I’m watching the talking heads justifying everything about Afghanistan. Words about war and deaths and trillions spent and the twin towers and September 11, and Osama Bin-Ladin, and the Soviets, and the Taliban.

My focus turned to the face of a boy, maybe eight or nine. He was standing next to an old woman wrapped in long black robe, her head covered. She looked hot and worried and scared.

Surrounding them were men in beards with guns, probably America weapons, tagelmusts covering some faces and turbans covering their heads, and vacuous eyes.

The boys face revealed only fear, confusion and a broken spirit, as if his eight years had been a long hard eight years, and now it has come to this, ugly and horrible crossroad.

Eight years old, alone and out of options, as the Americans worry about and warn of terrors and attacks. This boy’s eyes betray a world weariness impossible for his years. The terror has already arrived.

I can’t help but think if we’d sent pencils and paper and teachers and books and built schools after the Russians left instead of bombs if this picture would have played out differently. We had that choice as the 1980s, into the 1990s. The American war machine chose bombs.