In a villiage near Camp Nathan Smith, Afghanistan, the filth floats in the water. Worse still, the smell grips your stomach. Amid the clamour, she quietly washes her hair in that very water. The water runs down her face, while the smell carries and hangs in the air. It mingles with the heat and the dust, creating a perfume like no other. But she wears a beautiful blue smock and her fingernails are painted. It's an irony repeated over and over.
