Ten years ago my editor in chief Gregory gave me a piece of advice that was supposed to serve as a sort of psychological life jacket. “You have to know who you are or else you’ll go missing in action. Do you know who you are? Do you have a mantra? What’s your headline, Henri? What reminds you of who you are?”

I’m still thinking about that.

I know Greg’s wife, Monica. On his birthday, every birthday, she brought a New York cheesecake with strawberry topping to the editorial office, and Gregory would cut it very seriously and share it. Very calmly and coolly, Greg would stare down all the old, cynical, smart-ass hacks who viewed any show of emotion with contempt and might be tempted to make some derogatory comment about this ritual, saying, “Family saves you. Every man needs a family to save his soul.”

I don’t have a family. It feels as if the wounds of my forefathers are also in my blood and determine my direction in life.

I no longer have a mother; she died shortly after I was born. No grandmother either: she went missing after going out alone in a storm, and for years afterward Malo would stand on the cliffs, waiting for her to return.

Greg also told me, “Henri, give up this job before it’s too late. You should start a family after your wars but not during them. You must never make your wife and children watch you walk out of the house with your helmet, your bulletproof vest, and your passport, numb with despair that you might never come back. Wait until you’ve had your fill of war and really trust yourself to live life, then look for someone who loves you and can cope with the fact that all the warfare inside your head prevents you from sleeping at night. But don’t wait until you’re thirty-five to wean yourself off war. It’s your only chance of breaking free.”

I HAVE a headache when the plane touches down. On the way from the German military airfield to the US camp in Kabul I swig some water from a canteen. I’ve made many trips to the devastated city, as the Afghans call Kabul. Some people say that if you come here too often, one day you won’t come back.

I think back to the tea merchant who came to Camp Holland last time I was here and took me along to an opium den in Kabul to introduce me to an alleged jihadi who was undergoing reform. We drank. We smoked opium. Mud houses in Afghanistan might not have toilets or windows, but they always have a Kalashnikov in a cupboard and a poppy patch out the back.