In Search of Safety: Voices of Refugees

I only told two people in my family that there was a fatwa on me. I told my dad because he was a retired military officer and knew how to handle this kind of situation. I told my brother because he was trying to get a job like mine and is very smart. In Afghanistan, we try to keep sad things from women. What happened to me when I was at work with the American army, what happened to my dad when he was at work with the Afghan National Army, we keep quiet.

Even though I pretended that everything was fine, I walked around feeling that I could die at any minute. I didn’t trust anyone outside my family. Everyone looked suspicious to me. Is that man coming on the street going to kill me? Are those guys walking past our house coming for me? To be safe, I moved me and my family from location to location. I made up all kinds of reasons to relocate. “Okay,” I would say, trying to look happy and positive, “we’ve lived here long enough. Let’s get a new house.” A few months later, I would say, “Let’s move to another neighborhood to see what it’s like.” My brother who knew the real reason for the move always backed me up. “That’s a good idea,” he would say. We did this over and over again.

Every time I went home on leave, my family said, “Hey, you have a job, you have money, you have a house, you have everything. The only thing you are missing is a wife to make your future better. Make a family for yourself.” I thought long and hard about who to marry.

Homa is my relative on my mom’s side. My mom and Homa’s father are cousins. I always liked her. She looked so beautiful. She was fifteen and still in school. Homa knew me a little bit. We had never spent time together.

Homa’s father was like a second dad to me. He’s a great person, a nice person. Things I could not say to my mom and dad I could say to him. He would then pass along my message to my mom and dad. He was my best friend. One thing I was shy to say to my parents was that I would like to get married.

Homa’s father always told me, “In the future, if you want to marry someone, just let me know, I’m going to help you out. I’m going to help to get that girl for you.”

Here’s the problem: How could I tell my best friend that I wanted to marry his daughter? How could I say, “Can I marry your daughter?” How could I tell Homa’s mom, who is a really good mom, that I wanted Homa? I was not shy in front of the United States Army. I was not shy in front of the enemy. But to marry? That’s another story.

One of my uncles on my father’s side is the same age as me. I said to him, “Uncle, tell my mom and dad that I would like to marry Homa.”

In 2008, my family went to Homa’s family and asked, “If it’s possible, we would like these two to get married.” Her father said, “I don’t have any problem. I know Fraidoon for a long time. I like him as my son. I would like to do it. Let’s ask Homa.”

There were a few other guys who were trying to marry Homa. Her parents asked, “Which one do you want? You have Fraidoon, you have this guy, you have that guy.” And Homa said, “I would like to marry Fraidoon.” We were all happy.

While this was happening, I was away on a fifteen-day mission. I called home, hoping to get an answer from my uncle. “What happened, Uncle? It has been fifteen days. Did you talk with Homa’s family or not?”

“Congratulations,” my uncle said. “Your mom is here, your dad is here, all your uncles are here. You are now engaged, and we will celebrate when you get home.” I never told Homa or her family about the fatwa. If her family had known, they never would have let me marry their daughter.

Weddings take time in my country. The male’s family must save a lot of money to pay for the wedding. They must build a house for the wife.

Throughout their engagement, Fraidoon continued to translate for the Americans. He did not tell Homa about the fatwa.

The same year Homa and I became engaged, I was working with different units of the United States Army. One of the people I met was Dave, a retired FBI agent who worked for a security company. Dave was doing some secret stuff and needed a translator. While I was translating for the Pennsylvania National Guard, I also worked for him.

As an FBI agent, Dave had worked on large-scale international drug-trafficking cases in Central America. His strongest skill was an ability to develop informants. Dave was well liked and well connected, a charming character whose self-effacing stories were peppered with irony and a strong sense of justice. After Dave retired from the FBI, he became bored. Having led such an active life, he thought about how he could continue to use his highly developed skills. “I had never served in the military. I felt an obligation to sign up because I knew I had the skills they could use.

“In Afghanistan, I would get calls from informants all hours of the day and night, but I couldn’t talk Pashto or Dari. I’d run down to Fred’s tent, yelling, ‘Terjiman, terjiman,’ which means ‘interpreter’ in Pashto. I’d wake up Fred and hand him the phone. He’d do the interview and take notes while I stood there, doing nothing. When it was over, Fred would write up the notes in English, and from them I’d write my report.

“Fred was so intelligent that I never needed to say, ‘Damn, we should have asked him this’ or ‘We should have asked him that.’ Everybody trusted Fred. He was highly sought-after not just because of his honesty but because of his ability to determine if the person he was talking to was telling the truth.” The friendship between the two men would eventually lead to a series of momentous events.

The biggest attack was in 2008. Most of the translators had special radios to listen to the enemy’s conversation. The radio scanned the area, looking for enemy conversations. At this time, I heard that the Taliban were going to attack our outpost. It was called [Command Outpost] Najil, a very small military base. There were only thirty U.S. soldiers and twenty-five men from the Afghan National Army. The Taliban had more than three hundred people.

I informed the company commander of the Pennsylvania National Guard. “The enemy is going to attack us. Make sure to get ready.”

“I know this from their conversation.” They were speaking Pashai, a different language that they speak in the valley. It’s a completely different language than Pashto, like the difference between English and Spanish. About thirty-five Pashai worked on the base as cleaners. I picked up a word every day.

It was twelve o’clock at night. They shot a few RPGs at the base. Then they shot at us with the PKM, AK-47s. But we were ready for them.

The Pennsylvania National Guard was in position. I was inside a room with my scanner, listening, translating, and passing the information to the commander. I thought, why should I do this in a room? Let me go outside and see what the soldiers are doing. As soon as I went outside, I heard a round coming close to me. I thought I was going to die in a second. Rounds were coming close, really close, practically touching my feet. They were shooting at me, but I wasn’t scared. The soldiers were lined up all around the base, shooting back at the enemy. I heard on my radio where their location was. I heard when they were ordered to change directions.

I ran to the commander. “They’re going to fire from such-and-such location.” Everybody moved to the new location before they started shooting. Then I heard, “Change location. Shoot from south.” I informed the commander, “They’re going to shoot from south.” Everybody charged to the south of the base.

In battle, all you smell is burning. All you see is smoke. You’re not able to see maybe five feet from yourself because of the smoke. You cannot smell cigarettes, you cannot smell fresh fruit, you cannot smell trees. You only smell bullets and death. War smells like weapons.

At the end of the battle, thirteen Taliban were killed, and six were injured and captured alive. No casualties for Afghan National Army or the U.S. troops. Everybody was safe. That was the biggest attack I had ever been in.

Two years after our engagement, Homa and I married. It was a big wedding; 650 people participated in our wedding. My immediate family were ten. Then I have five uncles from my father’s side. Each of them has five kids, so everybody’s coming. Then they have their families; then we have family members from my mom’s side. Then there’s Homa’s family. Family members came from different parts of the country. So many people come to weddings in Afghanistan. It was a lot of fun.

One morning, maybe twenty days after we were married, Homa was home in Kabul, and I was back in Laghman Province, working as a linguist for the army and for the MEP [Mission Essential Personnel].

While cleaning our yard, Homa found a piece of paper at the bottom of the door. It said, “We know your son is working for the Americans. He’s an infidel. We will capture him, and he will die. No one would be dead like him. He would be an example to others who are working for Americans.” This was what I wanted to protect my wife from knowing. Homa gave the paper to my dad.

My dad immediately called me. “Do not come home, because someone is trying to kill you. Move to a new location.” Homa was safe. They wouldn’t hurt my family. I talked to my MEP site manager. “Sir, please transfer me to another part of the country.” He agreed.

The next morning, when I went to his office, he said, “We don’t have a job for you right now. Go home, and we will call you soon.” I was happy that I could go home and spend time with my family. The first thing I did was move us to a new location.

Fraidoon waited and waited. No one called. This wait would have consequences, dangerous consequences, ones he never dreamed could happen.

I waited for the call for two and a half months. I was kind of upset, thinking, “Why aren’t they calling me back? I didn’t do anything wrong. I just asked for a transfer.”

After two years, translators have the choice to select work at a safe place inside the base or on the front line. I worked for six years on the front line of the war and never asked to be inside the base. Why didn’t they call me?

Finally Carlo, a very big guy from New York who worked with a private security company, called me. “I have been in Ghazni with the military, in different parts of the country with the military, and heard you’re a linguist,” he said. “Would you like to work for a private security company?”

“You’ll be responsible for the security of American bases.” I joined the private security company to become a supervisor. I would be responsible for three hundred armed Afghani security guards on six military bases. For the first half of the month, the Americans trained me. I took classes in such subjects as the rule of law, rules of engagement, and what to do during natural disasters, like floods or snow. I learned what to do if there was at attack at the front gate.

My main job was to make sure security measures for the American forces were properly carried out by my Afghani guards.

Fraidoon’s new job was more dangerous than his work as a translator. He drove from one base to another with little protection, in a plain pickup truck or car, providing Afghani security support to American military bases in three provinces and to various embassies in Kabul. He was in charge of two hundred sixty armed guards.

Meanwhile the MEP were reorganizing their books and came upon Fred’s name. An unthinkable mistake occurred: someone checked a box on his file that said “Refusal to go on a mission.” This was not true. The MEP had not called Fred back. This clerical error could have cost him his life.

In 2010, our son, Fardin, was born. I was away, working with security guards at a command outpost called Baraki Barak, in Logar Province. My mom, dad, sister, Homa’s mom, dad, and older sister took my wife to the hospital. I was told I had a son the next morning. Now that I was a father, I worried about the well-being of my family. I was always thinking about keeping my family safe. I never thought about me dying or being killed by insurgents. The birth of my son did not stop me from my work. My fight was still against terrorism.

I was driving three Afghan security guards from one outpost or FOB [forward operating base] to another. We were ten minutes away from Baraki Barak when my car was hit by an IED [improvised explosive device]. The car was destroyed. We were all alive but very, very dizzy.

I was a little injured, because we don’t care about seat belts in my country. My nose and head were bleeding. There was dust all around me. I was still pushing the gas pedal on what was left of the car. I looked at my military boots. They had been blown off my feet. I was barefoot. I always tied my boots very carefully, but because the explosion was so heavy, they were ripped right off me. My cell phone was gone. People were coming toward us, trying to capture us. I started running, completely out of my mind. I found my cell phone and a gun and threw myself in a ditch.

I shot toward the people while calling the base. “Sir, I blew up with an IED,” I told them. The first sergeant from Tenth Mountain Division, New York, immediately announced what happened over the loudspeaker: “Fred was just blown up by an IED!”

I heard them call for a helicopter. I said, “Hey, I’m okay. Just the car blew up. I’m alive, just a little bleeding. My guys are okay. We don’t need a helicopter.”

“No, we would like to find who did this to you.” The troops were on the way.

It was easy to find out who tried to blow us up. I had seen the guy on the road earlier. I remembered a man with a long beard, man jammies, and a white hat, sitting in a tree, just like a chicken. I even said hi to the guy, trying to be respectful. He didn’t say hi back; he just sat there, waiting for us to drive by. Then he blew up the IED. I was so upset. I chased the guy while shooting five magazines from my AK-47, a hundred and fifty rounds. But he ran away.

I called my dad. “My vehicle was just blown up by an IED. I’m safe, my friends are safe, the Americans are safe, everyone is safe.” Five minutes later, the whole company of soldiers, including four medics, surrounded us. The helicopter arrived and took us to the base.

At the time, I didn’t say anything to my mom or Homa. When I went home on vacation, I sat close to them, face-to-face, and told them what had happened. “My car was blown up by an IED, but I’m safe right now. I’m home.”

Homa started crying. My mom started crying. My sister started crying. The rest of the family heard about it and came to my house. Homa’s sisters were crying. Everyone was crying, especially the females. This is why I did not tell the women about the first fatwa. I knew they would all be crying. I said, “I’m okay. I’m here. Look, nothing happened to me. It’s too late to cry. A week ago, maybe cry, but not now.”

“Because one day you’re going to die. You are in the first line of the war and you’re going to die. Me and my son will be at home with nobody, with no dad, with no husband. What should we do in the future?

“Take me somewhere with you, anywhere you choose,” she said. “Let’s go to the mountains — no one will be there, no enemy will be there. We will have a safe place, not a good building, not a good house, just a tent. I will live with you in a tent, but I don’t want you to be in a dangerous area like you are now.”

Homa continued, “We have everything in Kabul, a house, a car, everything. I don’t need these things. I just need security.”

“Homa, just wait. Someday, some things will change.” She cried so much. The whole night, she was crying. The next day, she was crying. She didn’t stop. “Don’t cry,” I said. “It’s over. This is not the first time I was blown up by an IED. In 2004, I was blown up too. I’ve been in more than a hundred firefights. It’s okay.”

That was it. Even though I wanted to defend my country, I knew I had to make a big change.