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arrival. Now I just wanted to get to work.
    My first full day back in the country, however, involved a very different assignment. I had agreed to help judge a college debate tournament. More than twenty teams participated, each averaging about six students. They took positions on topics such as freedom and liberty in Afghanistan, women’s rights within the Muslim tradition, and the right to an education.
    As I listened to the students present their arguments, I was impressed by their speaking skills and the respect they showed one another. One young man in particular caught my attention. Ajmal’s appearance was fashionable. He looked to be about nineteen and wore tight jeans and a checkered dress shirt. He was clean shaven, his dark hair slicked back with gel. What amazed me most, however, was his command of the English language and passion for issues that would define the next generation of this nation. Every word was distinct, and every contention was logical and clear.
    If this is the future of Afghanistan , I thought, this is a place worth investing in.
    Following the debate tournament, I spent a day of planning at the Kabul team house with Rafiq and three days with one of our teams in a northeastern province. While there, I taught a session on holistic health and enjoyed time with the directors of our leadership institute.
    I returned to Kabul on December 4. By six the next morning Rafiq, Farzad, and I were on the highway. By nine we were pulling into the compound of the Pul-i-assim Community Center. More than twenty mothers and their children from neighboring villages had already gathered inside the lobby and outside the medical clinic. Some had walked thirty minutes to be there. Others had walked for five hours.
    I began by checking in with the local doctor and his patients. Later I listened in on Miriam’s talk about nutrition. It was here that the earnest, young mother with three children caught my eye and reminded me how important our work truly was.
    By midmorning Rafiq and I were ready for a break. We walked beyond the clinic compound, taking in the austere beauty of our surroundings—to the southeast, layer upon layer of brown, rolling hills dotted by occasional clumps of green and yellow vegetation; to the south, a lush valley, including plantations filled with apricot trees and wheat and rice fields.
    Suddenly I spied, across the valley, a handful of men walking our way. They were probably a half hour’s distance. Two of them carried long objects that could certainly have been weapons. Earlier that morning local police had informed us of Taliban movements on the other side of the valley and advised us to proceed cautiously. We planned then to complete our work that day and return to Kabul before nightfall. I was not especially concerned. I trusted the people around me and the safety protocols we followed.
    I was curious, however, about these men. I turned to Rafiq: “What do you think those guys are doing?”
    “Maybe they are some Taliban and mujahideen coming to the village to ask for Zakah .”
    The villagers were double-minded about the Taliban. Some viewed them as pure devotees of fundamental Muslim law. They even revered the insurgents. Others were less enthusiastic. The Taliban sometimes came into their villages and asked for Zakah —in Islamic tradition, the practice of giving from what Allah has already provided to others in “need.” Of course the people gave food and money to these armed warriors even though they had very little to feed their own families. I couldn’t help feeling that most donated out of a sense of intimidation and fear rather than genuine support for the Taliban cause. To me, it appeared to be more about extortion than faith.
    I was offended by the idea of young men who intentionally chose the path of insurgency asking for alms. It was an injustice. When, I wondered, would this practice end in communities like this? Morning Star had been working here for seven years. The