Friendship Finish Lines

I have discovered a peculiar characteristic of friendships played out in this international world – they often have a finish line, to which people run – sometimes sprint – but rarely do away with. The cause of this finish line is the frequency with which goodbyes are said – the knowledge that you or the other person will eventually (probably soon) get on a plane and fly away back “home” or to another port of call – Sudan, Kazakhstan, Liberia, Cambodia, etc.

The introductory questions here in Afghanistan are almost always the same: Where are you from? Who do you work for? How long have you been here? (and then) How long do you expect to be here for? And there it is … the finish line.

(The furthest from this normal introduction I ever received was in a restaurant called Elbow Room where a friend of a friend introduced himself with the following sentence, “Hi, my name is Nick. I’m a wannabe DJ and I’m on the shits.” I should be careful, because anyone who has spent any time in Kabul will immediately know who I’m talking about since there is only one Nick that moonlights as a DJ.)

Back to the finish line – with this last question, we all know how much time we have and begin to construct a clear picture of just how far this friendship will go. We know, in essence, where it will end – not just in terms of time (April 22nd Chris leaves), but in terms of depth – and the whole of the friendship is lived toward that end.

This is perhaps not true of every expat. Some expats that grow up with stable, one-town childhoods are probably much better at not capping friendships, though many of them learn the skill quick enough after experiencing the sting of constant transition. For those of us that grew up in this crazy transitional world – we TCKs (Third Culture Kids) – this is second nature to us, and the thought of beginning a friendship with no finish line seems absurd and, more to the point, incredibly foolhardy.

The best analogue I have come up with is that of the difference between high board diving and scuba diving. Jumping off of a high board into a pool is exhilarating – the rush of stepping off, the thrill of falling and splitting the water with one’s body. But it is short lived. There is a bottom to be hit and once you hit it, you spring up quickly to the surface, climb up the ladder and jump off again. Scuba diving, on the other hand, requires commitment and bravery of a different sort. It is begun slowly and its whole passage is one of exploration. There is always further down to go, always more to discover. It involves danger, the possibility of predators or injury. But in the process, a whole new world is discovered.

I am a high board jumper - or was, before I met Kimberly, my best friend. I have frequently thought here that Kim ruined me for high board jumping, the very necessary skill here, when she coerced me into deeper waters. She was the first friend that refused my finish line and made me keep running – terrifying me in the process. Chris, another friend who I met here similarly disabled me. Kim grew up in Knoxville, TN and Chris in small-town West Virginia (is there another kind of town there?). Both friends didn’t understand the rush and immediacy involved in my version of friendship, my need for intensity and then my commitment to clean splits. When Kim was moving away from DC, as much as she had grown to be my closest friend, I still could not see another option but saying goodbye. I was prepared for it, but not for her anger and flat refusal to let the friendship go. With Chris, I knew I had three months before he would leave Afghanistan and became frustrated when he didn’t seem to feel the same urgency to squeeze as much as possible into that short timeframe. They each, in their own way, forced me to do away with finish lines and have become precious friends in the process.

I struggle in Afghanistan with how to continue this trend. The truth is you can love people much more deeply and genuinely when you are not anticipating an end. I want to care for people in this way and to enjoy the richness of these kinds of friendships. I want to provide spaces for depth in my friendships. I know, however, that there is an incredible risk in these kinds of friendships, particularly when played out in an environment of such constant transition. It hurts when your diving partner is suddenly pulled out of the water, leaving you alone. And the process of again learning to go deep with a new partner is exhausting.

I wonder if there is a balance to be struck, but I confess that if there is I do not yet know it in full. I neither want to live with total careless abandon nor protective rigidity and superficiality. I want to be genuine. I want to love others without thinking about the consequences and in so doing to offer the peace and depth we all truthfully long for. So today, as I prepare to say goodbye to yet another good friend at the end of this month and two more next month, I will choose to imagine these friendships as extending past their finish lines. I will choose to let them develop as they will, knowing that it will cause me pain as well as much deeper joy. I will choose to go scuba diving and will trust that the exploration will be worth it.

Coming Up for Air

Have you ever tried holding your breath under water until your lungs begin to burn and your brain starts to send panic signals to the rest of your body? When your face finally breaks the surface of the water, that first, sudden burst of air to your lungs almost hurts, though it brings enormous relief. This is a little how I feel at the end of two exhausting months.

I am afraid this blog entry will not be terribly eloquent as I’m reasonably sure I lack the energy for pretty imagery, but it should serve to catch you all up on life here in the “garden city” of Kabul.

My office spent much of March concentrating on writing a HUGE proposal. Early mornings, late evenings and long weekends were spent, without ceasing, writing, planning and strategizing. Simultaneously, I worked hard to study the language and to maintain some very special friendships. I walked out of the month already feeling pressed and stretched and desperately needing rest.

April was busy and straining in a different sort of way. One friend dubbed it, “the month of loss”. We lost the proposal we had worked so hard on. I lost the housing that I had been counting on. And then there was the most difficult loss – my four closest friends, one each week of the month, left Afghanistan. While I know this is an inevitable part of the expat existence, particularly in Afghanistan where the average stay is probably only a few months, it still hurts and I find myself wondering how to keep giving out my heart and having genuine friendships when goodbyes are always lingering around the edges.

Simultaneous to all of these ‘loses’ was the business of field travel. I love going to the field – being with people in small, remote villages; rumbling across dirt roads; practicing my Dari. But it is exhausting – to the core! 24-7, non-stop work! Your brain must always be turned on and you arrive back with more of an itinerary of things to do than you left with and about a quarter of the energy to do them.

So, at the end of almost four months in Afghanistan, I find I am drained. This is not particularly surprising since everyone hits this point, but it is, nevertheless, difficult. I am trying to work out some way of taking a holiday (a long weekend at least). Thus far, the possibilities include a weekend in the UAE, sitting on a beach and going snorkeling or seeing if I can get to Finland for a week mid-summer to enjoy the peace of my godfather’s cottage.

Saying this makes me feel rather weak – like I’m not really as hard-core as I would like to think of myself – but it is reality. I am tired and need to come up for air soon so that I can go back to being immersed with more energy and vigor.