NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (24 page)

“Teacher, I want to take you to the Masjid-i Jami. It is the most beautiful masjid in the world. No other can compare to it.”

“I don’t know if I can go over there. Let me see if I can get away.” If the Army guys were paying attention, it would be difficult to get out of the PHQ gate.

Khoda Daad insisted. “Walk over to the masjid and I will meet you there. I want to show you Allah’s beautiful home.”

“Okay, I’ll get out. Give me about fifteen minutes.” Khoda Daad left us and I walked with Mirwais and Rasul towards the rear gate. We looked around. No one was watching us. We slipped out the gate.

The Masjid-i Jami was the central mosque in Herat. It was built by a Ghorid sultan over nine hundred years ago. Genghis Khan destroyed it, though the Afghans gloss over that fact. Later, Tamerlane rebuilt and reconsecrated it as a part of his world devouring empire. The mosque is one huge historic artifact. I was not turning down a chance to get a guided tour of the place.

We walked into the mosque compound from the front across the street from the PHQ. Walking in through the central gate, one climbs a small set of stairs. At the top of the stairs is a central fountain. Aside from its aesthetic qualities, the fountain is used to perform ablutions prior to entering the mosque. “Ablutions” is ritual cleansing performed so that a Muslim might come to God both physically and spiritually cleansed. It’s an important component of Muslim prayer. On each side of the fountain are terraced gardens that extend from the front of the mosque a hundred feet down to the gates at the street. The gardens are set in three tiers with small trees for shade over concrete benches where Afghans sit idly, pray, meditate, or picnic with their families.

Rasul was walking me through the ablutions ritual as we passed the fountain. “First you wash your hands, then your ears, face and neck, and finally your feet and ankles,” he explained.

“Okay. So, what about the act of conversion or reversion as you Muslims call it? What is the phrase that one repeats three times? I know it in English. Teach it to me in Arabic.”

“
La ilaha iI-Allah, Mohammad-ur-Rasullalah
. Repeat that three times in the mosque and you are officially a Muslim.” I stood there repeating it over and over again while Rasul and Mirwais corrected me until I got it right. We must have stood there ten minutes with me trying to get the pronunciation down.

As we stood there, a group of Afghans watched us. They were all dressed in white robes and black turbans. I had come to associate the black turban with the Taliban. I asked Rasul, “Dude, are those Taliban staring at us?”

“No, Dave. They’re mullahs. I don’t know why they’re staring at us. Foreigners come here all the time.”

“Yeah, but how many foreigners come dressed in Army uniform?” As part of the contract for which I was working, I was wearing the Army combat uniform or ACU. It was the newest digital camouflage pattern battle uniform that the Army had recently issued. The thing made me feel self-conscious. Afghans thought that I was in the Army. Half of the folks in the Army resented me for wearing it. We were held to the Army standard of wearing the uniform. I had wanted to grow my hair out but I felt like a moron in uniform with long hair, so I had cut my hair “high and tight” like a Marine. That’s how I’d worn my hair while I was in the Army.

Here I was in my ACUs walking through the grounds of an ancient mosque. The Afghans didn’t seem to mind my presence so much as think me a curiosity. Kids stared at me and ran up to me saluting. Adults mostly smiled at me. Though I did get a few glaring looks that seemed to say “get away from here.” For all I know, those looks may have said “What the fuck, dude?” One of the men in the white-robed group broke off and walked towards Rasul, Mirwais, and me.

Here it goes, I thought. International incident. “Rasul,” I warned and nodded towards the gentleman heading in our direction. The man walked up to Rasul. They spoke for a moment. The guy was all smiles. He kept looking at me and smiling and shaking his head excitedly. Well, that doesn’t seem bad, I thought. The white robe dude finished talking to Rasul, did a curtsy-ish bow, smiled at me, and walked back to his group.

“What was that all about Rasul?”

“Fuck him,” Rasul blurted out. “He’s a mullah. He thanked me for converting the infidel.” It was all I could do not to laugh. “Fuck that motherfucker. He’s a stupid bastard,” Rasul intoned angrily.

“Nah, Rasul. I think it’s okay. He thought that you were bringing me to the faith. He was marking off one more victory for Islam against the infidel hordes who have invaded Afghanistan,” I said, trying my damndest not to laugh. I didn’t want the mullah to think that I was ridiculing him after that gracious display of confidence in Rasul’s ability to revert an infidel to Islam. Reversion is the correct term, as Muslims believe that all of us were Muslims before we were born. When we join Islam we are, in fact, reverting to the faith as opposed to converting to it.

Khoda Daad joined our merry little group at that moment. “Khoda Daad, welcome to our revival. It seems that I’ve just become a Muslim.”

Rasul explained what had just happened. Khoda Daad didn’t miss a beat. “
Assalaam alaykum
, my new brother. Welcome to the faith,” he smiled at me and winked. “David, let them think what they wish to think. It is of no concern to us. Now let us go to the mosque and we will show you our secrets.”

Khoda Daad led us to the mosque. We stopped at the entrance. Rasul, Mirwais, and Khoda Daad took off their shoes. I started unlacing my boots. Rasul stopped me. “No David, you do not have to take your shoes off.”

“Rasul, I’ve been to several mosques and I always take my shoes off. If nothing else, it’s a sign of respect.”

“Okay. They will like it.”

“Who will like it?” I asked.

“The head mullah and his clerics.”

“What? We’re meeting the head mullah of this mosque?”

“Who do you think is giving us the tour?”

“Okay. I just thought Khoda Daad was going to tool us around.”

“No, David. You are too special for that,” Mirwais said.

“Stop making fun of me, Mirwais.”

“No, seriously. These guys like you. Everyone who comes to the class has loved you.”

“Shut the fuck up, dude. See you’ve got me cursing in the damn mosque now.”

It would be difficult for me to do justice to the Masjid-i Jami of Herat. Photos do not capture its majesty either. The central hall of worship fronts the mosque with its domed entrance. That hall is flanked by two entryways to the rear worship center. Two rooms are set on either side of these halls and lead up to the minarets. The mosque has a total of four minarets. These minarets are used to call the faithful to prayer. The whole of the mosque is covered by mosaic tiles with geometric designs and suras from the Qur’an painted on them. In each corner of the mosque are tiles with the words
Khuda hafiz
which is Dari for “God protect you.” The whole mosque is a dazzling display of blue tiles. It is constantly being repaired and renovated from within where there is a large workshop dedicated to that end. The men in this workshop labor non-stop to create tiles to replace old and broken ones on the facade of the mosque. Every tile from the four-inch corner fillers to one-and-a-half meter, tear-shaped tiles weighing a couple hundred pounds are made by these craftsmen. The mosque is a masterpiece. Considering that it is nearly a thousand years old, it is amazing.

Khoda Daad led us down one of the side halls and into the workshop. The mullah was inside directing a calligraphist in writing part of a sura on a tile. Mirwais, Rasul, and I were introduced to the mullah and the workers. They all bowed politely with their hands over their hearts and nearly in unison said, “
Assalaam alaykum
.”

“David, this is Emir Imam Fazl. He is the leader of the Friday prayers here.” I shook his hand and placed my hand over my heart mirroring his actions. “Welcome to our humble masjid, Dawood,” he said using the quasi-Dari for my name.

Emir Fazl led us back to his office and started telling us the history of the mosque. “Dawood, great men have worshipped here. The original mosque was built by the Ghorids. Timur started to rebuild it but it was completed by Shah Jahan, the Mughal emperor. Babur, the grandfather of Shah Jahan, stopped here to pray on his way to Kabul. A wealthy pilgrim brought us a lock of hair from the prophet but it is locked away and I can only show it to members of the faith.”

I was tempted to tell him that I’d just joined the faithful out at the ablutions fountain but I held back. Rasul gave me a look that said, “Don’t even go there.” I smiled back at him. Emir Fazl led us back into the worship hall. “Dawood, this is the
mihrab
,” he said pointing to a domed niche carved out in the prayer hall. This is how Muslims know the direction to face when praying. All Muslims must face Mecca when they pray.” As the imam was explaining this, he was called away. “Khoda Daad, you can take them through the rest of the mosque.”

“Yes, Emir,” answered my friend.

Khoda Daad led us to the rear of the mosque to an area that was closed off. It was another prayer hall but had been laid aside for special occasions. In the front corner was a great brass cauldron dating back to the 1300s. Khoda Daad led us around the back and into an area that he said was a madrassah for Islamic students. As we walked through the corridors of the mosque, Khoda Daad pointed out tiles that he said were originally from the Ghorid and Timurid periods. That would date these sections back to the days of Tamerlane and before, sometime in the fourteenth century. We ended the tour back inside the workshop. Emir Imam Fazl walked in just as we were about to leave. We stopped and thanked him for the opportunity to tour the mosque.

“
Tashakor
, Emir Imam, this was most excellent. Your masjid and its history were awe-inspiring for me. Thank you so much.”

“Dawood, it is my pleasure. We are always happy to have foreigners here. We want to build relationships with the outside world. We are not all Taliban or fundamentalists. I would love to have more visitors to show the beauty of Islam, so that the world does not think that we are all monsters.”

“I will spread the word, Emir. Do not worry.”

That’s when I made the mistake. Rasul and Mirwais had been teaching me Dari. I’d picked up a few words.
Tashakor
means “thank you.”
Khuda hafiz
means “God protect you.” Many Afghans use this in saying farewell as opposed to “
salaam
” which means “peace” in Arabic. Of course, Rasul and Mirwais had taught me a few spicy phrases as well. One such phrase was
kos mathar
. That meant “motherfucker,” but it wasn’t a direct translation. Usually when an American said “motherfucker” it was just slang and really had no meaning beyond grabbing attention or being profane. It certainly didn’t mean that one had had sex with his own mother. In Dari, though, that is the exact way that they took it.
Kos mathar
literally means “one who has sex with his mother.” I kept getting
kos mathar
confused with
Khuda hafiz
.

I was standing there trying to say
Khuda hafiz
to the imam when I blurt out, “
Tashakor
, Emir Imam Fazl.
Kos mathar
.”

Rasul’s eyes popped out of his head. “David, what are you saying?”

“Dude, I’m saying that ‘God protect you’ thingie.”

“
Khuda hafiz
. Don’t say that other word in here.”

Luckily, the imam was hard of hearing. He either didn’t hear me or he let it slip because I was a dumb infidel. I began again. “Sorry, Emir Imam, I meant to say
Khuda hafiz
. Thank you so much for everything. This was awesome.”

The imam took both of my hands in his, “
Khuda hafiz
, Dawood Khan.”

When we got outside of the mosque, Khoda Daad said his farewells and rushed back to the PHQ. It was getting on lunchtime and he had to supervise final preparations for the noon meal. Rasul looked at me and said, “Dave, you crazy motherfucker.”

“What dude, I was trying to say
Khuda hafiz
. If you guys were good teachers, I’d not have made that mistake. You guys suck.”

Mirwais said, “Fuck you, you dumb bastard.” He was laughing.

We returned to the PHQ with no one realizing that we’d ever been gone. Another day, another adventure. I’d almost got our heads chopped off but we had survived.

Beautiful.

Ghalla Attar

July–August 2008

Ghalla Attar in Zinda Jan Province was the headquarters of the 4th Zone Afghan Border Police (ABP), which comprises the entire Herat region and shares borders with Iran in the west and Turkmenistan in the north. The ABP was charged with patrolling the border and collecting customs duties at border crossings. I spoke with the border police logistics officer about giving a class at their headquarters. Colonel Markinson, the 4th Zone ABP combat advisory team lead, bought into the idea. Colonel Markinson was informally known as Marky Mark. If you wanted to do anything with the border police in western Afghanistan, you had to talk to him. He had a great relationship with the border police commander and was all for any training that would make his job easier and get the Afghans going in the right direction. He told me to put together a plan and brief him on it.

I gave Jonny Fernandez a call. He had recently been moved to the ABP advisory team and was Marky Mark’s ops officer.

“Jonny, what’s the longest that you guys stay out at Ghalla Attar?”

“We’ve stayed out that way for a couple of weeks. When we need to go out to Turghundi or down to Islam Qala, we sometimes use it as a base so that we can leave early with the Afghans,” he answered. Turghundi and Islam Qala are border police outposts on the border with Iran.

“I’m planning a log course out there. Do you think we can stay for two weeks?”

“Hell, why not? They need it. Their logistics are in complete disarray. We’ll take all the help we can get on logistics out there. You should see their ammunition storage area. Talk about a goat fuck.”