J. Malcolm Garcia
Dependents
Bibi Sarwari and Earl Taylor met at an airport coffee shop in San Diego in the humid summer morning. The rising heat of the day pierced the city. Ceiling fans spun slowly as the two embraced, Earl swallowing Bibi in his big arms, squeezing him against his chest. After a moment, Earl released him and they sat, grinning. Bibi ordered tea; Earl asked for house coffee. Earl had a three hour layover, so Bibi took some time off work to meet him.
How’s it going, brother? Earl asked.
Good, good, Bibi said. So good to see you.
Likewise.
Likewise, Bibi repeated, and laughed. In Afghanistan, Earl always said “likewise.” On patrols in Khost province when the Taliban attacked, Earl would drop to one knee, jerking Bibi down with him and firing rounds from his M4, screaming likewise, motherfuckers!
Bibi had arrived from Kabul six months earlier with his wife and four daughters. A Catholic Charities resettlement worker placed them in a two-bedroom apartment in South Park, a neighborhood not far from the airport. She called him Mr. Sarwari and never asked about his life in Afghanistan. She was not friendly, but she was not unfriendly. She was efficient. She helped him find a job working as a janitor at an athletic club. A month later, he made a down payment on a battered SUV with 175,000 miles from a used car dealer she knew. She gave him furniture from the donation room next to her office. Another room held trash bags filled with used clothing he and his family wore. This morning, he put on a red plaid shirt that hung off his shoulders and baggy blue jeans he rolled at the cuffs. He looked at his living room and the furniture in it, a couch and two armchairs, and wondered who had owned them and why had they donated them to Catholic Charities. He passed his case worker’s office on his way to the airport and thought of stopping in to tell her he was meeting an American soldier he had worked with in Afghanistan as an interpreter. He’s going to give me copies of my credentials, he would tell her. I earned them for my good work with American soldiers in the 503rd. My boss will see I’m not just a refugee. That’s nice, he could hear her say. That would be helpful to show your work experience and to have recommendations from Americans. Now, I don’t have much time, what do you need?
He needed his parents and in-laws he'd left behind in Kabul. He needed a bigger apartment, a job that would support his family, and a car that wasn’t close to a breakdown. He needed to feel at home and many other things he knew she’d not define as needs. I’m sorry you miss your family but I’m focused on you and you should be too, she often said to him. She’d pause and he’d look at her and then past her, staring out her office window at an AMC theater across the street. The large red letters of the sign made him think of the Bollywood movies he’d watched in Kabul, and for a moment he was no longer in San Diego. Or he’d glance in the direction of the North Park Farmers Market and recall the bazaars in Share-e-Naw and how he had walked between vendor stalls with his wife.
The clipped words of his resettlement worker would bring him back. Be grateful for what you have, Bibi, she’d say. Not every asylum seeker is so fortunate to have what I’ve gotten for you. I’m providing you with stepping stones. The rest is up to you.
He thought of her stern look, the tone of her voice like that of a teacher to a naughty boy and how he could feel his heart pound with anger as he swallowed his humiliation and shrank before her, head down. Once he showed her his credentials, she’d understand. She’d appreciate who he had been and who he could be again. She’d be embarrassed by the way she’d treated him, talking to him like a child. With his credentials, he would find a good job and not need her.
*
A waitress put a cup of tea and a cup of coffee on a round tray and carried it to their table. She gave Earl the tea and Bibi the coffee. They said nothing but smiled at each other. After she left, they switched drinks.
Fucking tea, Earl said.
Fucking coffee, man, Bibi said.
They laughed.
How was your flight?
Good, Earl said. Nothing to write home about, but not bad.
May I see my credentials? I want to show them to my worker.
Earl glanced down at the table, raised his head, and looked past Bibi. Yeah, I received them as attachments on WhatsApp, Earl said.
I’ve been asking you for them. You said you’d send them.
I forgot.
Earl flapped his T-shirt against his chest. Bibi could tell there was something on Earl’s mind. He was trying to decide how to say it or maybe he was trying to pick the right time to say it.
Is everything all right, Earl?
It’s hot, he said, still flapping his shirt.
Did you print my credentials? Bibi asked.
Not yet. I told you I forgot.
You can forward them to my phone and I’ll print them, Bibi said.
Earl took out his wallet and offered Bibi five $20 bills.
Here, to make up for the hours you’re losing at work to see me today.
No, no, my friend, it’s OK.
Take it.
Earl extended his right hand, his thumb pressing down on the five twenties drooping from his fingers. He had been sending Bibi money ever since he arrived in San Diego. America was too expensive, he would complain to Earl over the phone. Can’t argue with you, Earl would say. Bibi called him his big American brother but in many ways he was like his second resettlement worker, someone he turned to for help. They were friends, but Earl had all the advantages of an American. In Khost, Earl needed him, but here Bibi had nothing to offer.
Take it, Earl said again.
His insistence had an edge to it almost as if he was angry. Bibi made a face, took the money and shook Earl’s hand and thanked him and promised to help him should he ever ask for it, but nothing he said relieved the sense that Earl would never need him.
*
Earl had been a reservist assigned to the 1st Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment when he met Bibi at Forward Operating Base Salerno in Khost. Bibi worked security with him at the front gate, translating for carloads of destitute families requesting food and medical assistance. He taught Bibi how to play poker and Bibi showed him the Afghan card game, Teka. Bibi always allowed him to win. You are a guest in my country, he would explain, I cannot take your money.
This is hell, Earl thought when he landed in Khost. He had never experienced such heat. The land had the appearance of a brown wasteland speckled with scrub and in constant motion from sandstorms. He’d joined the reserves to pay for college, not to fight in Afghanistan. Shrapnel to the left hand sent him home to Chicago before the deployment was over. Gave him a chance to get his MBA. He wanted to start an employment agency for refugees in the U.S. To help motherfuckers like you, he told Bibi in an email. This morning, he was on his way to Phoenix for a three-day conference on start-ups. He’d reached out to Bibi when he bought his plane ticket.
My wife wanted to cook a big meal for you, Bibi said. Kabuli pulao, mantu, chicken beef kabobs.
Jesus, how much does she think I can eat?
Bibi laughed. Americans, he noticed, always swore using their God’s name.
Another time, maybe, Earl said.
It would have been good for her. She is too sad. She misses her family. I’m sad too. My parents are in a refugee camp in Pakistan. Too many people in my old neighborhood in Kabul knew I worked for the Army. They were scared that someone might report them to the Taliban.
I’m sorry.
I try to send them money. My family thought I was a very important man translating for the Army. Here, I am struggling. I am just a refugee.
You’re an asylum seeker.
What’s the difference?
I don’t know but I think being an asylum seeker is better.
We have an expression, Bibi said. Afghan men cry on the inside. Women cry on the outside.
It will get better, Earl said.
Inshallah, I hope so.
Inshallah. How’s your apartment?
It’s small. We have bunk beds for the children. In the living room, we have a big carpet and we eat on the floor in the Afghan way. On the wall, I will put my credentials and pictures of my parents and my wife’s family. It will be our Afghan room, inshallah.
There’s something I need to tell you, Earl said, strumming his fingers against the table.
Yes? Bibi said.
A man and a woman walked into the coffee shop and put their suitcases on the chairs of a table next to them. They placed an order and waited. They tapped text messages on their phones. When their drinks were served, they returned to the table. Cheers, the woman said, tapping the man’s glass with her own. Watching them, Earl raised his glass to Bibi.
To better days, he said.
Inshallah, Bibi said. To better days.
Earl slugged down the rest of his coffee and took out his wallet.
That money I gave you was enough?
Yes, yes, of course, Bibi said.
It’s no problem.
Bibi shook his head.
No, no, please, Earl.
Earl closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket.
What is it you wanted to tell me? Bibi said.
*
Bibi had earned seven hundred dollars a month as a translator, more than the Afghan government paid its own generals. He made twice that much at the athletic club but his salary was not enough to support his family. He started work at seven in the morning and stayed until three. Then he drove for Uber until eight when he took a dinner break to eat with his wife and children. At nine, he began picking up fares again. He used to go home at midnight, but by the time he ate a snack, brushed his teeth, washed his face, changed for bed, kissed his daughters good night while they slept, and did the same with his slumbering wife, asleep or passed out from anxiety meds—he never knew—it was time to get up and leave for the athletic club. To get more rest, he started sleeping in his SUV in the gym parking lot until his shift started.
Bibi had left Afghanistan just before the Taliban retook Kabul. He listened to news reports as the insurgents occupied nearby Nangarhār and Logar provinces. Neighbors warned him that Taliban fighters were already in Kabul seeking information on anyone who had worked for U.S. forces. He took his family to a friend’s house and then left for another friend’s house to keep ahead of anyone who might inform on him. He sent Earl a WhatsApp message with photos of his English language degree from Kabul University, certificates from The International Security Assistance Force and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Kabul, with whom he had also worked as a translator before he joined the 503rd. Additional photos showed his army ID badges and letters of commendation from the commanding officer. These papers are very important to me, Bibi told Earl when he sent him the photos. This has been my work. It’s my life. I understand, Earl wrote back. Once he confirmed receipt of the images, Bibi deleted the photos from his phone and all messages to Earl. Then he burned his documents. If Taliban fighters found him and searched his belongings they would find nothing connecting him to the Americans.
The CO recommended Bibi for an expedited U.S. visa, and the American Embassy in Kabul granted the request. However, the visa would apply to his family only and not his parents or in-laws. Bibi didn’t understand. They’re extended family, Earl told him in an email. What does that mean? Bibi asked. They’re not part of your immediate family, Earl replied. But they’re family, Bibi insisted. I’m sorry, Earl said, I don’t make the rules.
Bibi debated his next move. If he stayed in Kabul, he would never be able to leave the house and feel safe, and he would need to move repeatedly for the safety of his family. How would he support his family under such circumstances? He slept little. He prayed. He cursed. His neck and the veins in his temples pulsed with stress. His indecision drove him mad. Finally, he called Earl and told him he would accept the conditions of the visa. You have to contact the embassy, not me, Earl said. I’m telling you because you are my friend and my heart is broken, Bibi said. That night, he told his wife of his decision. You cannot leave your parents and my family, she said. I’m sorry, Bibi said, but we have no other choice. She walked into the kitchen and closed the door. He listened to her cry. He went outside and covered his face with his hands and shook as he struggled to hold back his own tears. He stood like that for some time, the cool evening ruffling his clothes, before he regained control and returned inside.
*
A woman’s voice came over the airport public address system and reminded passengers not to leave their luggage with strangers and to report any suspicious behavior.
What is it you have to tell me? Bibi asked again.
Earl glanced at his watch.
Do you have to go? Bibi said.
No worries, Earl said. Listen, I was thinking. There’s something called humanitarian parole. It allows people like your mom and dad and your wife’s folks to come to the states for being under threat because of the work you did for the Army. Do you know about that?
No. How long does it take?
I don’t know.
I spoke to an immigration lawyer but he wanted $1,500 a day. This humanitarian parole, what does it cost?
I think it’s like six hundred dollars for each person.
For each person!
Yeah, I know, it’s a lot.
How can I pay for this?
I’ll help you.
Please, Earl, Bibi said. You are helping too much.
*
In the gym parking lot, Bibi would notice other people who stayed overnight. They would sit in lawn chairs smoking cigarettes and talking. He would offer them water or fruit. They thanked him, spoke in low voices as if they did not want to disturb the quiet night and they stared out at the street or up at the sky and he would do the same, and they spoke as if they were back home in their yards in Texas, Arizona, Colorado, wherever they were from. Bibi told them he was from Afghanistan. He and his mother had stood outside their house when the Northern Alliance began its assault on Kabul about a month after 9/11. They watched the Taliban firing back, the sky lit up with anti-aircraft fire, a big flash followed by an explosion that pushed them to the ground. The Americans are here to help the mujahedeen, people shouted on the street. Everyone was happy, Bibi recalled, and a peaceful time followed.
He told them about studying English at Kabul University and becoming a translator for the Americans. His mother told him it was too dangerous and his father agreed. I’m going, he insisted. You’re a young man, his father said, but still a man. I’m telling you not to, but it is up to you. On his first visit home, his parents arranged his marriage to a neighbor’s daughter. He had known her since they were children and did not love her, but his father was good friends with her father so he promised that he would learn to love her. After they married, he returned to Khost and did not go home again for six months. After twenty days, long enough to impregnate his wife, he flew back to Khost. His wife said nothing, but his mother wept and begged him not to go. He told her it was fine, no problem. He did not mention the firefights and how they frightened him because he did not have a gun to defend himself. He surprised his parents and his wife with money he had saved from his salary.
Every other night he and Earl left the base on patrols with a platoon of U.S. and Afghan National Army soldiers. He recalled the lines of armored vehicles and the American soldiers wearing headphones and listening to music so loud that Bibi could hear it. He watched them mouth the lyrics, faces scrunched, bodies rocking as if they were seized with convulsions. They would leave at 20:00 hours in pitch dark. The stars and moon spread a pale glaze over the desert and Bibi would think that those same stars flickered above his home in Kabul. The platoon would reach its destination at 03:00 and search villages.
We’re here to help, Bibi would tell the village elders. They led him and the officers into a hut built with mud bricks and lined with carpets, kicked off their sandals and offered them tea. They sat in a circle and burqa clad women lit candles and left. They returned almost immediately with tea and a plate of cookies and raisins, then retreated into the shadows before vanishing. These Americans are here to kill us, the elders would tell Bibi after they poured the tea. They spoke calmly, confident their assertion was beyond dispute. Their faded prayer shawls slipped off their shoulders as they stroked white, tobacco-stained beards, the rigor of their lives revealed in impassive faces lined with age and fatigue. They raised their cups of tea to their mouths and waited for Bibi to translate. No, we’re here to build hospitals and schools, Bibi insisted, speaking for the lieutenant in charge of the patrol, but the elders lifted their hands for him to be quiet. You are no longer Afghan, they told him.
One time, a Taliban fighter shot at them from behind a wall in the village of Spin Boldak. Shrapnel struck Earl in his left hand. Blood sprayed onto Bibi’s shirt, and he fell to the ground convinced he had been shot. Likewise, motherfuckers! Earl screamed, firing his weapon. I’ve been hit, Bibi shouted. Earl dropped beside him and felt his chest and arms before he noticed his hand and wiped it clean. Shit, man, he said, that’s my goddamn blood.
Bibi laughed at the memory.
Well, that’s it, he said to the men and women seated around him in the parking lot. That was my life. But now I am here because the Taliban came back and I could not stay, and now I have very little money and nothing in my apartment is mine.
They nodded without comment and then a man started talking and became lost in the tale of his own derailed life. I work at a warehouse, he said, but I don’t make enough to pay rent. We’re on Social Security, a couple said, interrupting him. Our landlord increased the rent and we had to leave. I had problems with my boyfriend, a young woman joined in. As the night progressed some of the people drank and grew loud and argumentative. A man called Bibi a fucking Arab. He was so drunk Bibi barely understood him. OK, OK, Bibi said, and returned to his SUV.
What could he say to this crazy man? I am Afghan, not Arab. He knew a drunk would not understand the difference but he tried not to judge him. His wife took pills prescribed for her by a doctor at a San Diego clinic to help her cope with the absence of her family, and Bibi had learned not to argue with her no matter how she provoked him under the influence of the pills. She stayed in bed except when she cooked their meals. Bibi told her she must stop taking the pills. You sleep too much, he said. She glared at him, walked into the bathroom, uncapped a plastic bottle, and shook out a small, round tablet. Dropping it in her mouth, she swallowed it without water, without taking her eyes off him.
I will never forgive you for bringing me here, she said putting the bottle back on the sink. There will be no paradise for you.
*
Earl stood to get another cup of coffee.
You sure you don’t want another tea? He asked Bibi when he returned to their table.
No, thank you.
Earl sat. He looked at Bibi, glanced at the floor.
What? Bibi said.
I have to tell you something, Earl said.
He paused.
What? Bibi said again.
You know when you sent me the photos of your credentials?
Yes.
Well, you deleted them before I downloaded the attachments.
He showed Bibi his phone, tapped his contact link on WhatsApp and scrolled to his message: Here are my certificates. This is my work. It’s my life. Below it Bibi saw the word deleted for each image he had sent.
What are you telling me? Bibi said.
I mean I don’t have them. I didn’t know I had to download them. I thought they’d stay on my phone like any other texted photo. But when you deleted them, they were deleted from my phone too. I wanted to tell you, but you had enough problems getting out of Afghanistan. I’m sorry.
I don’t understand.
When you deleted them they were deleted from my phone too.
But you said—
I don’t have them. They’re gone.
Bibi looked down at the table. He saw himself in his apartment staring at the empty living room wall. His Afghanistan room! Such a fool he had been to think anything here could be like Afghanistan. He grabbed Earl’s phone and threw it on the floor. Earl jerked back from the table and stood. The couple beside them stared wide-eyed, got up, and hurried away. A girl behind the cash register jumped, covered her mouth. Bibi felt everyone watching him. His head pounded. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths.
Bibi, Earl said. I didn’t know.
Bibi dug into his pocket for the money Earl had given him. He wanted to throw the bills on the table and shout, Keep your money. I don’t want it, but he didn’t. He needed the money. He needed Earl. He wasn’t angry with him. He wasn’t angry with anyone. He was just angry. He wanted to leave, to run from here, but where? Home? He didn’t have a home. At night, he dreamed of Kabul and then he woke up stiff-necked in his car.
He noticed the cashier talking to a security guard and pointing in his direction. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Shaking his head, he looked at the skylights above him, squinting against the unrelenting glare.
I’m sorry, he said, turning to Earl.
Likewise, Earl said.
Bibi stood. The security guard stopped at their table.
What’s going on here? he asked.
Nothing, Earl told him. My friend received some bad news and just got a little upset.
The security guard looked at Bibi suspiciously. Bibi had seen that look before, in the eyes of Earl and the other American soldiers when Afghans approached the gates of FOB Salerno.
I do not want trouble. I only want my life, Bibi said, his voice drowned out by an announcement over the PA system.
What? the guard asked.
Then a sudden rush of travelers, all bound for destinations of their choosing, streamed past. Bibi felt the damp trails of tears on his cheeks as he faced the guard, unable to say more.
“The purpose of [‘Dependents’] is to show the challenges and heartbreak of those Afghans who fought on behalf of the U.S. and had to flee their country, and of the unintentional betrayals that occurred between them and their American colleagues who tried to help them after the Biden withdrawal.” —J. Malcolm Garcia
J. Malcolm Garcia is the author of Most Dangerous, Most Unmerciful: Stories From Afghanistan and six other books. He wrote “Dependents” while he volunteered with Afghan refugees in San Diego. Many of them had worked as translators for U.S. forces.