By Dexter Filkins
An immediate vintage of struggle reporting, The perpetually conflict is the definitive
account of America's clash with Islamic fundamentalism and a searing
exploration of its human expenditures. during the eyes of Filkins, a international
correspondent for the recent York instances, we witness the increase of the Taliban in
the Nineties, the aftermath of the assault on long island on September eleventh, and
the American wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Filkins is the single American
journalist to have stated on a majority of these occasions, and his studies are
conveyed in a riveting narrative full of unforgettable characters and
astonishing scenes.
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Sample text
The camels eyed us as they walked together. Richardson seemed eager, and he had an old CIA hand with him, Bruce Riedel, of the National Security Council. 36 the forever war Dostum led us to the stadium, where we sat for a match of buzkashi, a kind of polo game played with the carcass of a goat. The horses roared up and down the field, and the militiamen beat and savaged one another, at one point nearly crashing into the viewing stand. Richardson played along, being the diplomat, and Dostum laughed and guffawed and rocked back and forth in his seat.
A soldier, perhaps sixteen years old, appeared at the door, leaned his Kalashnikov against the wall and sat down, rapt before the glow of the television. “Khoob,” he said in Dari. ” Man, they were scary. You’d see them rolling up in one of the Hi-Luxes, all jacked up, white turbans gleaming; they were the baddest asses in town and they knew it, too. One of them would be sitting across from you in a restaurant, maybe picking at a kebab, looking at you from across the centuries, kohl under his eyes, and you knew he’d just as soon kill you as look at you.
A soldier, perhaps sixteen years old, appeared at the door, leaned his Kalashnikov against the wall and sat down, rapt before the glow of the television. “Khoob,” he said in Dari. ” Man, they were scary. You’d see them rolling up in one of the Hi-Luxes, all jacked up, white turbans gleaming; they were the baddest asses in town and they knew it, too. One of them would be sitting across from you in a restaurant, maybe picking at a kebab, looking at you from across the centuries, kohl under his eyes, and you knew he’d just as soon kill you as look at you.