"I will be happy tomorrow in Kabul."
In memoriam–a death in Afghanistan.
On Thursday July 1, 2021, a young Afghan man in his thirties named Rafiq passed away from Covid-19. Rafiq was from a small village, Samir Kot, in the Watapur district of the Pech River Valley (Kunar Province) in eastern Afghanistan.
Rafiq was a peaceful man who loved the small collection of villages and valleys in his corner of Afghanistan. Dedicated to his wife and children, from 2007-2013 he worked for American forces operating in the area. He started as a laborer and eventually became foreman at COP (Combat Outpost) Honaker-Miracle, responsible for the activities of more than two dozen locals who worked on the base every day. He was a trusted and invaluable friend to many U.S. Army units that operated out of Honaker.
During the year that I spent working with him, 2011-2012, he and his family helped us in ways that cannot be easily described, even after all these years. When we were attacked, an often-daily combination of small arms, rockets, and mortars, Rafiq and his workers were as brave as anyone else on the base. They would calmly take shelter wherever it could be found and would be the first group to get back to work after it was all over. Rafiq and his men were the most vulnerable people on Honaker. They knew it but fear never stopped them. They spent all their time working outdoors around the base. When we faced potentially catastrophic fires on the COP, he was always the first person running by my side towards the fires as we led efforts to contain and control the spread. He was always the last to leave, as well, after making sure the cleanup was complete.
Too many times to count we found ourselves walking around the base and suddenly running for cover as small arms and/or explosions started hitting the COP.
He surprised me one day when he asked me to look, from a guard tower, for his brother who was working the fields around the base. I told him I had no idea that his family had farms this close to the village. He chuckled and said, “SOG (I was Sergeant of the Guard), everything around you is my family farm.” The Afghan government and U.S. military had rented their land to build Honaker.
His was a family of farmers and local businessmen. They had never fought with or against the Taliban. His older brother, Hanif, had been a Mujahedeen who had fought Soviet forces but was now a farmer. Rafiq and his generation, as he described it to me, did not want to fight anyone. When I asked him why others in the Pech felt differently he would explain the differences between the mountain people and the valley (floor) people. The mountain people wanted to be left alone and would fight anyone who trespassed. The people in the villages, along the floor of the valleys, were more accommodating as long as they could farm and trade. They, according to Rafiq, didn’t care who was in charge if it was peaceful.
He loved everything American and everything Indian. One of his guys ran a small barber shop out of a small shack on the COP. They played Indian music and Katrina Kaif videos all day, every day.
After a visit to Kabul, he told me he was amazed to see women in non-traditional garb, including jeans. He thought it was amazing and wonderful, just like his cellphone. When I asked him if he could ever imagine women in Watapur dressing similarly, he laughed and said, “No way, never. It is fine for Kabul, but we don’t want that here. It is not right. But if they want it there, that’s fine. Plus, I can visit anytime!” He would smile and shake his head at me for asking silly questions.
During my last days at Honaker, he told me his dream was to move to America. He feared for his own safety, as well as his family’s. He felt that without Americans it was only a matter of time until the Taliban moved back into the valley and life changed dramatically for everyone, especially those who had worked with American forces. In the years after American forces left the Pech he would find himself mostly in Kabul or Jalalabad because of security concerns. His brother, Hanif, the former Mujahedeen, was killed by a Taliban attack while walking home in 2015.
During the last few years, Rafiq did everything possible to leave Afghanistan and move to the United States. The visa process was incredibly difficult and seemingly designed to make it more likely that people like him would be rejected instead of accepted. I once asked him if perhaps Europe might be an easier destination as a refugee. He refused, he wanted to go to America.
As part of that effort, I had written a number of letters of support and been in contact with the U.S. Embassy. Last week, as news developed that the U.S. Congress was going to step up efforts to help Afghans obtain visas, Rafiq was hopeful that there might finally be an escape for him.
On Wednesday, June 30th, he messaged me that he planned to go to the embassy as soon as possible but that he was still sick with Covid. He asked if I could write another letter and told me he would update me as soon as he felt better. His last message arrived Wednesday night as he traveled to Kabul for medical help.
Thank you buddy, I will be happy tomorrow in Kabul.
On Thursday morning, as I looked at pictures of a deserted Bagram airbase, of Kabul, and read stories about the American withdrawal, I wrote to him to ask his opinion of Taliban presence inside Kabul. He was as connected as anyone could be in certain parts of Afghanistan.
Friday morning, his son Tariq, writing from his father’s phone, messaged me that Rafiq passed away from Covid-19 as they were arriving in Kabul.
A good man died. Good dreams died.
Sorry for his death and your loss. This reads like a quiet, visceral, and very well balanced report on the unappreciated complexities and tragedies of wartime (in my layman's opinion).