By Dan McDougall
The musky scent of cheap patchouli rises from a cracked clay incense burner in the tiny courtyard of Shaban Abdulal Zarhel's decrepit mud and brick home. In the corner, next to the scraggly livestock, his wife, clad from head to toe in a sombre black burka, squats on the floor, smearing the deepest indigo dye on her youngest son's forehead. Alongside, her four other children
sleep off their relentless morning labour in the fields. By 2pm, after a meagre meal of rice and flatbread, they will return to the boiling heat of the meadows.