It's a testament to his humanity that Mahmoud sees me as a friend. He calls me 'brother Sean' now.

How do I begin? First, full disclosure, I have absolutely no way of verifying any of this. Take it all with a grain of salt and in the context (lots of Raki) in which the night evolved. What follows is a highly abbreviated version of last night.

I came home about 830pm after stopping at the corner store for my usual dinner, a touch of sausage, fresh tomatoes, lemons, green and black olives, fresh farm cheese and a loaf of sesame bread. I dropped my bags in my room and wandered into the kitchen to prepare my meal.

More after the jump.

Mahmoud was there with a Turkish friend, having just opened a bottle of 'Yeni Raki.' We made small talk while I ate. Mahmoud asked several times if I wanted some raki and I repeatedly said no. But it was one of those social situations--the Turkish guy, Fuat, spoke great English and acted as translator--where it is not cool to say no to Muslim hospitality.¹ So, Mahmoud poured me a shot--I said no to the Fanta mixer--and downed it.

Mahmoud was showing off his new cell-phone and the wonders of American porn he found on the internet. We all laughed, acting like the crass men we are. Much small talk was had, men just being men, talking about stupid shit.

I hate black licorice, which is how Raki tastes: aniseed and high proof alcohol aren't a good mix. But after a few minutes, that warm fuzzy feeling came over me (which is rather the same sensation tequila gives me, and very dangerous) and Mahmoud, already well into his cups started talking about life in Afghanistan.

"I'm Tajik," he said through Fuat, "and I fought with Ahmed Shah in the Panjshir Valley. Do you know who Ahmed Shah was?"

"Sure do," I replied. "The Lion of the Panjshir."

Mahmoud smiled at that and continued, "before 2001 life was hard. I watched my elder bother die when the Taliban attacked us in 2000. But we had better guns, from the Russians. We usually won the fight. The Panjshir, this place, is hard to get into. We fought hard. So much blood. But then bin Laden killed all those Americans in New York. And then you came," he said pounding his fist on the table, "smashing the Taliban." He smiled. His loathing and contempt for the Taliban is total.

He poured another shot for all three of us and down they went. I continued listening, warm and fuzzy, inhabiting the moment.

"For Tajiks we were happy. No more Pashtoo (here he spit the word out) making life hell for everyone. I am Shi'a. I am a Muslim. And they call me 'Kafir!' I want to pray in peace. But the Pashtoo are Afghans who think they are from Arabia. Desert people. They hate everything. Raki, music, women, fun. We all hated the Pashtoo. And now you," he pointed at me, "came and we had hope."

My heart sank upon hearing this word, for hope is a dangerous thing. I knew where this story was going, but I stayed, too wracked by raki to leave my seat.

"Until a few years ago life was good. But like all things you Americans do, you didn't finish the job. And the Taliban returned. At first it wasn't bad. But then the bombings started. Your bombings," he said. He wasn't accusing me, but he was angry.

"You planes were bombing everyone now. Not just the Taliban. When we heard the jets we all ran home. But one day," he started crying, but managed to stifle it and continue. "One day you bombed a farm. My family's farm. Father, mother, sister, one brother, baby boy all dead. Only wife and son live. Maybe brother, but I don't know."²

He broke down now, full heaving sobs, unable to continue. This proud, lovely, lonely man. So kind to me. So helpful. So curious.

Fuat apologized profusely, carrying Mahmoud to his room. He was beyond drunk at this point.

I was horrified. Stunned. Tears welled up in mine own eyes, as all sorts of uncomfortable questions formed in my raki-addled brain, heart swimming with shame.

"Am I to blame?" I asked myself. "No, you weren't flying the jet." But then I'd reply, "but what have you really done? Blogged about the mess? Criticized it? And yet, your taxes pay for it?" It was all too much for me, so I stepped out into the cool Istanbul night. Lit up a smoke, dragged deeply and just sat in silence. There was a crisp chill in the air, my clothes blowing gently in the night breeze. It was late, 1230am or so. I tried to sober up, stumbled into my room and slept.

It was the shouting that woke me. 230am. But it wasn't shouting. It was sheer grief. Something inside Mahmoud had come undone. He was pounding on the walls of his room. A nightmare, perhaps?

The Belgian models on the third floor were terrified. Michael, the German, threatened to call the landlord. The French girl on the first floor was crying as well. The Canadian on the fourth floor slept through it all. And no one has any idea what the Mongols were saying. Incomprehensible gibberish, worse than any drunken Tajik's ravings.

Mahmoud was inconsolable. I sat with him. Holding his hand. Listening to his wails in Dari, the sounds of dhizkr and an azan mixed, from an old, broken muezzin.

I couldn't understand a word, but I understood, if only a little, his grief. I've never had death rained down on me from 15,000 feet and pray I never do. But in that moment it didn't matter.

I called his friend Fuat. He came quickly. After an hour we managed to get Mahmoud to bed.

I thanked Fuat. He just smiled.

"This has happened before. But only once. Thank you for calling me and not Murat (the landlord)," he said.

"What can I do?" I asked.

"Pray."
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¹ Christianity has it's cardinal virtues, such as prudence, justice, restraint, faith, hope, etc . . . So does Islam. One of the cardinal virtues of Islam is generosity or hospitality. From the Koran: ""Give of the good things which ye have (honorably) earned, and of the fruits of the earth which We have produced for you." (2:267) It is a virtue not to be taken lightly. I cannot reinforce this enough.

² I was unable to get the precise date of his family's tragedy. But it has happened before and is still happening. Take this article as proof.