I don’t write much about what my father is doing in Afghanistan, my poor country is in ruins and what could have an opportunity for a remarkable turn around in 2002 was pissed away by the Iraq invasion and just general reactionary bullshit.  Instead of formulating a plan and sticking with it, giving our troops the support they needed both militarily and emotionally, we abandoned them in our lust for money, power and oil. 

Let me preface this by saying that we, Afghans, are aware that American and other NATO troops die every day in Afghanistan. Civilian casualties are at an unacceptable rate.  But, this is my dad.  I worry and weep over every life lost in my country of birth whether they look like my Yonas or like my Yacob, but my dad is my dad.  My worry is greatest for him.  Every time there is a car bomb, plane crash, or general fighting in Kabul, I feel weak in the knees, I see spots, and I call my mom to make sure dad is ok.  Yesterday morning I heard of a plan crash in Kabul, all forty people aboard dead.  My father was coming home from a conference in Tajikistan.  My heart skipped a beat as I called my mother.  Dad was already at home, ‘safe’ as one can be in the middle of a war zone.

Last year, there was a bomb near my family home in Kandahar.  It shattered all of the windows of the compound.  I needed to make sure my father wasn’t there.  Other family members were in the house, but they were safe.  The house, which had recently been repaired after its destruction by the Soviets, was in need of work once again.

In 2008, the Indian Embassy in Kabul was bombed.  I called my father and he said he was tying his tie (because that’s what normal people do, whether you live in a gated community in McLean, VA, or Kabul, Afghanistan) and he heard a loud sound, like a car crash.  This was his first major bombing, since they didn’t occur with much regularity in Kabul before then.  He said he ducked his head because he thought it was right outside.  It scared the crap out of him.

In 2009, the Indian Embassy was bombed yet again.  This time, my father said “God dammit, why do they have to do these things so early?  It woke me up out of such a deep sleep.”  What a difference a year makes.

Since then, I’ve called him when a popular shopping plaza had a major battle, when a UN guesthouse was targeted, and whenever there are bombs dropped on the Serena hotel (a popular spot with returning Afghans). 

I just got off the phone with him.  I had a potential client in the office, and I excused myself when I saw the 973 come up on my phone.  “It’s my father calling from Kabul.”  We chatted about my kids, the next shipment of medical supplies and his trip to Tajikistan.  I asked about this morning’s car bombing and he said

“I was sitting on the deck of our new apartment drinking tea.  I heard the sound.  I saw the plume of smoke.  I had just gone by the area where it happened just the day before”  My father laughed “Zary, this happens everywhere.  Here, Iraq.  It’s Afghanistan, we know these things happen.”

Dad, I know these things happen. They happen here sometimes too.  But I worry about you.  I know you are doing an amazing and brave thing and when I speak of your work I cannot help the obvious pride in my voice. You don’t do it for money, you do it because you believe.  You are living your life as a lesson for us.

Be safe, father.  Your family is waiting for your safe return.