The Line

I’m not supposed to be here.

A clear line of demarcation. Jersey barriers and c-wire and armed guards facing each other from opposite sides of a road neither side is allowed to cross. Different uniforms and different weapons; different languages and different customs. Wariness on both sides. Who’ll be the next insider threat? Who’ll start the next argument, or throw the first punch, or fire the first round? Whatever the case, whomever it is, none of us are willing to be the one tucked down behind the jersey barriers. Barrel still cold as it was when we picked it up that morning and skin unmarked by soot or dust or blood. When it comes, and it will, whether from within or without, we'll fight. We'll fight until we've got nothing left.

But I cross the road. I do it all the time when I bring Sayed and his men Rip-Its from the DFAC, chips from the PX, Indomie noodles from Amazon. I do it when he waves me over to give me the scarves and handmade bracelets his wife sent for me. When the wasp stung him and his arm swelled up from wrist to elbow, I crossed the road to give him Benadryl and pain meds. He always smiles. Thanks me in his broken English. I always smile and thank him in my broken Pashto. We chat as best we can over those jersey barriers, our voices raised over the sounds of airplanes coming and going, or the rumble of special ops trucks.

My guards laugh and accuse me of being friends with Sayed. Of course, I always deny it. I joke that I’m making nice so that, when he becomes an insider threat, maybe he won’t kill me. And they laugh. They always do. Most of these boys never deployed; they joined too late, long after all the chaos of the initial invasion and the surge. They came into the military to be…well, heroes. To prove themselves men, true men who’d seen battle and come out the other side stronger. That they never got that chance, and that I did, makes them twice as bitter. But I’m their supervisor and so it’s sort of an uneasy truce. We laugh and joke and tease each other. They feed the cats who roam around the ECP’s and, in return, I ignore the rumors they spread behind my back.

It’s the cat what did it. I’d found one before, early on, over a year ago. An orange beast of a creature, yowling for scraps on the boardwalk and I'd fallen in love with him. Back then, I’d just had a special ops buddy drive that cat off base and hand him over to a volunteer for Nowzad, who'd then driven him to Kabul. Three months later, and three thousand dollars later, that orange critter had been on his way home to my sister. On his way to a life of luxury and utter pampering. Nowzad had named him Fluffy. I’d named him Nemesis.

But it wasn’t Covid back then. Special ops doesn’t roll anymore, certainly not out Black Gate. It’s like the plague, they say, and it spreads fast. I know. My friend had been the Covid Mary of Kandahar Airfield; he’d spent six weeks alone in a Connex before they’d figured out how to test his blood and declare him clear of contagion. So that poses a problem for this newest creature I’ve found. A friendly long-nosed tabby who lives at Whiskey ECP and who I want to send him home. I can catch him, I know I can, but it’s the getting him to Kabul that’s an issue. No one can leave the base, save for the planes and helicopters and Ospreys.

I have to find a new way to get this cat home. An hour ago, I'd stood at Juliet ECP, baking beneath the blazing noon sun and staring at Sayed. Sayed had waved me over. Stanton had, for the fifth time, muttered about how bad of an idea he thought it was, and I’d reminded him that I'd have Merc there with me. I'd already covered my hair with one of Sayed's wife's scarves and covered my tattoos with Under Armor sleeves. How bad could it be? How many rules could we really be breaking? It’s just the one rule, really. The rule that says that the Afghan side of the flightline is off-limits to American personnel. The rule that reminds us all that, while this side of the road is part of a US military base, the other side is foreign soil.

But I’d crossed the street. As I’d done dozens of times before, except this time I went beyond the jersey barriers on the Afghan side. Sayed had made a call over the radio. Minutes later, a truck, a dusty, rusty Toyota Tata had pulled up and Merc and Sayed and I had gotten in. Sat in the stench of old sweat and dirt as it rumbled a hundred feet past that invisible line the US had deemed absolute and pulled to a stop at the airport doors. It was too late to realize it was a mistake; we'd already gone too far for forgiveness, too far to escape punishment. So I'd let them lead us through the empty, echoing halls of their airport. All the way to the back where their commander and his interpreter waited.

So now here I sit. Patiently, and anxiously, exchanging pleasantries with this man I’m not supposed to know, or speak to, or even see. He’s an older man. Tall, powerful body turned soft by age and, when he smiles, his crows' feet crinkle. He's excited. I can see it in his body language, the way his hands move and the liveliness in his eyes. This visit must be a welcome diversion from the tension of his job. So close to a base like this, in the position he's in, it must be stressful.

We share pleasantries. Stories of our families and lives. He tells me of the mountains he'd lived in and I tell him of the States, Iraq, Korea. He listens with interest. These are countries he might never get the chance to see. He's personable. Friendly. I relax into the couch and nudge Merc’s tense arm. He gives me a look from beneath a thick, curly strand of his black hair that had managed to escape the bun. He’s not happy. I’ll hear about this for days to come.

The door opens. Two men enter bearing platters of food and the commander waves his hands enthusiastically. It’s their way. I’d learned that my first time in Afghanistan, back when I’d been a soldier instead of an ex-patriot. That food I'd been given outside the wire, every bit of it, had been amazing. This time, though, when the platter is set down in front of us, I have my doubts. It looks…messy. Some sort of...vegetable, maybe? Coated in a hefty splattering of red sauce, along with a stack of flatbread, a large bowl of yogurt, and a pile of fresh vegetables.

The commander waits with an eager smile. I take my first bite and I feel the surprise work its way over my face. It’s…amazing. It tastes like the best pizza I’ve ever had and the commander laughs at the look on my face. I tell the translator to tell the commander that I love the meal and, when the message is passed on, the effect is immediate. The commander grins broadly and claps his hands, nods his head. He’s happy. I’m happy to see him happy.

 It’s some sort of squash in some sort of sauce, the interpreter says. The yogurt is raw, unflavored, and its tang pairs perfectly with the vegetables. We eat together. Hands clutching bits of flatbread and diving down to scoop up hefty mouthfuls of the saucy squash. Spoons clanking against the yogurt bowl and fingers snagging up vegetables to dip and devour. This is…good. Not just the food but the experience. I've lived many things, but I've never lived this. I've never eaten with men my leaders have, for years, told me could be the enemy. But this feels normal. This feels like meeting friends for a good meal and I feel...at ease. I feel relaxed and happy and, above all, I feel safe.

At last, there’s nothing left on the table. The food has been gleefully, gratefully consumed, and the commander is content. He settles back, folds his hands over his belly, and conversation resumes once more. He agrees to help. There’s a spot in the cargo hold of the next plane, the one that takes off in two days. All I have to do is catch the cat, crate him, and hand him over before that plane leaves. I thank the commander. I tell him that this has been an amazing experience and he grins, tells me that he’s enjoyed his time here with us.

I walk out of the room with the taste of that strange meal still lingering on my tongue. We enter the waiting truck and, as it drives us back to safety, I ask Sayed what the meal had been. He only shrugs and promises to ask his wife when he gets home. When Sayed brings the truck to a stop at the gate, Merc practically drags me back across that line and, when we enter the shack at Juliet, Stanton rages at me. Two hours we’d been out of contact, he says. Two hours! We could’ve been dead! Or captured! But we weren’t, I tell him. We enjoyed ourselves and Merc even gives a grunting murmur of assent. It had been fun. A thrill, a stolen moment of connection and friendship with men we're not supposed to trust.

Pest control helps me capture the tabby cat. I take him to the airport and, hours later, he safely reaches Nowzad vet clinic. In time, when he's ready, and when I've sent them another three thousand dollars for airfare, they'll ship him to my sister. Life continues. No one knows that recipe, nor even the name of the dish. Maybe it’d been some invention within the Afghan army itself, some culmination of curiosity and creativity, or even necessity. A way to make do with what they had on hand at the moment.

Things…shift. It’s the peace treaty what did it. That hateful scrap of paper that brokered safety for only US troops and threw our Afghan allies to the wolves. A rapid drawdown of American forces. A footprint that shrinks, bit by bit, until, soon, all that’ll be left is us here and Kabul. Day after day, Sayed tells me of the fallout. He tells me of how the Taliban has begun to slaughter the Afghan army in the north. He tells me how the US abandoned Afghan commandos in the middle of a mission. He’s worried. I’m worried, too.

It’s all anyone can talk about. Perched on picnic tables six feet apart over Styrofoam trays filled with limp vegetables and overcooked meat. Leaning over the gym equipment they’d taken out of the gym and placed on dusty concrete slabs to keep us from breathing on each other too much. Deployment has never felt so…unsafe. I can’t stop picturing the last helicopter out of Saigon. I can’t stop imagining the Taliban getting impatient and breaking the treaty now, when we're weak.

I wouldn’t mind dying. That’s never been a fear of mine; in fact, I’d been sure I wouldn’t make it to eighteen, then twenty-one, then twenty-five, then thirty. Now here I am. Thirty-two years old and still playing warrior in the desert. What am I doing here? This war, it’s never been honest. It’s never been about the people; it’s always been about money. Greed. False flag operations and outright lies.

I think of that meal I shared with Sayed and his commander in the airport and, sometimes, it nearly brings me to tears. That had felt real. It had felt genuine. In the Army, I’d spent a year in Iraq, another in Afghanistan, but I’d never had the chance to actually sit down and connect with their people. And, back then, I wouldn’t have wanted to. I’d looked at them with revulsion and fearful mistrust and the memory makes me sick to my stomach. I’m disgusted with it all. With myself, with this dishonest war, with every bit of propaganda I’d believed as a young woman.

I won’t die for it. So I put in my papers. Come November, I won’t be re-upping my contract and my leadership scrambles to find a new day shift supervisor. Even though months have passed since Covid first raised its mutated head, we’re still under strict travel restrictions. We're low-manned. Twelve hours a day sweltering beneath masks. No days off. And now I'm leaving, too. But I’m tired. Tired of the heat and sand and bad attitudes but, most of all, I’m tired of the hopelessness and helplessness.

I find myself looking at myself, really, truly looking, and I don't like what I see. I could blame the ignorance of youth. The cloak of cruelty I’d donned to protect myself in a male-dominated warrior culture, but that, too, feels dishonest. I see my life for what it is: time spent in service of a lie. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know what I become when I get home, what I’ll do, how I’ll afford the mortgage on the house or help my sister through college. But I can’t be this anymore. Never again.

But I won’t leave before doing my best to repay Sayed for all his effort. Because, in spite of all my sharp jokes and fervent denials, we are friends. I’ll never forget him. I’ll forever wish that I could have met his wife. I'll always wish that I could visit them. Show up at their doorstep with gifts in hand, sit down with them and their children and just…be friends. Talk about things other than war and death, play with their children, help his wife cook dinner. A simple visit. A real, enduring friendship.

I gather what I can. The day before I’m scheduled to leave, I cross the road one last time. I deliver one last shipment of Rip-Its, chips, and Indomie noodles, and one last bundle of jewelry for his wife. When he accepts the gifts and whispers his thanks, his eyes are sad. I tell him I’m sorry I’m leaving. He says he wants me to be safe. He reaches over the barrier, holds out his hand, and I take it. His palm is warm and calloused against mine. He smiles and nods one last time and I blink back the tears as I walk back across the road.

I go back. Back to my sister and the house we’d bought, back to safety and comfort. Five months later, I watch Afghanistan slowly crumble. Mayhem in Kabul. Thirteen US service members and almost two hundred Afghani civilians murdered at Abbey Gate. Thousands upon thousands of people fleeing the retribution slowly burning its way across the country. Desperate mothers reaching up over barriers and c-wire to press their babies into the hands of soldiers and Marines. Terrified men swarming C-17’s as they taxi down the tarmac, clinging to wings and landing gear. A kinder death, maybe, that plummet down to the ground when they lose their grip.

Myself and every single ex-pat I know reaches out to every single person in some position of power. We beg for their help. We send our abandoned Afghan friends documents to request asylum. We try to go back. Not to uphold the war criminals of the US government, but to spit in their eye by going back to save the allies they betrayed. Sayed adds me on Instagram. When he can, when he has the cell service and a moment to breathe, he tells of me of the fighting. Begs me to help him get his family out and I forward the documents he signs, send them onward. I tell him I'm trying to come back. He tells me to stay put, be here to greet them when they're finally granted asylum. He has faith. I don't.

It all ends so...so quietly. Fades, almost, as though everyone save us has turned their eyes away. Nothing comes of our efforts. As Afghanistan settles beneath the mantle of fanaticism, we slowly hear less and less from those we tried to save. The last thing I hear from Sayed, the last thing he says before he's swallowed up like all the others, is a message of gratitude. He thanks me for my friendship and effort. I know I'll never hear from him again.

I can’t stop thinking about that day. Those two hours I’d spent inside that airport and the meal I’d shared with men I wasn’t supposed to interact with on the wrong side of some invisible line. A line I’d crossed with the help of a man who, in spite of all I’d been taught to believe, had been my friend. Every day, I wear the bracelets his wife had made for me. I wear the scarves she'd given me, wrap my hair in their soft cloth and think of her, and of Sayed, and of their three children. I never met her and yet I know that she was good. Sayed was good; the commander was good. They deserved better.

Sometimes I try to recreate that meal. I experiment with ingredients and spices and cooking times. On my last try, I got close, but I still couldn’t see Sayed’s smile. I couldn’t hear the commander’s laughter, nor feel the ease I’d felt in that room. One day, though. One day, I’ll find the right measurements and I’ll be back there in that room. Back in that bittersweet memory of fragile friendship where everything had changed.