by E. B. Scott
We had been driving through the desert for hours. No plants. No animals. Not even a discernible terrain feature. Only brown as far as the eye could see. Brown fading into empty sky. Gusts of wind pushed clouds of sand and dust across the landscape. If it wasn’t for the GPS in the trucks, navigation would have been a difficult task.
The men were getting restless and most of them had to pee, so the decision was made to “circle the wagons” and take a break. Besides, it seemed like the intel was bad because we were the only “military age males with weapons” in this dried up, God-forsaken province, and even if there were bad guys out there, we could see them coming from miles away.
The men took turns on the guns so that the others could stretch and relieve themselves. The other squad leaders and I gathered in the middle of the trucks to review the intelligence report and the operation order. As we did this, an old man materialized from a passing cloud of dust walking a short distance from the trucks.
I saw him at the same time as some of the others. We raised our weapons and issued commands for the man to stop and show us his hands in poorly pronounced Arabic that we had learned from training.
The old man seemed amused. He chuckled, nodded his head and waved, and continued walking. As startling as his sudden appearance was, something about him told us he wasn’t a threat. There was a subconscious understanding that he had nothing to do with us, nor the insurgency, nor anything at all for that matter.
The old man was a mystery. Alone, and half a day from anywhere by vehicle, he had no belongings. Not even a water bottle. He wore a flowing white garb common for the area, with only his tanned, leathery hands and face exposed. As hot and thirsty as we were, the man was perfectly comfortable and without need.
I called to my interpreter, “Sayid, tell him to stop.”
“Waqaf sadiqi.”
The man stopped and looked at us inquisitively with ice blue eyes. Sayid and I walked out to speak with him.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked.
Sayid translated.
“He says he is ‘just walking,’” Sayid said, surprised.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I walk,” Sayid translated.
I looked the man up and down. It didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t know what to say. I was perplexed. I walked to my truck and pulled a liter bottle of water out of our cooler and gave it to the man. He took the bottle but the look on his face said he was only accepting the water out of politeness. Then the man spoke.
“He says that he wants to thank you for giving him the gift of your water. For this, he would like to tell you the secret to life itself,” Sayid said.
As Sayid spoke the man turned to me. He smiled with raised eyebrows and beckoned me closer with his finger. As strange as the scene was, it was gentle, disarming. In obeyance, I leaned forward and the man, covering his mouth so that I was the only recipient of the secret, spoke into my ear.
When he was done speaking, he looked me in the eyes in a way that solidified that his message was the truth absolute. Then, with genuine love, he began to laugh and walked away.
As I stood speechless, Sayid stared at me as if the old man had conjured memories of the stories told to chidren to warn them about the ghosts and jinn of the desert.
Just then a gust of wind covered us all in another cloud of dust. When it settled, the old man was gone.
I was still looking for the man when Sayid grabbed my arm.
“Well? What did he say? What did he say? Come on!”
“I don’t know. I don’t speak Arabic,” I shrugged. “Alright gents, let’s get back to it. Time to load up.”
Sayid looked at me with his jaw on the desert floor and reluctantly climbed back into the truck with the others.
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E.B. Scott is a veteran of the US Army as an infantryman and current first responder of 13 years.
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