CH 2 - MUSTAFA & THE AMERICAN

I remember the first time I saw this picture of Mustafa. I was sitting at my computer and eating a sandwich. Then this picture came up.

At once, I just stopped...a bit transfixed, and in the blink of an eye, all of a sudden I could see myself standing there with him, the setting sun behind us. It was almost twilight and night would be soon upon us. But at that moment I was oblivious to that fact.

There was a gentle breeze blowing and moving his hair ever so slightly as it also did mine. I could feel him next to me, his left arm in its jacket sleeve moving slightly against and then away from my right arm as the breezes ebbed and flowed. He was that close to me that I could feel him, and yet I knew a part of him was off somewhere...

maybe far away or maybe long ago. 

It was almost surreal.

It was a bit cool and we were both wearing jackets, and he a scarf...and yet...I could feel

the heat of him, the fire within him...and I felt warmed in spite of the chilly breeze blowing against us. I always can.

He was looking away and not at me, and yet...

Then he turned toward me and for an instant I saw those beautifully intelligent eyes, at once young and full of life and at the same time old and wise...or perhaps tired. The kind of achy tired that comes from one too many views of a life that has way too much sadness and despair in it. Too much of the horrors that accompany war and at once I ached with him. It felt like a weight almost too much to carry for any normal human being.

I looked back at him, and wondered what was in his mind. 

"Where are you, Mustafa? Where are you?

Where have you gone?"

I heard myself thinking, and yet I knew. 

I truly did.

Finally, he smiled. A slightly wan but genuine smile...and then he turned again, and I felt him leave in a way. It was unsettling and yet...

it was him, moving in his mind and his emotions through a place that he can rarely ever allow anyone else to see. He does let me sometimes, but it takes a toll I know.  Because it is SO personal. SO deep inside him and that is what I was seeing. In the picture. A glimpse deep into this beautiful Afghan Combat Journalist, searching at once both inside himself and outside, and somewhat at times beyond where I could easily go with him.

it was an AMAZING moment...and this all happened truly in an instant. But, there was almost a timeless aspect to it too. This sense of being there with him...feeling so close and yet...

That feeling has happened many many times without my having the foggiest notion of how 

or why.

I know when he is hurting. I know when he is sad or angry. I know when he feels down and when he is up...but what is so totally odd in a way is because the truth is... 

Mustafa and I have never met in person. Never even been on the same continent. Yet...

I stood next to him in the picture in my mind and knew what he was thinking. Knew as if he was actually telling me in words. But he wasn't...and yes...I knew, and still...I couldn't articulate it. Not really. It went way beyond words, yet I was there...and feeling what he was feeling and sensing...his...

It is hopeless to try to explain it. What was going on inside him?

Was he thinking of a yet to be time when Afghanistan is finally at peace? Was he thinking of a yet to be time when HE will be?

All I know is...this Afghan and this American connect. Strange as that might sound, we do.

Odd? Perhaps, but it just is that way.

I am grateful for the times I can make him laugh. He needs that since so much of what he sees is far from laughable...& I hope that I make him feel better, especially when little else in his life does. 

I will never forget his reaction to a cartoon I sent him...

He laughed and he admitted he knows 

lots of days like that.

OR this one. He REALLY laughed at this one...

But most of all, I hope that I make him know he has someone who is truly in his corner and always will be. Someone who cares...especially in the times when the critics and detractors denigrate him and try to make him feel his efforts for his country have been in vain or that his efforts to bring a better future to Afghanistan have no merit or value. GOD I hate that. 

I know he gets weary, and at those times I feel that weariness and ache for & with him. Can I explain that? No. Nor would I even begin to try. Because for me it isn't necessary to know why or how. The fact that it is is enough.

Mustafa & Dusty. The Afghan & the American, or as he calls me...Stark & I call him Kaz. 

Two more unlikelier mates it is hard to imagine, but there it is.

I am just grateful for the opportunity to be able to be a friend. To be someone he has called Mate from the day we met & Mate it is.

I just hope it will always be so for I know to my toes that he needs a friend who will be a friend to the end, and that I am. We got each others back.

OK. NOW I feel safe. INDEED I DO. LOL.

Make it so, Number One. Make it so.

And when he is done, please bring him back to me so I can make a joke and he can laugh and we can giggle and if only for a fast moment in time FORGET the things that cause that heaviness in his spirit...and then also in mine.

Let us be silly and stupid and go F*** you to all that would wound and bind up and drag him (& me) down...and then let us sing a song of wondrous times and funny things and intense farce. For that is what is important. Truly. The ability to make someone else laugh and feel a song. Can I give him that? Surely we can try.

Right Mate? Surely we can try.

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So gentle readers...come with me now and let's go back, back to where it all started. It's quite the little story it is, and you're in luck cause it happens to be the one I am telling. LOL.

CH 3 >  

(Chapters 17 & 18 have some content but are not finished. The rest of the chapters are yet to be written. Stay tuned.)