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most Afghans dislikeAmerica but again, the enemy of their enemy is their friend. At least for now. Brockunier delivers his medical supplies to the chief of the fighters and all the men chant “ Allāhu Akbar, ” meaning “God is great.” Dennis films them thrusting their weapons into the air, symbolizing that this is a holy war. When our viewers see this back home they’ll be blown away , I think, as Dennis deftly puts his lens a few inches away from a boy’s hand clutching the trigger of his weapon and then pans to his innocent face.
    We live with the mujahideen for the next week, sleeping in small huts while burning frozen wood soaked in kerosene to avoid freezing to death. There’s only enough food for one meal a day. It’s always goat fat boiled into a filmy yellowish grease and served in large, communal bowls, with broken goat bones at the bottom. We sit in circles on the ground and scoop up each bite with a traditional flatbread called naan that the mujahideen bake in makeshift clay ovens. The grease is rancid. The gristle on the bones is black with rot. We’re so hungry that it tastes delicious, especially the steaming hot naan.
    Dennis and I hold each piece of naan in our fingertips, carefully dipping it into the bowl and slipping it into our mouths. It’s challenging to do so without having grease run down our arms. I have to be especially careful since I’m left-handed. The left hand is the one used throughout the region for self-cleaning after defecation. Reaching my left hand into the food bowl would be the ultimate gaffe. For me it’s almost impossible to remember. I come close to muffing it every day.
    The mujahideen have well-camouflaged anti-aircraft guns posted high above the camp. Just before sunset, they fire at any Soviet MiGs seen flying at altitudes well beyond the range of their artillery. After shooting a few rounds, they circle the guns and chant “ Allāhu Akbar, ” then almost sing, repeatedly, in Pashto, “We vow to purge the satanic invaders from our homeland!”
    The real fighting starts long before dawn. The mujahideen slip down dark trails into the valley below to launch guerrilla attacks against Soviet outposts on major roads that connect the few major cities of Afghanistan, all of which are under Soviet control. When helicopter gunships counterattack, they scurry back into the mountains, hiding under huge boulders along the way, carefully moving toward the cover of the thick forest. Back in camp, the fighters treat the wounded with Brockunier’s medical supplies. They bury their dead before sundown. We film everything we can. Their war against the mighty Soviet Army is like a small shepherd boy against a towering, battle-trained giant. But these are the toughest people I have ever met and they fight boldly, like David going after Goliath with just a stone and a slingshot.

    With mujahideen inside Afghanistan in 1986.

    After leaving the mujahideen and saying good-bye to Rasoul and Brockunier, Dennis and I make our way into the sprawling camps along the Pakistani border. There are 5 million refugees—one-third of the Afghan population—living in horrid conditions, many without so much as a ragged tent over their heads. This is the unseen horror of the Cold War as it’s played out around the world. The Soviets invade Afghanistan as a pushback to American influence in Pakistan.The Americans then push back against communist expansionism. Innocent people get hurt. Lots of them. I am thirty-seven years old and have been in some rough places, but this is human suffering beyond anything I have ever witnessed or even imagined. It sickens me. Angers me. Makes me want to cry. And it strengthens my resolve to tell this story.
    We film improvised burial grounds, where bodies are stacked atop one another and covered with dirt and large stones. They surround the edges of the camps like anthills. Those who survive cling to life