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"As Aziza, her father, my translator, and I talk of war and peace in the one-room mud hut that the Sarwars now call home, as the sun sets over the dusty plain where the children of the Akhtarabad camp toss a red balloon back and forth, we can hear Jacob, his new Afghan friends, and the kind of youthful laughter that knows no boundaries of culture, heartache, history, or time."
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