Faraway lands, a secret paradise

Street kid in Kabul-Afghanistan © David Belluz

“Somehow, even in the worst of times, the tiniest fragments of good survive. It was the grip in which one held those fragments that counted.” ― Melina Marchetta
(Street kid in Kabul-Afghanistan) © David Belluz

Sitting in the corner of the market, on a dirty abandoned street once so full of life she closed her eyes. She had been walking for many days now, passing by ruins and dilapidated houses always in shambles, mostly unoccupied. Her journey had been long and arduous  with no destination in sight. All she saw were reminders of the atrocities committed by other men. Men who claimed to come bearing the name of peace. The reminders were painful, bringing with them memories she had long before tried to forget. They clung to her like a disease, growing in weight as the days slowly dragged on.

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Gateways to the soul

Kabul. Afghanistan © Nazir Ekhlass

Kabul. Afghanistan © Nazir Ekhlass

He kicked a stone in the centre of the path he was walking along, and watched silently as it clattered along the alleyway slowly coming to a stop. The sound of it echoed through the night and filled it with life, if only but for a moment.

His face, a plain emotionless mask was etched with layers of soot and filth. His feet bare. His once strong, lean body now weak and worn clothed in nothing but rags, withstanding the low temperature and chilly winds.

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