How Perspectives Differ

In the airport this morning, I met a soldier who was returning home from Afghanistan for two weeks of R&R. He had been hit by a roadside bomb and two of his friends died. The soldier was frank about his experiences, if slightly glassy-eyed. How does one respond to the statement, "My two best friends died over there." I simply responded, "I'm sorry, man." I had never met or talked to the guy in my life.

I saw him again in the terminal and he asked me where I was going. When I answered "Tajikistan," he told me to be careful:

"That part of the world is teeming with terrorists. They're like beehives in there."

I have never seen the terrorist side of Central Asia. I've read about it in Rashid and I'm familiar with the existence of the IMU and Hizb-ut-Tahrir, but the Central Asia that I know is tea-drinking in the garden, stuffing yourself with sheep fat, vodka shooting, and desperate for peace. This soldier had obviously seen the dark underbelly of a society that I will never truly know. Conversely, he had never seen the overwhelming hospitality and humor of the people.

Our different positions have limited us to our own perspectives: mine rosy, his forever colored by the death of his best friends.