AFGHANISTAN The Mountains of Loyalty

Before I tell you about the mountains and the twice-buried dead, before I take you into the villages and the tea houses and the refugee camps, I want to tell you about a grape.
It was late summer in the central highlands, and the vineyards that clung to the terraced slopes were heavy with fruit. I had been walking since dawn, and the sun was beginning to press down with the particular weight that only an Afghan August can bring. A man I had never met before—an old farmer with a face like a w...