![]() On the shore of Afghanistan a man in a worn-out sport coat and scarf stamps my passport, and I cram into a Toyota microbus heading 60 miles south to the city of Mazar-e-Sharif. ![]() Roughly two months have passed since the twin towers fell and America changed forever. I feel the line being crossed, and, yes, I want to go. For the first time in weeks, I breathe deeply. I step on a tugboat with four other journalists and we start across the river that separates Uzbekistan from northern Afghanistan.
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