Building Bridges

Raised on Philadelphia’s Main Line, I came of age in prep schools and country clubs. The culmination of my prowess was to be demonstrated via matriculation to an Ivy, then a graduate degree in law or medical school. This would ensure my place among the privileged elite whence I hailed. 

Questioning the wisdom of this trajectory, foretold since pre-consciousness, was dismissed as folly. 

Discussion being discouraged, I simply acted. Dashing the hopes and dreams my parents had pinned on their only child, I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.

“Twelve years of private school tuition, down the drain, Ian,” Dad said. Speechless, Mom just shook her head, holding back tears.

I left them for Camp LeJeune, June 10, 2001.

Basic lasted 13-weeks. I never felt stronger, mentally and physically. 

With less than a week to go, September 11th, the Twin Towers came down.

Dad called, “I knew this would be a bad idea.” 

Protest was both pointless and unnecessary. More than anything could, 9/11 validated my decision.

Ordinarily, first orders involved a Med Cruise. Ours continued through the Suez Canal to the Persian Gulf. 

Destination: Iraq. 

Mission: Capture Saddam Hussein. 

Mom and Dad did not pray. Religion, a required class in school, sought to explain a phenomenon associated with less-evolved primitive societies.

In Iraq, religious faith permeated my life: The base chaplain held daily non-denominational Christian services. Off the base, Islam surrounded us like a sea of uncertain depth. We prayed when fellow soldiers lost limbs and lives. No longer an abstraction, prayer took on new meaning.

In 2003, we captured our target. The President landed on an aircraft carrier, declaring, “Mission Accomplished!”

Decorated and promoted, I returned to Virginia Beach, awaiting new orders. They arrived January 2004. 

Destination: Afghanistan. 

Mission: Peacekeeping.

USMC vanguard forces had routed Al Qaeda strongholds. Its leadership still at large, we had regular meetings with the Taliban to ascertain their whereabouts. My interpreter and intermediary was Sameer, an Afghan native and devout Muslim.

Fluent in Pashto, Urdu, Arabic and English, Sameer, a chemistry graduate of Peshawar University, grew up in Soviet-occupied Afghanistan. He could take apart, clean and reassemble a Kalashnikov faster than any of us could our AK-47. Afterwards, he shared the big ball of tobacco in the bowl of his hookah with whom he bested and any other takers.

After a year of no skirmishes, Sameer invited me to celebrate Eid with him, wife, Asra; son, Khayyam, 15, and daughter, Najia, 10. They greeted me as “Ian Uncle.” An only child, I never expected to become anyone’s uncle. I beamed with delight.

He gave me shalwar and kameez to wear for mosque prayers. Standing barefoot with the congregation, led by the Imam, we bent, bowed, kneeled and stood to repeat the motions again. Facing us, sitting on our prayer rugs, the Imam delivered a sermon in Pashto. The gist of it: “Allah rewards those who obey Him, as He did Abraham, sparing his son Ishmael.”

Outside the mosque, we found Asra and Najia. Shouting “Eid Mubarak!”, exchanging embraces, feeling jubilant, we walked home for a celebratory meal.

This first Eid planted the seed for a semi-annual tradition: Eid al-Adha, and Eid ul-Fitr, after Ramadan.

Their peaceful lives seemed happy: Asra worked at a health clinic. The kids went to school. Najia wanted to become a “lady doctor” to deliver babies; Khayyam, an engineer, to build bridges. They had ambitions, dreams and aspirations. 

Most guys yearned for home. I did not. I re-upped repeatedly. Bagram became home.

In 2021, we got orders to evacuate Bagram. I had spent more than half my life in the Marines, most of that in Afghanistan. 

 Leaving Bagram was hard; how we did it made it worse.

All meetings with the Taliban were suspended, but a couple months before we evacuated, Sameer and I met. He gave me a copy of The Holy Quran. He told me he needed my help: Visas for him and his family to evacuate.

He called a month later. The visas were still pending. 

I last saw him about a week before we evacuated. He told me he had made arrangements to send his wife and kids to Peshawar to stay with his chemistry professor, with whom he remained close after graduation. He still needed me to get him out, though, or, as he said in English, “I will be toast.”

I went to my commanding officer and told him we only needed a visa for Sameer. The CO, a guy who always followed orders and never asked questions, had just arrived six months earlier. His orders: Manage the evacuation. He knew none of the locals. I had been there for twelve of the past twenty years. It had become home to me. Being single and estranged from my family, Sameer’s had become mine.

“Sorry, no can do. Strict orders from the Administration. We only have capacity to get our own out. I’m having enough trouble doing that. Just be ready to go when it’s wheels up time, ‘cause there’s no telling if we’ll be back for anyone left behind.”

“You don’t understand. This guy is like my brother.”

“No, you don’t understand. He’s gotta figure it out himself.”

I called Sameer.

He answered. “Do you have my visa?”

“I do not. Can you get to Pakistan?”

“I don’t think so.”

A chill went up my spine. 

“I understand,” he said. “I should go.” 

“I will pray for you.”

“Jazak’Allah.” Which means ‘thank you,’and also, ‘May Allah bless you for it.’

I felt hollow. Small. Disgusted. Both with myself, and—for the first time ever—with the institution I had regarded so highly. I did pray, beseeching Allah to spare Sameer, as He had Ishmael.

Twenty-four hours after departing Bagram, I landed at Andrews AFB.

 Later, I saw footage of people running alongside airplanes as they took flight from Bagram airport. I recognized Sameer among them.

My new orders placed me behind a desk in the Pentagon. More than once, I tried to raise Sameer. Voicemail gave way to “This number is no longer in service.” I stopped calling. I had already stopped praying. My copy of The Holy Quran collected dust.

Almost one year later, I learned that Sameer was confirmed to have been an early casualty; that he had likely been executed before I even reached Andrews AFB. 

I left the briefing room hyperventilating and short of breath. He gave us —me—over fifteen years of dedication and support. I would never be able to see him again, to thank him, to call him my brother. I vomited. I recognized the scrambled eggs from breakfast, and orange juice, followed by yellow bile. Fitting, I thought. You were a yellow belly coward, Ian.

I went home to pray for Sameer’s departed soul and for Allah to forgive my failure and dereliction of the duty of loyalty.

I had no idea what I would do out of uniform, but the time had come to find out.

Applying for jobs in Crystal City, I interviewed with Lockheed, and they hired me.

Wistful memories of Sameer and his family haunted my dreams and populated my prayers.

The eve of the third anniversary of the evacuation, I was at the JW Marriott for a business dinner that cancelled last minute. I decided to get a drink at the bar. Better than an empty apartment. Besides, the fridge is empty. Mostly, I wanted not to be alone.

“I’ll have a martini.” The bartender brought it to me, and it went down fast. I quickly felt a buzz in my head.

“Keep it open or close it?”

“One more.”

He brought the drink and some salty snacks. As I ate the olives, slowly sipping the drink, I saw a young man across the lounge. 

He looked so much like Khayyam. Could it be? I asked myself. I was feeling drunk for the first time in over twenty years. I couldn’t trust my eyes.

I walked past him on my way to the men’s room. 

He was talking to an attractive blond woman, definitely not his sister. I couldn’t be sure. I figured I’d take a closer look on my way back.

After relieving myself, I washed my hands and splashed water on my face. The perfume of the Gilchrist and Soames hand soap reminded me of country clubs of my youth. Drying my hands and face on a Giza cotton hand towel, I looked in the mirror. Clean shaven, suit and tie. How recognizable would I be to anyone who last saw me years ago with a beard in desert fatigues or shalwar and kameez?

I walked out of the men’s room. The rich aroma of cooking steaks made my stomach growl. I decided to offer to buy the couple dinner, whether it was Khayyam or not.

I approached their table in the bar area.  

“Excuse me.” 

The woman stopped talking, and they both turned their heads to look at me. 

“I don’t normally do this. In fact, I’ve never done this before, but—”

Silently staring, they waited for me to finish. 

“Have we met before?” I asked, looking deeply into his eyes, searching for recognition, wishing for him to say, “Yes, it is me, Khayyam.”

“I don’t think so … ?” His voice trailed off into a question.

“We were actually about to leave,” the woman declared. 

She unnerved me—how dare she dispel this myth I was telling myself? “Sorry, I must have made a mistake.” 

Unable to help myself, I addressed the man, “Are you Khayyam?”

“No,” he shook his head conclusively. “My name is Khalid.”

“Nice to meet you Khalid,” I extended my hand. “I’m Ian.”

“This is Emily,” he replied, after an awkward moment of silence. She shot him a look. 

I wondered if it was, Finally you introduced me, acknowledged I am here! or Why the hell are you telling this guy my name?! He could be a psychopath!

“I’m not a psychopath, I promise,” I said, deciding it was the latter. “The offer still stands.”

“Uh … what offer?” Her tone was accusatory, like this was an act she’d seen before.

It occurred to me I had failed to extend the invitation. “Right. I was going to ask both of you to join me for dinner. Sitting at the bar, I thought I recognized Khalid. He looks so much like the son of a friend. Please! Be my guest.”

“As I said, we were just leaving.” Emily stood and announced: “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” 

Khalid and I watched her cross the room with the confidence of a country clubber and the poise of an equestrian or ballet dancer. 

Turning back to Khalid, I asked, “Are you from Afghanistan?”

Again, he shook his head no. “Pakistan.” 

“What part?” I hoped he would say something that would provide a connection to the life I had abandoned so unceremoniously. The life that ended in Bagram.

“Lahore.”

“I hear it’s an amazing city.”

“You should visit sometime. It’s renowned for its food.”

“Perhaps, I will someday. The man you resemble so closely, Khayyam, was going to Peshawar. From Afghanistan. I guess I am telling you more than is necessary.”

“No worries,” he said graciously. “There are lots of Khayyams in Pakistan. Perhaps your friend is still there.” 

“Asalamalaikum,” I said, wanting him to know that I understood this word.

“Walaikum Asalam,” he replied, and extended his hand.

“Good luck. Best wishes to you and Emily.”

“Thank you.”

I returned to my seat at the bar feeling foolish and drunk.

“Bartender!” Suddenly self-conscious at the volume of my voice, I felt my face flush. 

The bartender glanced at me and held up a finger. He finished his transaction with another patron, then approached me, once again by myself, surrounded by empty stools.

“Can I help you?”

“Please. Could I get a steak?”

“How do you want your steak?”

“Seared on each side, rare in the middle.”

“So, rare?”

“Yes, rare.”

He entered the order into his terminal, and then left me.

I glanced at the table where Khalid and Emily had been, their glasses waiting to be bussed.

A group of five came in wearing suits and dresses, three men, two women, speaking Russian. I averted my gaze. I wasn’t sure I wanted company anymore and hoped they would not sit near me.

The steak arrived with a sprig of arugula on top. I sliced into the middle of it. Red juices ran and pooled on the plate. It tasted good, but needed salt. The salt shaker was crusted, so I unscrewed the top, dumped a tiny mound into my left hand, and, sprinkling with the right, said a silent grace. I brushed my hand clean over the plate.

“How’s the steak?”

“Good.”

“Anything else? Glass of wine?”

I looked at my unfinished martini. 

“No, just some ice water. And the check. No hurry.”

The check arrived while I continued to slice, salt and chew my steak. It felt life giving, though I was deflated. The bartender remained nearby, rinsing glasses. I decided to engage him. “Did you ever have the experience of thinking you recognized someone, and then have it turn out not to be the person you thought?”

He paused momentarily and looked up pensively, not at me, as though the answer to the question resided on the ceiling of the hotel lobby bar.

“Not that I can recall,” he concluded.

I finished the steak, paid the check and tipped a twenty. “Have a good night.”

The following week, Lockheed sent me on assignment to Islamabad for ten days. My first opportunity, a Saturday, I hired a driver to take me to Peshawar, two hours by car. At the University, I found the building housing the Chemistry department and opened the door. The halls were empty and silent. 

Who was I even looking for? I wondered as I wandered. 

There, at the end of the hall, I found an office where light shone beneath the closed door. I knocked.

“Come in.”

I opened the door.

“Can I help you?” A man sat behind a desk with papers spread in front of him.

“I’m not sure.”

I introduced myself and told my tale. The man listened patiently, his face expressionless. When I finished, he said, “Just a moment.” 

Lifting the receiver for the desk phone, he dialed, looked at me as he cradled the phone on his shoulder, then averted his gaze and began speaking in Urdu. Holding his hand over the receiver, he looked me in the eye. “Tell me your name again.”

“Ian.”

“Gee, Ian. He’s right here in front of me. Acha, teek-hey.”

“You have driver?” He rolled the first “r” in his accented English.

“Yes, he’s waiting for me outside.”

“Tell him to take you to this address.” He handed me a slip of paper.

We drove to faculty housing that bordered the campus. 

“Here,” the driver said. 

I exited the car and knocked on the door. An elderly man opened the door. 

“Asalamalaikum,” I said. “I am Ian. I was told to come here.” 

“Walaikum Asalam. Please, come in.” He led me to a sitting room. “Do you want some tea?”

I nodded, “Yes, please.” 

He left the room and I overheard him say the word, “Chai.”

Before the tea arrived, Asra entered the room. 

“Ian? How did you find me?”

“Let’s just say, I was in the neighborhood. How are you? And the kids?”

“They are good. Thank you for asking. Najia is studying here. To become medical doctor. Khayyam is in Dubai. He is now civil engineer.” I found her omission of the indefinite article endearing.

“Masha’Allah. And how are you?”

“I survive.” 

“I am so sorry about, Sameer. I did everything I could.”

“I believe you.” She looked down. A Persian rug covered the concrete floor.

I wanted to ask her to come back with me, to take care of her, to make up for what I couldn’t do for Sameer. She looked tender, soft and frail, beneath her black hijab.

We drank tea together in silence. For minutes, the only sounds were the clink of our teaspoons stirring milk and china cups on saucers 

“No really, why are you here?”

“I wanted to be sure you were okay.”

“I am okay. I miss Sameer. But, I am okay.”

“Do you think…” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. “Would you like to…” I finally settled on, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She shook her head. 

“Maybe I should go.”

“Will you come again?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. I would like that.”

“Then, yes, I will come again. As long as you tell me where to find you, I will come, again and again, until or unless you tell me to stop.”

She laughed and wiped tears from her eyes. 

“You are good man, Ian. Sameer would be proud of you for doing this.”

Trying to hold back tears myself, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, and wiped my eyes.

“Til next time, then?”

“Til next time. Allah hafiz.”

“Allah hafiz.”

A week later, I had an 18-hour layover in Dubai so I got a hotel room at the airport. Khayyam met me at the hotel and offered to drop me off at the terminal of the Dubai International Airport for my flight back to Washington, D.C.

“I will return home someday” he told me, “to build bridges there.” He still called me “Ian Uncle.”

“Insha’Allah.” We hugged, and I headed to security to return to my home in Arlington.

On the plane, I took the copy of The Holy Quran that Sameer had given me, which included an English translation, out of my briefcase. It fell open to Surah An-Nisa, verse 164, which reads: There are messengers whose stories We have told you already and others We have not.