Communication

Earlier this week I met with two men. We had trouble communicating in each case. Verbally. In the end, I felt we had communicated well. Non-verbally.

“Jon” joined me for breakfast at a local coffee shop. He brought along a caregiver. Jon has entered the haunted tunnel of dementia. These days he can track with a conversation for a few minutes, but then spins off into a fixation on some idea he's gotten into his head. That morning he asked me what rank I'd reached when I retired from the military. I gently told him I never served. Our eyes met, but his registered no understanding. Then he asked me again.

Jon served in the US Army for over twenty years. He retired a lieutenant colonel. He did at least one tour of duty in Vietnam. He became a chaplain, and in times when his memory was clearer, he shared stories of men and women he'd listened to, stories of tragedy they'd shared, worship he had conducted in the field. I asked him about one of those services. This time he understood and for a minute or so he smiled and reminisced.

The coffee shop where we meet is quieter than most. That's why I prefer it. Jon speaks very softly. At best I catch maybe twenty percent of what he says. I may ask him to repeat himself a few times, but mostly I try to guess his thread from the few clues I can gather. The rest of the time I just smile and nod. Or frown and nod, depending on what mood he appears to be conveying.

When the server brought the check I realized I had stayed longer than I meant to. The next man I was to meet would be waiting. I said as much to Jon and his caregiver and asked to be excused. Jon leaned forward. I grabbed his wrist and leaned in as well. He said, “I so enjoy these visits with you. Thank you for having time for an old man.” He smiled, and the twinkle that used always to inhabit his eyes made an appearance. I made some feeble statement, an attempt at graciousness, and took my leave.

Sure enough, “Ahmal” was standing outside when I drove up to the duplex we rented for him. “We” are a not-for-profit group working to resettle Afghan refugees. Ahmal's English is improving but still limited. I know possibly five words in his native Dari. We “talk” by saying simple things in English, accompanied by gesturing and exaggerated facial expressions. Both of us have phone apps that we can speak into, which then transcribe the words into the other's language. It takes a few moments to read these messages but it serves well for more complicated thoughts.

Ahmal needed to communicate something even more complex and, as it had to do with the few hundred dollars he has to his name, critically important to him. He called a friend who speaks Dari and English and put him on speaker. We sorted things out. I thanked the friend and said goodbye. Ahmal understood I was terminating the call and burst into a lengthy, impassioned speech. He kept looking at me and then looking away. At me and away. When he finished speaking his friend said, “Well. I am not sure what to say. Ahmal says to tell you he knows today is goodbye and he is full of feelings.”

That day was goodbye. Ahmal has chosen to move from our city to another in the USA where he has relatives already established in housing and jobs. I will say he has a blemished track record in our city. I have mixed feelings about him. But I often ask myself what my mental state would be if, like he, I had been forced to flee for my life, leaving behind my wife and children. I believe he speaks with her every day. She tells him the Taliban have come around a number of times. They want to know where he is.

When I dropped him off back at the duplex I got out too. We embraced on the sidewalk and he said, as he usually does, “My brother.” I replied, as I do, “My brother”. We both meant it.