He had fled the war, leaving his village and his past behind, and had settled with his loved ones not far from the border. He had waved the caravan to stop.

He had said he would not go any further, that they would set camp, and that his decision was final against any reason. Nobody dared contradict the elder, the wise man, and life was organized accordingly.

He spent his days reading the Koran or poetry.

My own exile was still recent. "Your house, your country, your story are within you if you let them enter. Wherever you are they follow you", he told me.

Then with a sigh, his eyes gazing at the Afghan mountain slope, he admitted that he would not be able to survive without seeing his land, every day that God made.