled cart puller in a traffic jam in Shahr-e-Now, I noticed Hamid relax his usual smile just long enough to reveal deep anguish in his eyes.

"Can you talk about it?" I asked him, assuming it was political. Although we barely knew each other, he decided to confide in me.

"There is a woman I love." A gushing smile came to my face. I wanted to rib him, but he was angry about it. "Our family refuses us to be together. I fear our only answer is to run away together abroad. But where will we go? What if we have to come back?"