When the Smoke Clears

“You will learn to drink tea before this tour is over,” Vicki advised me.

“I already drink tea,” I assured her. “Regularly.” Night was bearing down, no stars in the sky from all the dust a storm stirred up earlier in the day. People crowded around tables though all the shops had already closed, leaving only the fast food places and Green Beans, the coffee house, open.

It’s always crowded at Bagram. Packed into a piece of land, most of which is taken up by airfields, the inhabitable portion is maximally squeezed for space. Tens of thousands of Soldiers, Marines, Airmen, sailors and civilians vie for movement along the one main street. Effectively, all plumbing is above ground, with the accompanying reek.

Mahmud worked his way to our table balancing four large cups on a tray. “Forgot to ask if you prefer coffee,” he asked. No need. “I’m okay with tea,” Vicki acknowledged as he put the cups down. Handing each of us a cup and setting one aside for his friend who was due to show in a few minutes, Mahmud seated himself directly across from me.

“It has mango, very good,” I said after a sip.

“Or peaches,” Vicki added.

I smiled. “Mango Ceylon. I know the tea.”

Mahmud toasted me with an approving smile. “Very good, sir. I had not heard of this but it was all they had for black teas. You are exactly right.”

In the distance a tone went off, crashing through the night, followed by a clear voice, “ATTENTION: The air firing range is now hot! I say again, the air firing range is now hot!” It’s meant to let us know to not be alarmed by the sounds of artillery fire, but with so much noise, so much slow-moving traffic along the road, most people cannot hear the artillery, even later at night.

“Must smoke,” Vicki said, holding her hand out to me. I had been designated as her carrier as I was in uniform with large pockets. She took them and hurried off.

Mahmud smiled and turned back to me. “She is nice.”

“She wants you to follow her,” I offered. He laughed. “Seriously, the two of you have been flirting all night.”

“She likes the attention,” Mahmud added. “Not much pride in herself. So many men here and she thinks she must work to find one.” It could be him, though. Mahmud is unusually handsome, though chameleon-like. In the states he often passes for hispanic, and speaks Spanish with an Puerto Rican accent, or Colombian, depending on his mood. He is also a talented artist.

“And you?”

“My wife would not like it.” He took a sip of tea. His accent when speaking was almost imperceivable, but he occasionally let it slip… for comedic purposes: “Nor would either of my girlfriends.” He winked at me, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing deeper.

Mahmud is young. His home is technically in the States now and he has been working with the US translating a myriad of languages. He returns to Afghanistan for most of his time during the year, though. It was back in the US where I first met him and was impressed. Randomly finding him here in this throng was a comfortable happenstance.

But parts of him have aged greatly. He has seen too much. He has taught me only a dusting of what he knows, some of them little things that will give me more credibility among the Afghans, some as simple as knowing how to click my tongue to communicate any one of a number of messages without using words. It’s less rude. One doesn’t say “No” in this culture.

“How old are you really?” I asked. Some numbers weren’t adding up. He had told me before but it didn’t make sense.

Again, smiling, he pulled out his wallet and produced a US state’s driver’s license. He was 21.

“You can’t be 21.”

“The US Government doesn’t lie,” he said with an impish grin.

“Point taken.”

He looked around. Vicki had finished her cigarette but was talking to another woman. Leaning in close, he whispered to me, “I’m 28.” Very Americanized, Mahmud consciously would close the distance between us so I would not be as uncomfortable with the diminished personal space I would encounter over here. Normally he liked the greater distances himself.

I smiled at him, eyebrows raised, clicking my tongue to tell him to go on with his story.

“My parents, when I was born, had an extra birth certificate made for when I got older. The Russians used to require at least four years of military service from all males. My dad was going to be certain I would not be taken by the Soviets, so when I needed to be older, I could, when I needed to be younger, I was. They were planning for later.”

“Interesting.”

“So with the last bit of documents we had before the Taliban came, I was younger. So it stayed that way.”

Vicki rejoined us, scooting in close to Mahmud even as he was leaned in closely to me. For me it made a very uncomfortable intimacy among the three of us.

“So where are you headed tomorrow?” Vicki asked me.

“Back to my guys. Only I’ll be out there, somewhere,” indicating I might be going back towards my base, but that I wouldn’t be spending much time on it, though I couldn’t discuss where I would be.

“This is our third cup of tea, sir,” Mahmud told me. “According to that book, it means we are good friends now.”

“Is that book right?” Vicki asked, knowing he referred to Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson.

Mahmud clicked. “For some it is that way. I think sir and I have been friends since before then. It is too bad, though. Eid is coming. I would have liked to have had you as a guest, maybe bring my brother for you to meet. My mother would cook for us.”

I think Vicki understood the honor even more than I did of what he was offering.

“Well, I thank you. But you know my flight…”

“And I know flights get cancelled. Maybe it is to happen. Either way, I want you to be safe.”

“I am,” I replied. “Besides, the chance to see some of these incredible places and historical sites…”

“See, you see good in people and things. That is a blessing, but it is also bad. There is much good here, but it only takes one bad. I worry about you, my friend. I worry,” he said, hand on my arm.

“That is why you teach me when you can.”

And I worry about him. He has placed his life far more at risk than most any other soldier. His family is still here, though many should be moving to the States as well. Very shortly, Mahmud will receive his US citizenship. He has worked for it. He has earned it. He is now a US Soldier as well. He has placed himself at risk for us and for his family. He understands life. Having lived under both the Soviets and the Taliban, he understands the rewards and responsibilities of liberty.

He understands what it means to be an American far more than most any of us ever will.

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