An American host changed my life after I fled Afghanistan. You can, too.
It began when I was 15, in Paris, on a cold December night in 1979. We were having dinner at our apartment with the family of a colleague of my father’s from the Afghan Embassy, where my father was finishing out the balance of his four-year diplomatic posting.
A news break on the television interrupted dinner, and suddenly the table fell silent as we watched images of Soviet tanks rolling along dusty Afghan roads. I remember the shocked faces around the table, and I can still see a look passing furtively between my parents. Intuitively, I knew in that single glance that our former life was over. We would not be going home.