“Who is Omar?” I ask.

“OMAR is not a person, sister,” Waleed replies, cutting the steering wheel sharply to the left to avoid a pothole.

The rest of the day is dizzying.

We see buildings buckled by rockets rained on the city from a distance, the mosque my father used to attend for Jumaa prayers, and a movie theater in the early stages of reconstruction.

Children selling bottles of soda or sticks of gum swarm our car at intersections. They are insistent, smiling through chapped lips. Spotting our cameras, they want their pictures taken.

“Hollywood,” one calls out, as he puts a hand on his hip.

“Titanic!” yells another, sticking both his arms out like he’s on the stern of the ship embracing an expanse of sea.

I am laughing.

I am crying.

I am thankful I am not alone.

Waleed takes us to a building on the outskirts of town. When the sign comes into view, I learn that OMAR is an acronym standing for Organization for Mine Clearance and Afghan Rehabilitation. We step out of the car and take a moment to fix our scarves and jackets before we walk to the entrance of the land-mine museum. A man in a hunter-green tunic and pantaloons runs over to us and announces that the museum is currently closed. In the field behind him are a couple of helicopters and a tank.

Waleed fishes a few bills out of his pocket, brightening the guard’s face. He swings the door open and begins to give us a tour of the collection. We find mortars, AK-47s, a Molotov cocktail, bricks of TNT, and the weighted blue protective suit worn by de-miners. Mines of all shapes and sizes sit in glass display cases, like archaeological discoveries. Innocent items were booby-trapped so that when a child stooped to pick up a doll, her touch would trigger a blast that splintered her leg bones. The more casualties, the closer they were to winning the war.

Waleed tells us that plastic mines evade metal detectors, so de-miners must feel around for them, pluck each one painstakingly from the earth. Occasionally a wandering goat or nomad trips a wire and is pierced with ball bearings of nails. Small children have wandered into fields and disappeared in one clap of thunder.

Afghanistan does not have one million goats, Waleed tells us, nor one million chickens, nor one million schools—but the dead, the wounded, the missing, and the bombs can be counted in the millions.

Waleed’s math has teeth. Clay makes notes on a small pad, and I take a few photos that I might later delete. When we leave, our next stop is the school I attended as a child. Girls with white headscarves pinned primly under their chins watch me from the corners of their eyes, whispering conspiratorially to one another and clutching books to their chests.