One day he invited me home for an evening meal. His family – one of his wives, his sons, sisters, brother, mother, a few cousins – was seated on the floor round a sumptuous feast.

Sultan recounted stories, the sons laughed and joked. The atmosphere was unrestrained, and a huge contrast to the simple meals with the commandos in the mountains. But I soon noticed that the women said little. Sultan’s beautiful teenage wife sat quietly by the door with the baby in her arms. His first wife was not present that evening. The other women answered questions put to them, accepted praise about the meal, but never initiated any conversation.

When I left I said to myself: ‘This is Afghanistan. How interesting it would be to write a book about this family.’

The next day I called on Sultan in his bookshop and told him my idea.

‘Thank you,’ was all he said.

‘But this means that I would have to come and live with you.’

‘You are welcome.’

‘I would have to go around with you, live the way you live. With you, your wives, sisters, sons.’

‘You are welcome,’ he repeated.

On a foggy day in February I moved in with the family. My only possessions were my computer, some notebooks and pens, a mobile phone and what I was wearing. Everything else had disappeared en route, somewhere in Uzbekistan. I was welcomed with open arms, and gradually felt comfortable in the Afghan clothes I was lent.

I was given a mattress on the floor next to Leila, Sultan’s youngest sister, who had been assigned the task of looking after my well-being.

‘You are my little baby,’ the nineteen-year-old said the first evening. ‘I will look after you,’ she assured me and jumped to her feet every time I got up.