Imagine a grand, gilded hall in Geneva or Paris. The chandeliers are crystal, the carpets are plush, and the air is thick with the scent of expensive coffee and cautious optimism. Two men sit at a mahogany table. Flashbulbs pop. They sign a document, shake hands, and the world sighs in relief. The headline reads: “Peace Accord Signed.”
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Now, cut to a dusty valley three thousand miles away. A convoy of pickup trucks with mounted machine guns is idling at a roadblock. The men in the trucks don’t care about the document signed in Paris. They don’t report to the man who signed it. In fact, they are currently taxing a humanitarian aid truck for the privilege of not being blown up. To them, the “peace” is irrelevant noise. The war is their job, and business is booming.
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