Names changed FOR PRIVACY
When I enter my office, the blast of air conditioning instantly deep freezes my sweaty desert Cammies. I drop into the chair behind my desk, and check another box on my ‘to-do’ list, even though I don’t feel like I’ve done anything. Although the US Air Force has maintained a footprint at this remote Kuwaiti Air Base since the early 1990s, we didn’t start running one-year tours here until the US invaded Iraq in 2003. I’m the sixth Colonel selected to lead this base. This is Day Three of “walking and talking” to my new troops, who are crammed into temporary buildings on an appendage of the airfield the Kuwaitis provide. I recognize how important face-to-face contact is with my subordinates, but my eyes can’t help but drift to the middle item on the list—my theater orientation flight to Baghdad, Iraq, next Thursday. The worst part of command is reduced flight frequency. I’ll have too many obligations to the seven-thousand servicemen and women at this base to fly as often as I want. That said, the best part of command is that I have to fly. You don’t run an operational air base without proving your credibility as an operator.
At the bottom of the list are more meetings. Meet the judge advocate general, meet the Office of Special Investigation detachment commander, connect with the chaplain.
Whoa. I pencil the last one in above my theater orientation flight. Can’t hurt to fit in the chaplain’s visit before I fly into a combat zone.
My vice commander, Pete Quindlen, pokes his head into my office. “Boss, we got an issue.”
“What’s up?”
“General Ahmad wants you in his office like ten minutes ago. And I’m pretty sure I know why.”
I stand. “Walk with me. What happened?”
Pete steps aside as I exit my office, then tucks in beside me down the short cinderblock-lined hall. My executive officer stands as I nod at her. “Already heard, Sir. Good luck.”
“Gate security on the north side stopped General Ahmad and wouldn’t let him on to our section,” my vice says. “When they asked for his ID, he told them he didn’t need it because it’s his base. We’re his guests.”
“Shit. He’s right. That’s exactly what he told us the first day. Our guys are supposed to give him, and whoever is with him, access anytime he needs it.”
“Right. Except the SF guys rotated in the same day you and I did. They didn’t get the memo.”
I leave my number two within the confines of our half-mile-by-half-mile US compound to fix the gate issue with the SF squadron commander. I’m sweating from the fifty meter walk to my vehicle, then cold again when I crank the air conditioning on my way to General Ahmad’s office. They say it takes several weeks to get used to 118-degree daytime highs. I’m not so sure.
A young Kuwaiti officer ushers me through the door. General Ahmad greets me with a bristly-beard triple kiss that I’m still getting used to before he waves me to a chair. His aide brings me a cup of tea. The general eyes are warm as he asks about my family. I’m impressed with his recall—we only met three days ago, yet he remembers my wife’s name.
Fifteen minutes of conversation pass and I’m struggling to keep my mouth shut. I want to apologize and explain to General Ahmad what we are doing to fix the issue. I want to assure him this will not happen again.
Finally, during a two-second pause in conversation, I say, “General, about today—”
General Ahmad raises his hand with a slight smile. “Cam. Is it fixed?”
“Yes, Sir. I am briefing—”
The general raises his hand again. “I’m sure you have taken care of this. What I called you to my office for was to invite you to join my brothers and I on Thursday evening for dinner. Will you be able to join us?”
He’s rocked me on my heels just a bit. I feel like a second lieutenant, ready to beg for a second chance, and General Ahmad is inviting me to join his family to break bread? But Thursday is the day I’ve blocked off as my flying day. Or at least it used to be.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”
So begins the most important relationship of my year. After the liberation of Kuwait by coalition forces in 1991, the Kuwaitis have been grateful and gracious hosts. But that was seventeen years ago, and stories abound about US leaders in Kuwait who have taken their hosts’ hospitality for granted. The US three-star in charge of our Air Force in Central Command tells me to “keep our Airmen in line, deliver everything the combat commanders want anywhere and anytime, and—most of all—don’t piss off the Kuwaitis.”
I juggle my schedule and fly Monday night instead. It’s a standard troop haul to Baghdad International. Standard, in that we’ve done a lot of these over the last five years. Non-standard, in that back home we aren’t concerned about an errant surface-to-air missile or small arms fire greeting us upon arrival. I’ve got an instructor with me for my first flight in theater, and she signs me off as “good to go” when we return to Kuwait. Sure, I was going to have to screw up pretty badly for a captain to tell the wing commander he needed another qualification flight, but I recognized the flight went well. Training works—and I’ve spent the last three months re-qualifying in the same model C-130E I initially flew as a first lieutenant.
Pete Quindlen joins me on the drive across the desert for dinner at General Ahmad’s on Thursday night. We leave the base at five and it takes an hour to follow the general’s directions. Like an ocean horizon, the sand stretches before us to the sky. Unlike the sea, roads crisscross the dusty main highway, and English signs are scarce. One of our security forces teams tails us with estimated GPS coordinates for our destination. I’m sure they’re laughing at our meandering route, but I had to ask them to join us. No matter how secure we believe we are in this country, I’d have my ass handed to me if my boss found out my deputy and I both left the base at the same time to drive off into the Kuwaiti desert.
When we arrive, I’m surprised at the set-up. I knew we would be outside because General Ahmad told us we should bring a jacket. He didn’t tell me we’d be eating in tents. The compound is a canvas C-shape with a tent on the left for service staff, a tent on the right for dining, and an open tent bridging the two others with chairs arranged close to a fire.
The general greets us with his trademark kisses and whispers in my ear, “You can greet my brothers whatever way you feel comfortable. A handshake is okay. They will not be offended.”
Pete and I move through the line of men all dressed the same—white disdashas with a white keffiyeh held on their head with a black cord—as General Ahmad does introductions. As I shake hands with the last man, the general says, “Now you have met twenty-one of my twenty-two brothers. Khaled could not make it tonight. Welcome to my family.”
My jaw drops. I give Pete a ‘we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto’ glance. He appears as impressed as I am.
“Sounds like your mother is an incredible woman.”
The general laughs, to my relief. I’ve just violated my training on cultural sensitivity with my observation.
“Four mothers. My father had four wives. Mine was the first.”
Now I really have questions. Four wives? How does that work? Four bedrooms under one roof or four residences his father rotates between? But now is not the time.
General Ahmad ushers Pete and me into the main tent and has us sit at his side by the small fire between the chairs. We drink tea and talk. We drink more tea and talk some more. Three hours later, and an equal number of bathroom breaks, we are still drinking tea. I’m wondering what the plan is for dinner. Finally, at 11 o’clock, two trucks show up and back toward the side of the tents. Men lay down plastic wrap—the kind I’d use if I was repainting my kitchen—and distribute large dishes of food across the tent floor. I keep waiting for General Ahmad to make a move toward the dinner tent, but he just smiles and as the staff continues hauling in more and more food. I can identify cumin, garlic, maybe saffron—although I’m unsure if I recognize the scent or note the color of the rice dishes passing by. Back at the base, I’d be asleep by this time—or flying—but certainly done with dinner. My stomach rumbles.
The meal is something out of The Arabian Nights—or at least how I would imagine a traditional Arab feast. Exotic casseroles, salads, rice, bread, and hummus, all arranged around the body of a goat.
My paradigm of traditional formality quickly shifts, however, when we begin to eat. We reach from our cross-legged positions and scoop the meat into our mouths with our right hands, then squeeze rice balls with our grease-laden fingers to chase the goat meat. A challenge for Pete and me, as we studiously avoid using our left hand to help pack our bites together. I knew when we accepted the invitation that alcohol wouldn’t be an option, but I can’t help thinking I’m experiencing the Kuwaiti version of an American tailgate party—a loud, man-dominated, bro-fest minus booze and a corn hole game.
General Ahmad graciously ensures that our security team, positioned in the parking lot, is also provided food. Men arrive to pull up the plastic wrap and dispose of the leftovers. I love this experience. A taste of the “real” Kuwait I suspect most never get. But it’s past midnight and we’ve got work tomorrow. General Ahmad pulls me back to the fire and offers coffee. We sit for two more hours talking about family, nibbling on a variety of dates and knafeh dishes.
“What did you think?” Pete asks on the way home.
“Totally different experience than I expected. But I’m kind of glad it’s over. By the time we get back to base, we’ll have been gone eight hours.”
Pete laughs.
“What?”
“General Ahmad told me they do this every Thursday. And you’re invited every time.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“I shit you not.” Pete waits a couple of seconds before continuing. “He did say the last commander would sometimes send his vice commander in his place if his schedule didn’t allow him to make a week. I debated on whether to share that with you.”
“Asshole. Every other week then, OK?” This was a once-in-a-lifetime meal. I don’t want it to become routine.
“Yes, Sir.”
I recognize the importance of host nation relations. This is the part of the job I had most dreaded upon arrival. It’s not that I can’t talk to people or am uninterested in other cultures. I simply prefer doing things rather than socializing. Even at a stateside assignment, a cocktail party is torture. I’d rather shovel my neighbor’s snowy driveway than sit at her table and share dinner. A middle-of-the-night low-level training flight across Northern Arkansas, culminating in an airdrop, is what rocks my boat. Not the Air Force annual formal dinner and dance.
General Ahmad seems to recognize my issues. Likely it’s something he’s observed in previous commanders as well. Throughout the year, we become closer—breaking bread every other Thursday, Tuesday morning tea on base, and brief stops to say hello on the American portion of his base. When the US pushes for deployment of C-17s to the Kuwaiti base, General Ahmad and I work closely to build an operational plan for bedding down and employing the strategic airlifter. The proposed addition of four C-17s rotating through the base easily adds hundreds of support personnel and a requirement to temporarily house transiting aircrew. There are plenty of politics involved, but the relationship that General Ahmad and I have forged is strong. He backs the US proposal and takes it to his government for approval. My bosses are impressed. Only Pete and I know the real truth. Our Kuwaiti general is far better at this relationship building thing than we are.
In the spring, General Ahmad takes me fishing. He’s already had Pete out twice and has been urging me to join him. We motor out of the harbor in a 14-foot white and blue fiberglass boat on a blistering hot morning. As we point toward the center of the bay, the general shows me how to rig the spin-cast poles with mullet, explaining we’re after queenfish while close to the shore. We’ll switch to 5-inch lures in the deeper water as we hunt for grouper and snapper. The bay is placid on this windless morning, almost like a sheen of oil is preventing the formation of waves. As we slow to trolling speed, my shirt begins to stick to my chest in the heat.
Luck evades us for the first hour and we switch to lures. Fifteen minutes later, when General Ahmad reels in his line, I move to do the same.
“Keep fishing, Cam. I must pray.”
For the next ten minutes, I watch my line while periodically glancing at the general’s prone figure facing east back toward the harbor. When he finishes, he lets out his line again and we continue our fruitless pursuit of these fish he’s been bragging about.
“Is it awkward for you when I pray?” the general asks.
This is a first. We’ve talked about a lot of things this year, but religion is not one of them. “No. I pray too. I’m a Christian. I just don’t do it the same way.” I smile. “Or near as often.”
General Ahmad grins. “I knew you were a Christian. This is one of the reasons I like you so much.”
“General, I hope this doesn’t come out the wrong way, but I’ve never heard a Muslim say what you just said—that they like a foreigner because they are Christian.”
The general’s pole bends and my eyes widen before I realize he’s just bringing in his line a bit. “Okay, you might be right. Most Muslims wouldn’t put it the way I did. But I will tell you something. Almost any Muslim will tell you that if they are going to choose one of two people for a friend, one a Christian, the other a non-believer, they will choose the Christian every time.”
I think I understand what General Ahmad is showing me, but I hadn’t put it together before today. Probably because I’ve been more worried about my flying schedule than bilateral relations with Kuwait. This man who has opened up his base and his family to me is a man acting how I believe a Christian should act. He loves God with all his heart. He’s been loving me—his neighbor—as well.
“Do you know why?” the general asks.
I do. But I want to hear him say it. “Why?”
“Because even though I believe many parts of your religion are not accurate—which I’m sure is how you also feel about my religion—we both believe in the same God. We feel that we can trust someone more if they believe in a greater power, if they have faith in that God. Because then we can expect them to act with grace.”
And there it is. My mentor teaches me a final lesson on a fishing boat in Kuwait Bay.
We sit for another half hour without even a bite. I debate whether I should make a joke about feeding a man a fish versus teaching a man to fish, but decide against it.
Everything has already been said.