A newsletter of simple ideas #34 -- February 2001

Wali: A Simple Act of Kindness

Ed. note: The original title was simply "Wali"; I've added the subtitle mainly so that folks who read the RS index know what the article is about. Also, the next couple of issues will revolve around the events of September 11th, 2001 even though the issues are dated before September.

It is Wednesday, September 12th, the day after the terrorist attacks on New York City and Washington, DC. We had left school the day before not knowing what we were going to see and hear when we got home. How bad was it? How many were dead? What hints of events to come would we find coded in the images and reports?

By this morning, while we didn’t have many answers, we had all seen the pictures. We had heard the commentaries and the speeches. Most of us were beginning to feel our opinions congealing; some of us expressed our emotions openly. We had talked it over with our families and with each other at school. We had taken account of our loved ones. We had let the disbelief and horror and grief settle into us. The hardest part was thinking what to do next. How could we feign normalcy? What simple daily actions were appropriate when so many were suffering?

At school, Deb had already planned for us to be out in the Wallingford neighborhood that day, doing community service and getting to know our new neighbors. It came to me with a simple and powerful and unquestionable knowing about which business we should introduce ourselves to first. Kabul, an Afghani restaurant on 45th. It seemed the perfect gesture, the perfect way to integrate what we stand for as people and as a school with the events transpiring around the globe. Especially in light of the fact that American bombs may soon be falling on Afghanistan, and that the owner and his employees could reasonably expect to soon feel the sting of discrimination and hatred.

After lunch, Deb, Zac, Lylli, Jason, Kelsi, Sahra, and myself all walked up 45th Avenue to offer our support in whatever way we could. Walking, it seemed like an ordinary day. We all chatted and talked, and were passed on the streets by people going about their business- shopping, sipping coffee in cafes, waiting for the bus. It was hard to imagine what was going on at that very moment in New York and DC and rural Pennsylvania, what everyday citizens like ourselves in Muslim countries must be bracing for.

When we arrived outside the door to Kabul, we debated who would do the talking. After a few rehearsals and some hesitation, Zac decided that he would be willing to knock on the door, but he wanted some help with the introduction. After asking one more time if any of the students wanted to join Zac, I assured him that I would help out if he needed it.

Zac knocked, and the owner, a handsome, stylish, kind-looking man, made his way to the door. Zac introduced us and explained why we were there. With incredible grace, the owner understood at once, and relieved almost instantly any awkwardness we might have felt. He showed us around the outside of the building, and agreed to let us sweep the sidewalk and street around his restaurant. Before we got started, he introduced himself as Wali, and thanked us. He told us that he had in fact received threatening phone calls, and had decided to close down the night before. He feared for the safety of his employees and customers. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked if this was normal for our school, or if it had to do with "what was going on." I laughed, and answered him honestly, "Both." He smiled, too, satisfied, and let us go about our work.

We swept the sidewalk and entryway to the restaurant, and picked cigarette butts and trash from the curb. As we were finishing up, Wali joined us and talked some more. As his words unfolded, I realized that in a matter of a few minutes, he had explained to us, in a vivid and living way, the complexities, the real and personal intricacies, of all that was going on around us.

Wali’s story alternated between recent history and his relationship to current events. He had been born in Afghanistan before being sent as a boy with his parents to New York City. In the wake of the bombings, he had friends and relatives that he had not yet heard from. He was worried, just like everyone else. He had lived and gone to school and run a business in Seattle for the past thirty years. He considered himself an American, and a valuable part of the neighborhood. He hoped this standing would protect him through what might come. He told how Afghanis had once been America’s darlings as they fought for freedom against the Soviet Union, a fact that led to the CIA training and US funding of Osama Bin Laden. He explained how he had learned, as an ethnic American, to bend with these changes in American policy and opinion, to enjoy the times of favor, and take nothing for granted when perceptions swerved. He condemned what he called "those Taliban animals" that now control his homeland. He showed us pictures of the one-hundred-foot-tall Buddhas the Taliban had destroyed with rocket launchers. "What does it take to destroy such beauty?" he asked us, an American Muslim grieving for the icons of another religion. We shook our heads and had no answers. You could see Wali struggle with his feelings. On the one hand he favored doing "whatever it takes" to root out the Taliban, but he was worried for his people and his country, afraid of what might become of them both here and abroad.

Lastly, Wali told us of some advice his uncle had given him long ago. "My uncle told me, ‘Never lose your accent. It is a reminder of who you are.’" Then Wali said one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. "I’m wishing now that I hadn’t taken his advice." I was struck by the subtle human costs of the violence we were witnessing. Here was an obviously proud and successful man being moved to question the valued advice of a loved one, to lament the character of his very beginnings.

Despite the sadness of his story, though, I was grateful for the lessons Wali had given us. So much complexity and confusion and grief all shedding a probing light on not only the life of one simple man, but also on the less sensational ramifications of a global catastrophe. I felt so lucky to hear his words, and to share in their telling with my young friends and colleagues.

After finishing his story, Wali handed out drinks to the students, and asked if we would pose for a picture outside of his restaurant. We stood beneath a mural painted on the side of the building, a beautiful depiction of Afghani horsemen in traditional garb, the famous Hindu Kush mountains in the background. I was saddened to think that our wars lately seem to unfold on such historic stages. The Gulf War entailed the bombing of Baghdad in the cradle of civilization. The destruction of centuries-old architecture throughout the Balkans. And now the threat to Kabul, the gateway city to the famous Silk Road that linked east and west. Sahra broke me from these thoughts when she kindly told Wali to stand with us so she could take his photo. He agreed happily.

The last thing we said to Wali before we left was that a group of us from the school would be coming back for dinner that night. Wali smiled and said, "You have made my day. I was so sad, but not anymore."

That night, some of us returned for dinner. Over the course of two hours, fourteen of us came together for a delicious meal of eggplant and fresh noodles seasoned with onions and tomatoes. Simple and delicious foods. It was a typical school gathering, a mixture of staff, family, students, parents, volunteers, and acquaintances. Talk alternated between the events of the day and the more casual conversation of friendship. There was such a sense of communion and relief to be there with friends, to linger long over a meal, forgetting for a short time the devastation in other places. At one point, my friend Colleen noted how good it felt to laugh, something none of us had done in two days. I was also glad to see that Wali and his employees, his family and friends, all enjoyed the same sort of company. Throughout the night, people came and went at Wali’s table, where they talked and worried and laughed along with us.

Wali checked in with us now and again, and expressed his appreciation in more ways than just the complimentary drinks and the discount on dinner he provided. He showed it in his smile, and in the ease with which he moved, despite the tumultuous emotions we all knew he was feeling. It was clear that a powerful and reciprocal friendship was emerging between our school and this member of our new neighborhood. We said our goodbyes with mutual gratitude and a sense of real connection that seemed important when so many are screaming for blood.

Unfortunately, this story does not have an entirely happy ending, but it is important to take note of how the night came to a close. As the last group of us left the restaurant, both Michael and I noticed a man who was visibly angry as he walked slowly past the restaurant. He glared inside and at us, muttering under his breath. While we could not hear his words, I can only assume that in some way he was upset with us for supporting Wali, that he had already allowed a blind sort of hatred to gather in his soul. We watched wordlessly as he walked away, and then sped off in his truck.

The message in this ending is clear. That as the aftermath of Tuesday’s events unfold, our lessons and our work are far from finished. It is encouraging to know that we have all been involved in such a powerful first step, one that will carry us forward into the future. But seeing the look in that angry man’s face undid any sense of do-gooder-ism I might have allowed myself to feel. This was not to be a one-time incident. Going home and feeling as if I had done my part was not an acceptable response. It is very likely that the hatred and anger will get worse before they get better. And for those of us who care, we will be called upon by our own principles to make these sorts of gestures again and again- over the next months, maybe years- if we hope to salvage any sense of human dignity and unity in the face of the wars we may fight both at home and abroad.

Unexpectedly, I found myself at Kabul again on Sunday night. The place was packed. Not a single table was empty. I saw Wali, dressed in a baseball cap and kitchen whites, working hard to deliver meals, take orders, and help out in the kitchen. As I waited in the foyer with a group of friends, I was struck by this outpouring of support. And I also noticed that Wali had hung an American flag from the coat rack. It hung in the foreground, while behind it, Wali’s collection of beautiful embroidered fez’s captured the wonder of mixed heritage and culture that makes our country unique in the world.

After another delicious meal (during which our waitress apologized again and again for being out of certain things- "It’s just been so busy these past few days."), I got a chance to speak again with Wali. He was tired but ecstatic. He told me how busy it had been, how a neighbor had sent out an email and 65 people showed up for dinner together on Friday. Wali, so moved by their support, decided to donate the proceeds from their dinners to the Red Cross.

As Wali and I talked some more, we discovered that we shared a connection to the east coast and New York City. We shared in common places that we loved and the scenery that in part makes us who we are. At one point, feeling our intimacy grow, I felt comfortable enough to tease Wali, joking about how he had "ruined my night" by being out of firni (a delicious rosewater and mint custard), and he laughed. As I turned to go, I heard Wali’s parting words, "I’ll bring you a bowl of firni at school next week.", and I think he meant it.

Quote of the Month

Happiness comes of the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to think freely, to risk life, to be needed.

--Storm Jameson

Editor's Notes

It is currently October 2001 but I'm only just posting the February 2001 Reasonably Simple. My intention is that during 2001, I will write and post a new article about every other week, so that by the end of the year, I'll be current again. I'd appreciate suggestions, guest writers, or anything else that could help me step up production this year.

You can contact me with your submissions, suggestions, or comments at:

Michael J. Coffey
PO Box 23221
Seattle, WA 98102
(206) 522-6224

michaelc@ardeacoaching.com

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