Howdy,
This past Saturday, I got a birthday present that was a little late. One of my Afghan brothers, Momin, whom I helped get out during the early days of the fall, invited me to Iftar dinner (a meal served to break the fast during Ramadan).
You should be jealous, bruh.
I’m going to write a lot about Momin eventually for The Bulwark, so I’m just going to discuss my magical Saturday night.
I arrived at the Kansas City Islamic Center by 1900—sharp, you know, me. Momin and others helped create the Afghan American Alliance of Kansas City after he arrived in Kansas City following the fall of Kabul. This non-profit got some moolah from more well-established Afghan-American citizens and bought its future center a little over a year ago.
Like all great American stories, it required a lot of work. It wasn’t in the best condition, but slowly and surely, they made it their own. While it’s predominantly Afghan, a smattering of Somali refugees attended too. The center wisely invited them to their new building since many lived in the neighborhood so that they could keep a closer eye on it.
As soon as I arrived, I felt welcome. Momin’s kids, whom I had met once before, greeted me with high fives and warm embraces. Their English is impeccable. One of them even likes American football—though he’s adopted the Chiefs as his favorite team (nobody is perfect).
The rest of the men went to pray, and I got to hang with the kids for a while. Most of them had arrived after the fall of Kabul. They all loved school but confessed when pressed, that American kids were unbelievably lazy and spoiled (shocker, I know).
I politely told them: you will pass them by on their way to mediocrity. All you have to do is outwork them, which shouldn’t take longer than 30 minutes.
I had one very illuminating conversation with an Afghan teenager. He was an American citizen who happened to be visiting his Afghan family when Kabul fell. Somehow, he made it through some Taliban checkpoints and made it inside the Airport before America completed its despicable retreat.
I asked him how he was feeling about it.
“It was very traumatic,” he said matter-of-factly. “But now, I appreciate this country even more. I know how lucky I am to live here.”
‘Amen.
The men returned after their prayers, and the feast commenced. Everyone played their favorite game: feed the white guy as much as possible until he rolls around in agony. Mission accomplished.
During dinner, I met a couple of pipe hitters from the Khost Protection Force (KPF), who made it through the wire before we skedaddled. They barely spoke English but had found work as truck drivers. KPF, for those who aren’t down with the lingo, was the CIA’s native small kill teams. This isn’t some top-secret program. Go read about them.
Some people would get squeamish due to their spotty human rights track record. But, honestly, bro, I don’t care anymore. I gave at the office. My country sent me to befriend worse people than the KPF. So, frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
Anyway, I had a good time smoking a cig with those two trigger pullers. My Pashto might be atrocious, but it’s better than most white dudes in America. We had a good laugh about talking shit to the Taliban over the radio while in combat.
Oh. Yeah. Baby. That. Happened.
After returning for round 5 or 6, I had chai with all of the Afghans. They came from all walks of life. Some are more accomplished than others. Many, like my KPF brethren, were struggling to navigate the hellish landscape that is America’s immigration system.
I’ll be the first to say that I’m not an expert on our immigration system. But, having informally advised and worked my way through it, I can attest that it’s an enormous cluster fuck (charlie foxtrot, for those who are down).
Modern-day purgatory is America’s immigration system, where legal applicants wait for years so the system can unfuck itself.
Anyway, I digress.
All of the rest of the Afghans told me their stories. There are too many of them to count. One fine fellow was from Nijrab, where I deployed in 2008. We probably knew each other, considering we both remembered the District Governor (he was killed, btw) that I worked with. Amazing.
One of the Afghan-Americans (AA - new acronym) worked with a buddy of mine. They hadn’t spoken in over a decade. I helped reacquaint them.
It was a magical evening.
I was at home again. See, I feel more relaxed around the Afghans than I do Americans. Earlier that day, I struggled at a Kansas University Basketball game party. The people are lovely and have been extraordinary friends to my wife. But we’ve had different experiences. It’s tough to relate, which exacerbates my social anxiety. I often hunker down and let the storm finally pass.
But with the Afghans, I don’t have that problem. I get them. They get me. It’s like hanging with the boys.
I will always be at home with the Afghans. Every soldier has a superpower. Some are great pilots. Others can plan an incredible logistics system. A precious few can win a war. I, on the other hand, could befriend Afghans better than anybody I ever met.
That was my superpower.
It was good to feel that way again, if for only a little while.
Until Next Time
House Cleaning Note: I need to focus my efforts this week on preparing my new show with my BFF4Eva, Kate. So, you’ll probably only get a few posts this week. Sorry. Technology isn’t my thing, dawg.
Thank you for sharing a personal and, exciting, day with your friends. I'm going out on a limb here, as someone who's lived overseas, I bet you feel more honestly, welcomed among your Afghan friends than in general here in the US. Perhaps due to the "nature", for lack of a better word, of your being in Afghanistan too.
Anywho, happy to hear you had a great time. As always, hoping like hell that the world can locate Peace wherever its hidden.
As someone married to a Venezuelan who is also making her way through the immigration system, it is indeed a cluster fuck.