During our stay at our final Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT) compound it was my distinct pleasure to meet a very brave and humble young man. I cannot say his name and I will not reveal his occupation. Needless to say we spent some time together and what started out as an awkward introduction on my first day ended with a solemn, sad goodbye as our transport helicopter landed to take us to Kabul.
When I was introduced to him as we arrived and got the tour of our prison like complex, this young man seemed shy, introverted and even embarrassed to be in our company. He had a very limited English vocabulary but understood the language better than he spoke it. I realized quickly that he was like a sponge. He soaked up any new words or information and wanted to be part of our discussions so he could gain increased knowledge of what our purpose and project was all about. However, we were told that under no circumstances can we photograph or film this person – if we did his life would be in grave danger!
Here is his story:
He is a well educated, university graduate in an agriculture discipline. He is the oldest of seven children. His mother died several months ago and that caused his father to insist that he get married. He has since been engaged to a young woman and is in the months-long process of getting married. Financially, he is very fortunate to have landed a job working for the PRT. As a young man of about 24, he is now the bread winner for his family and his soon to be wife will become the homemaker and 'mother' to his siblings back home. This might seem like a typical story and a normal life of a young man in a developing country. But this is where the normalcy ends. You see, this young man works covertly for the PRT. His comings and goings are undercover and only his father knows his real job. His family and friends think he is studying computers. The money he earns is hidden and he must dress like a poor villager when he is outside the compound. His real home is in another province and he moves his local residence monthly. He cannot keep any evidence of his work for the USA on his person in case he is stopped and searched. He is in constant fear for his life.
For some unexplained reason he and I connected and each day I saw him we greeted each other enthusiastically and went through our work day. He taught me some words in Dari and Pashtu as well as how to properly greet people in his culture. He explained to me that he learned his English through a course he took, not at the Universty he attended. He continues to learn as much as he can. For example when we read his most recent reports the phrasing, grammer and sentence structure was not the best. But he insisted that we tell him what was wrong and how he could improve.
Today as we prepared to leave there was a bittersweet feeling. I wanted to leave this awful place that was in constant danger and surrounded by people with bad intentions. But my new friend seemed so subdued, sad and even melancholy. As we prepared to leave, packing up our gear, checking and re-checking our temporary housing and the office we worked out of, the young man hovered over me, smiling every time I looked his way. He offered to help several times and each time I told him we had everything under control. He walked with us and our host to the HLZ where we had to wait over an hour for our delayed ride “home”. During that time, the shy young Afghan, shuffled over to me in his usual, eyes to the ground, stooped shouldered, shy way. He then started to ask some final questions of me. He was always asking questions. “Did our host like the work he was doing?” he asked, to which I answered a confident, “Yes.” “Why did he get so angry sometimes?” I told him I thought it was the language barrier but he really appreciated all that he was doing. “Would I return to Afghanistan and would I come back to visit?” he asked with his head bowed. I sadly said I didn’t think so and explained to him that most of the time my job kept me in Washington sitting at a desk. He quickly responded, “Inshala – if it is God’s will – you will return.” I smiled and reached out for his shoulder. “Inshala,” I repeated. He again told me that he was so proud to be working for the PRT and that his purpose was a good one for his country, for his people. But he repeated what he had told me once before, “If they catch me,” he paused, then made the awful gesture of drawing his thumb across his throat, “they wouldn’t wait a day,” he went on, “they would do it immediately without hesitation!” I told him he was very brave and I personally thanked him on behalf of the PRT and America that he was making such a sacrifice. I also said that Afghanistan would be a better place due to his efforts. He smiled a smile of pure humility reached out for my hand and said, “Manana – thank you.” “Tash Akor,” I replied, which meant both ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’. He then placed something in my hand, a small metallic object. On further inspection it was a tiny nail clipper on a small key chain. I looked at it quizzically and he could tell I was confused. In his broken English he said, “I have nothing to give you but I must give you something. Please take this as my gift to you.” I began to refuse but he was emphatic in his wish to give it to me. I reluctantly accepted it and hung it on my camera bag. He had a big smile of satisfaction. He then proceeded to give me a hand written business card with his name, email address and telephone number. “Please email me,” He said, “and send me agricultural articles in English so I can learn.” I smiled and promised him I would. Then he slowly turned over the card and showed me a code number. It was 1-4-3. This he told me stood for ‘I – love – you’. He then said, “You are my friend, and I love you.” I told him as his friend I loved him also. I told him he needed to stay safe and gave him my own business card. This he took and read it carefully, repeating all the information that was on it out loud – as if practicing his English. Then the sound of our helicopter could be heard in the distance as it came over the horizon. The young man then gave my card to our host for safe keeping – remember he could not keep the card on his person when he left the compound. He then turned to me, shook my hand pulled me into him and said goodbye the way he had taught me over the past few days. We touched cheeks, released our handshake and placed our right palms on our hearts. Once again I repeated to him, “Stay safe!” “Inshala,” was his reply – ‘if it is God’s will’…Our bags were loaded up as soon as the large Russian Mi8 touched down. I thanked our host profusely for all his help and preparation for our visit and also told him to stay safe. We were hustled on to the big bird by our body guard gunners and we were off the ground in seconds. As I looked out the window I waved at my friend and he waved back. Behind my sunglasses the tears rolled down my cheeks. How long would he survive and what would happen to his family if something bad were to happen to him. Was he doing this life threatening job for the money, for his family or for a better Afghanistan? As the helicopter raced across the barren landscape below, I said my usual prayer, “Thanks for a safe mission, protect these brave soldiers and civilians and may we have a safe journey back to the embassy.” This time however, I said a special prayer for a shy, humble and very brave young man.
Be thankful for the life you have…
When I was introduced to him as we arrived and got the tour of our prison like complex, this young man seemed shy, introverted and even embarrassed to be in our company. He had a very limited English vocabulary but understood the language better than he spoke it. I realized quickly that he was like a sponge. He soaked up any new words or information and wanted to be part of our discussions so he could gain increased knowledge of what our purpose and project was all about. However, we were told that under no circumstances can we photograph or film this person – if we did his life would be in grave danger!
Here is his story:
He is a well educated, university graduate in an agriculture discipline. He is the oldest of seven children. His mother died several months ago and that caused his father to insist that he get married. He has since been engaged to a young woman and is in the months-long process of getting married. Financially, he is very fortunate to have landed a job working for the PRT. As a young man of about 24, he is now the bread winner for his family and his soon to be wife will become the homemaker and 'mother' to his siblings back home. This might seem like a typical story and a normal life of a young man in a developing country. But this is where the normalcy ends. You see, this young man works covertly for the PRT. His comings and goings are undercover and only his father knows his real job. His family and friends think he is studying computers. The money he earns is hidden and he must dress like a poor villager when he is outside the compound. His real home is in another province and he moves his local residence monthly. He cannot keep any evidence of his work for the USA on his person in case he is stopped and searched. He is in constant fear for his life.
For some unexplained reason he and I connected and each day I saw him we greeted each other enthusiastically and went through our work day. He taught me some words in Dari and Pashtu as well as how to properly greet people in his culture. He explained to me that he learned his English through a course he took, not at the Universty he attended. He continues to learn as much as he can. For example when we read his most recent reports the phrasing, grammer and sentence structure was not the best. But he insisted that we tell him what was wrong and how he could improve.
Today as we prepared to leave there was a bittersweet feeling. I wanted to leave this awful place that was in constant danger and surrounded by people with bad intentions. But my new friend seemed so subdued, sad and even melancholy. As we prepared to leave, packing up our gear, checking and re-checking our temporary housing and the office we worked out of, the young man hovered over me, smiling every time I looked his way. He offered to help several times and each time I told him we had everything under control. He walked with us and our host to the HLZ where we had to wait over an hour for our delayed ride “home”. During that time, the shy young Afghan, shuffled over to me in his usual, eyes to the ground, stooped shouldered, shy way. He then started to ask some final questions of me. He was always asking questions. “Did our host like the work he was doing?” he asked, to which I answered a confident, “Yes.” “Why did he get so angry sometimes?” I told him I thought it was the language barrier but he really appreciated all that he was doing. “Would I return to Afghanistan and would I come back to visit?” he asked with his head bowed. I sadly said I didn’t think so and explained to him that most of the time my job kept me in Washington sitting at a desk. He quickly responded, “Inshala – if it is God’s will – you will return.” I smiled and reached out for his shoulder. “Inshala,” I repeated. He again told me that he was so proud to be working for the PRT and that his purpose was a good one for his country, for his people. But he repeated what he had told me once before, “If they catch me,” he paused, then made the awful gesture of drawing his thumb across his throat, “they wouldn’t wait a day,” he went on, “they would do it immediately without hesitation!” I told him he was very brave and I personally thanked him on behalf of the PRT and America that he was making such a sacrifice. I also said that Afghanistan would be a better place due to his efforts. He smiled a smile of pure humility reached out for my hand and said, “Manana – thank you.” “Tash Akor,” I replied, which meant both ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’. He then placed something in my hand, a small metallic object. On further inspection it was a tiny nail clipper on a small key chain. I looked at it quizzically and he could tell I was confused. In his broken English he said, “I have nothing to give you but I must give you something. Please take this as my gift to you.” I began to refuse but he was emphatic in his wish to give it to me. I reluctantly accepted it and hung it on my camera bag. He had a big smile of satisfaction. He then proceeded to give me a hand written business card with his name, email address and telephone number. “Please email me,” He said, “and send me agricultural articles in English so I can learn.” I smiled and promised him I would. Then he slowly turned over the card and showed me a code number. It was 1-4-3. This he told me stood for ‘I – love – you’. He then said, “You are my friend, and I love you.” I told him as his friend I loved him also. I told him he needed to stay safe and gave him my own business card. This he took and read it carefully, repeating all the information that was on it out loud – as if practicing his English. Then the sound of our helicopter could be heard in the distance as it came over the horizon. The young man then gave my card to our host for safe keeping – remember he could not keep the card on his person when he left the compound. He then turned to me, shook my hand pulled me into him and said goodbye the way he had taught me over the past few days. We touched cheeks, released our handshake and placed our right palms on our hearts. Once again I repeated to him, “Stay safe!” “Inshala,” was his reply – ‘if it is God’s will’…Our bags were loaded up as soon as the large Russian Mi8 touched down. I thanked our host profusely for all his help and preparation for our visit and also told him to stay safe. We were hustled on to the big bird by our body guard gunners and we were off the ground in seconds. As I looked out the window I waved at my friend and he waved back. Behind my sunglasses the tears rolled down my cheeks. How long would he survive and what would happen to his family if something bad were to happen to him. Was he doing this life threatening job for the money, for his family or for a better Afghanistan? As the helicopter raced across the barren landscape below, I said my usual prayer, “Thanks for a safe mission, protect these brave soldiers and civilians and may we have a safe journey back to the embassy.” This time however, I said a special prayer for a shy, humble and very brave young man.
Be thankful for the life you have…
What a great idea this blog was. I'll miss it.
ReplyDeletewow. I cry with you
ReplyDelete-Lisa