Thanking an Afghan Dad in My Driveway

We were just two dads in my home’s driveway. Just shooting the breeze after a neighborhood yard sale. Well, I was trying. Mostly, I was listening and doing my best through body language to communicate welcome and thanks.

He was a refugee from Afghanistan. I’m not sure if “refugee” is the correct legal term for his status. But I knew he and his family had to leave his homeland.

Why? They were yearning for a new and better world. They dreamed of freedom and opportunity.

And they had helped us.

As this dad told me about his long journey, it wasn’t just his broken English that kept me quiet. I wanted to listen. I wanted to see. I wanted him to know that I heard him and that his story was not falling on deaf ears. I understood.

Except, I don’t really.

The World Is a Big Place

There were actually three of us. Hearing from a kindred spirit that we might have some household items to give away after our yard sale, the man’s friend and fellow countryman had also come along to take a look. 

Both their names escaped me. They featured sounds unfamiliar to my ears. So, in my mind, I think of them as Arvin and Arman.

Their names slipped by, but not their stories.

“When I heard we would come to New York, I was…” Arvin said with a weathered face and wide eyes. His countenance was dark, and I imagined his beard—both rough and full—had faced more than its share of hardships. But as he searched for the right words, his rugged features were softened by a hint of overwhelmed wonder.

Then we laughed together. Rochester, his home for the last six months, is a city. But it is no Big Apple.  

“New York is a big place,” I chuckled.

They nodded kindly and knowingly. The world is a big place.

I could see Arvin was a practical man. As he perused the would-be treasures before him, he quickly zeroed in on a pair of hardy socks and a sweater. Both he and Arman had arrived in Rochester the previous year, and they had experienced the biting cold of winter here. 

Arman also quietly looked through the clothes, kitchen utensils, and toys laid out for his perusal. His features were softer, maybe a decade younger. But he, too, had a serious air and a subdued friendliness. I soon learned that both men were married. Both had kids. And both were trying to build a new life for their families after fleeing their home. 

Suddenly Arman’s face brightened. “Rav 4!” he said. He had found some lightly used floor mats that were perfect for his car—another highly valued treasure, I had no doubt. I smiled and told him to please take them. 

“Good for the winter, especially,” I said.

As Arman happily placed the mats in his Rav, Arvin and I continued with small talk like any strangers in any land, I imagine. We talked about the weather, of course. The rain, the sun, the lush green, and the very welcome warming spring air that had finally arrived in Western New York. 

Suddenly, Arvin’s gaze seemed to travel far away. 

Afghanistan was different, he said. It was an arid land. A place of imposing mountains. For a moment I almost felt I had a glimpse of the magnificent and mighty landscape.

Then his deep eyes changed. They seemed to grow darker. Grave. His land was also a place of suffering. It was plagued by wicked men. The police were no help there. If your home was attacked, you must fend for yourself. And his look told me the risk of such assaults were not small. 

Arman returned and kept his eyes down, somberly searching some books and wall art among the boxes set out. He understood Arvin. 

I knew only a little.

Daring to Dream

I did know something about the Taliban. They had provided sanctuary for Osama bin Laden at the turn of the century. As a Capitol Hill staffer, I had the painful honor of helping send condolence letters to families of soldiers who paid the ultimate sacrifice battling the Taliban and other enemies at that time. 

I also knew the Taliban, once thought defeated, filled the vacuum of power in Kabul after U.S. troops left in 2021. I remembered well the televised images of confusion and heartbreaking chaos during that withdrawal. 

Many Afghans wanted to leave then because they knew what was coming. Cold-blooded killers and coddlers of terrorists were soon to have the formal reins of power. Government and NGO reports are clear. The Taliban is violent and ruthless. The U.S. State Department’s human rights report documents the group’s penchant for political killings, kidnappings, and punishments such as “beatings, floggings, and executions.”

And men like Arvin and Arman are likely high on the Taliban’s hit list. Why? Because they helped the Americans. They bought into the dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. They embraced a mantra so many here in the States take for granted. They believed it enough that they put their families on the line in hopes of making a change for their homeland. 

But that dream ended. 

And now America itself is sending mixed signals. In fact, some reports suggest that a number of our previous partners, waiting in limbo abroad as they seek sanctuary, may be turned to third-party countries. Or even back to the land they left behind. 

Now I wholeheartedly support thorough vetting and accountability. Again, I remember 9-11 very well. We would be foolish to forget that there are wicked men in this world. I honor the good people striving diligently in the field to defend our security. Their work is, quite literally, vital.

I do wonder, though, what message we are sending to America’s friends who risk their lives for our troops and officials downrange. America is not the savior of the world, but throughout our history we have been a “shining city upon a hill,” as President Ronald Reagan like to say. He hoped our land would remain “a beacon… a magnet for all who must have freedom, for all the pilgrims from all the lost places who are hurtling through the darkness, toward home.”

Thanking a Neighbor

Back in my driveway, my thoughts came back to the here-and-now when I noticed Arman pick up a basketball from the donation table. I saw a ray of light break through the clouds in his eyes. His boys would love this, he said. He was, it seemed, a kids soccer coach in his former home. 

I tried to show him the intended use for this kind of ball, and we bounced it back and forth a few times. Then I took an uncontested jump shot toward the hoop in my driveway. A complete brick. We shared a good neighborly chuckle at my lack of skills as I tossed the ball back to him. 

It didn’t matter what kind of ball it was. It was a simple joy, and I could see from the warmth in his face that he and his children would relish it. In some small way, this ball might help this land become a new home—a place of new life, liberty, and opportunity for his family. Perhaps the dream would live on.

As I helped Arvin and Arman pack the ball, clothes, and other treasures in the Rav, I wished them well. My heart went out to them first of all as a fellow dad. But then another message jumped up in my spirit just as I turned back to my own blessed home.

“Thank you,” I called out to them. “Thank you for taking care of our soldiers.”

Knowing appreciation came to their eyes. I knew only a little, but I understood enough.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash