Soldiering Together

It was touching the way she touched him, so tender and deep, her middle and index finger moving down his cheek.  He sat next to her in seat 12C and has laid his head on her shoulder as they whisper to one another.  They are soldiers, dressed in their desert green fatigues.  He is 40 hours from a second tour in Iraq.  She is a 4-hour plane ride from home for the holidays – Rapid City, South Dakota.  They will spend the night in Atlanta, then he will board his flight to his staging area, and then on to Baghdad.   She has some furlough time planned for the Black Hills of South Dakota, maybe some deer hunting.  For them now, every moment matters.

Just after the flight attendant passed with water and peanuts, I seized a moment from them.  “Been to the Middle East?” I ask.

“Twice,” he said, “and gonna be back in Iraq in 40 hours.”

In Arabic I asked him, “Do you speak Arabic?”

“Swayye, swayye,” he answered with a smile.  “A very little bit,” is the gist of his answer.

“Me too,” I say, still in Arabic.  “Where do you study?”

He’s clearly lost.  “I only know a few words,” he said.  “Go!  Come!  Stand!  Thank you.  You’re welcome.  Sit!”  In other words, he knows enough words to give orders.  I mean nothing negative in this assessment.  It simply is what it is.  This tall, handsome and seemingly sensitive young soldier knows enough Arabic to give orders to Iraqis.

She wants to know where I learned Arabic.  We talk for a while about Palestinians and Israelis.  They didn’t know there were Christians who were Palestinian.  He didn’t know there were Iraqis who were Christians either.  As we talk, others around us begin to lean in and listen in.  A large woman in a black dress with purple cows printed all over it, filled the seat just in front of him, seat11C.  With great deliberateness, she turned in her seat and gave me a nasty scowl.  Seeing this, the young man raises his eyebrows as he nods in her direction.  “What’s that about?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I say in Arabic.

He shakes his head.  “I don’t know,” I say in English.  “It’s probably my accent.”

He smiles.  “I gotta learn more of that while I’m there,” he says.

“You should,” I agree.  “Why not?” I say in Arabic.

“Why not?” he ventures.

“Why not?” I nod.

“You know,” he says, “they are way too religious over there.”

“Yeah?” I encourage.

“Yeah,” he says.  “They don’t want to change, no matter what.  They just don’t want to change.  They kill each other.  They kill us.  We kill them.  All because they don’t want to change.”

“Is that your definition of ‘too religious?’” I ask.  “People who don’t want to change?”

“Mazbuut,” he says with a grin.  “Right!”

“Are you religious?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies.  “We’re both Christians.”

“But not ‘too religious,’” I say with a smile.

“Well,” she says, “I’m Baptist.”

“I'm Catholic,” he confesses.

“I’m Reformed,” I say.  Then, seeing their confusion, I add, “Protestant.”

We all nod, and then I can see that they are ready for some alone time.  “Well,” I say, “take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“And each other,” I add.

“Yeah,” she says, tearing up.

“Allah ma-kum.” I say.

“What’s that mean?” she asks.

“God be with you,” I say.

“And you too,” he says as she nods in agreement.  “God be with you too.”

The lady in black, says, “Humph.”

And I’m not too religious to say, “And with you too.”  But I say it in Arabic so as not to offend.