Afghan adobo

STUTTGART, Germany — I am sitting in front of a man from Afghanistan. His name is Mohammad. My German language instructor thought he was about 40 years old; in reality, there’s only a few months difference between us.

He has prepared me lunch. A few days ago in class, he asked me what I liked to eat; I told him that in the Philippines we eat a lot of rice, and I particularly enjoy it in a Middle Eastern restaurant with a lot of butter. He told me loves butter and that he will prepare such a meal especially for me. Now a big bowl of rice and an even bigger pan full of meat are on the table. This is our lunch.

I am a vegetarian and have not intentionally eaten meat for more than two years. I see he has misunderstood me; he has cooked me rice with putta. (The German word for butter is the same as in English, but the “R” at the end is pronounced similar to the way the British say it.) I guess what putta is for them is what adobo is for us. Hooray (hurrah).

I serve myself a piece, sink my fork into the meat, and take a bite. What a strange feeling, I think, as the meat goes down my throat. I keep my facial expression neutral. He asks me if it is good. I smile. It is delicious. I help myself to more. I don’t speak as much as I eat. He does most of the talking. He tells me about his childhood, how he grew up around cars and machines in his uncle’s workshop, how he would help his uncle work at a very young age. I look at his hand. One of his fingers is shorter than it should be. As a child he caught it in a piece of moving machinery and it hurt very much. He smiles. It doesn’t bother him now.

We had to say a little something about our countries in class. He spoke more than the others; more emotionally, too. When he had finished, our instructor told him that she understands he feels very strongly about the situation in Afghanistan, but every country has its own set of problems and she would like to keep things on a positive note. I take a look around. The others don’t look very happy either. I guess people would prefer not to hear about the rockets, the fear, the weeks spent without leaving the house, the brother fated to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, the sound of gunfire and improvised explosive devices. Better to speak about Ukrainian winters or old buildings in Bucharest.

Our meal is over. We’ve eaten enough for four. He pours me a cup of green tea from a tall Thermos container and tells me about how he made his way from Afghanistan to Germany illegally. It is a long story. His dreams are simple; one day he hopes to own his own garage and work on engines all day long. It’s what he’s good at. It’s what he knows how to do. In the place where he lived, word got around about good he was with cars.

One day, however, his customers were undesired; they were members of the Taliban. They offered him a full-time position repairing their automobiles. He declined. They beat him up and poured acid over his stomach. He declined. They put a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him. He declined. They started cutting into his flesh. He declined.  He shows me the scar on his neck.

Finally they left, perhaps to give him time to change his mind. He decided to move very quickly out of Afghanistan. He tells me about the year he spent working in Iran, of how to this day he cannot help but wake up early in the morning to work, and of the uncomfortable feeling when there’s actually no work to be done. He tells me about the long hours spent lifting heavy things for barely anything, of finally saving up enough to pay a border official to look the other way as he crossed a mountain range in winter with the snow up to his waist, of knowing how if he stopped moving to generate heat he would die.

He tells me of swimming from Turkey to Greece, the very passage famous for claiming lives, of sleeping in European streets, of working for Afghans better off than he. He tells me of getting to Germany and successfully applying for asylum; he is now a citizen and holds a German passport. Now he is learning the language, and when he is more fluent he will finish his high school education. I finish my tea. Although I’ve lost track of the number of cups, I think I’ve drunk more tea in the past few hours than in the whole of 2012.

An alarm goes off on his laptop; it is time for him to pray. I offer to go outside for a cigarette so he can have his time alone with God. He smiles and says he will pray later. We speak for a little longer, then I leave. Behind the aged exterior, I catch a glimpse of a young man just like any other: a young man with dreams of being happy, owning his own garage, marrying a beautiful woman, enjoying time spent with friends over a cup of green tea. His eyes sparkle as he waves goodbye. As I slowly make my way home, I realize my heart has been touched.