Hope for Afghan Children

Never a snag, never a missed appointment or fundraiser. Not until the afternoon we had to be somewhere, had to return the bus to the company by 5pm. We were way ahead of schedule, perhaps able to pull into the final destination by 3:30, when Interstate 80 at the Pennsylvania/New Jersey line was shut down in both directions due to a hazardous waste collision. Deadlock! We moved one foot, stopped, waited. This went on for an hour and a half when I noticed we could cut through to the west bound lanes that were empty. I went west a few miles and got off the exit there. I had to rely on old fashioned maps. No GPS in this situation. We took a roller coaster ride through back roads, quick as I dared. The children shouted, “Space Mountain!” We came out on the Interstate just beyond the accident. Now there was no time to lose. Luckily the traffic all the way to Tappan was going 75 miles an hour. Calling the limo service to change times, calling the Camperworld staff to make certain they’d still be there, I drove 80 in the bus, like a banshee over the rolling hills leading to the Hudson River, and slipped into the Camperworld outlet ten minutes before closing. The limo van was there, and the bus passed inspection. Exactly a few tenths short of 10,000 miles. When I walked out of the office, free and clear of the keys to the bus, Frishta ran straight toward me. I opened my arms wide and she jumped into them. Then one after another all the other children. They sensed the great relief, the ending of an important chapter in all our lives, and they were happy for me. We all gave the bus a kiss goodbye. Finally, as we were last to get into the van, I gave Nasrin a big hug, two weary surrogate parents ready to move on to the next stage in life.

Our driver into the Big Apple was a true New Yorker, born and raised in the East Village. He chose to give our group the best possible approach to the city, over the George Washington Bridge. Under sunny, warm, and clear skies, as we sped across the bridge I told everyone to look right. A simultaneous “Ahhhhhh” filled the van. Now we really really were in America, the America they had expected to see all along. We unloaded our 14 pieces of luggage and 7 backpacks and cittern onto two large carts at the Roger Smith Hotel on Lexington and 47^th. Jill Iscol, the woman who put together the book Hearts on Fire provided the respite for us. Andeisha was there to meet us, having flown in to attend some of the fundraising events planned that week. After our hearty reunion the first order of business was to go to the top of the Empire State Building. It was 70 degrees and clear that evening, not exactly typical March weather for Manhattan. I had pre paid for tickets so we swung past the first line, then I simply tagged onto a group tour that swung us in front of the remaining lines. We went straight up to the observation deck with nary a delay. The lights of greater New York spread out in its sea of humanity, twinkling in the black night. It could not have been better. The end of this great American tour of discovery is the city that saw the coming of immigrants from the world over, the city that still outshines all others in its bravado, its unabashed acceptance of people as they want to be.

The rest of our stay in the city was a kaleidoscope of experiences. Firstly, one whole day at Goldman Sachs, where two events meant to raise funds had been planned. I was no longer required to speak or even lead presentations. Organizers had Andeisha there, and the children could now stand on their own without my direction or prompting. I began to wind down, suddenly realizing I would soon be heading right back to Afghanistan, saying so-long to my homeland. We walked past the new tower growing in the spot where the Trade Center once stood. We rushed on the subway uptown and downtown. We went to see Evita on Broadway, and Frishta visited her friend Brian Williams at NBC News. There were more sponsors coming by to say their farewell to the children. My brother and his family arrived, the family that so endeared themselves to the children and Nasrin for the first two weeks of this journey. We walked through the Metropolitan Museum, and even got a good dose of debauchery associated with the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade.

One last fundraiser to attend, one last presentation downtown, across the street from the NY Stock Exchange, and it was at this final event we reached our fundraising goal for the trip: $100,000.

The program was looking to be mostly made up of other speakers. The children were asked to perform toward the end, and they did an extraordinary job. Lida finished by sharing her biography, and when she came to the part about her uncle’s death, she stuttered and added a line she had never said before. “I lost two fathers.” Then she cried. I stood my ground. I knew she would come around. I whispered from behind, you want to recite the poem now? Lida pulled herself up, and again addressed the crowd.

“In leadership class, Ian taught us a poem. Each day in life is training, training for myself. Though failure is possible, living each moment equal to anyone, ready for everything, I am alive, I am this moment, my future is here and now.”

Lida thanked the audience, to great applause, and sat down.

I was asked to speak at that moment. I decided to forgo with introducing a video and simply told the tale of our adventure. I told stories of the children and some of their most wonderful moments. Hala skipping up the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, Maria addressing high school students about democracy, Eraj holding my hand as we walked through Chinatown, Mohsan feeling like a king in a Brazilian steakhouse, Lida dancing with me to the drum orchestra on the beach in Florida, and Frishta dancing to hip-hop on the bus. I don’t even remember which of these stories I told. I do remember relating how the children gave food and money to poor Americans standing on the side of the road holding up signs asking for help. I also remember saying this: the children take with them a remembrance of an America that is kind and generous as it is diverse, that America is not its government, but its people, and that the greatest thing about America is its capacity to change itself, to grow, to become better than just status quo, and that if we can do this, so can the people of Afghanistan, so can these children that one day will lead their devastated country out of the darkness and into the light.

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As we approached Omaha a huge golden moon rose up over the plains. Bridget is a grandmother as well as a professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Nebraska. She met us at the door of her small home with two Yorkshire Terriers in tow. Lida and Mohsan were especially pleased to have one last chance to play with cute little dogs. Here we would only stay one night, because there were big plans in the making down the road. Bridget was amendable and very curious, asking loads of questions concerning the children and Islam. It was her worry that money meant to go to the orphanage had been spent on this trip. It should be restated here that this trip was fully funded by a grant from the Afghan Women’s Empowerment fund and from Goldman Sachs 10,000 Women Project.

Bridget arranged for us to spend the morning at the Montessori school she teaches at. This was another unique and pleasurable experience for the kids, spending time with two-to-five-year-old American children, many of them with mothers or fathers fighting the war in Afghanistan. One child was very melodramatic, putting on a grumpy face. Hala was determined to get him to smile. Finally the boy came up to her and whispered, “I have to be sad because my grandmother is gone home!” Then he put his hands like shades on the side of his face and smiled at Hala.

This was followed by a tour of the Center for Afghanistan Studies at the university. Founded in 1974 it is a unique program in America. Founder Tom Gouttierre, who spent years in Afghanistan with the Peace Corps before the Soviet era, was overjoyed to give the children a tour, as well as to practice his excellent Dari skills. It was a relief and a lot of fun for the children not to be asked a lot of questions, but merely to listen to this storyteller in their own language talk about the days before all the devastation. At one point Mohsan was coaxed to share his acting ability, so he stood up and impersonated a very popular Afghan comedian.

It would be a 13-hour run to Columbus, Ohio, so we made a dash for the highway that afternoon. Bridget, yet another person deeply affected by the children’s essence, was tearful as she hugged me and waved to the kids.

We stopped at an RV park on the Mississippi River. The residents of the traveling orphanage were suddenly very happy and excited to once again spend a night all together on the beloved bus. We watched the film Dances with Wolves, and long as it is the children loved it. The setting of the great American Midwest was familiar to them now, and the history and clash of cultures fascinated them.

We began to feel the tug of our own saying goodbye to the bus, to this journey, and in a way to one another as a cohesive and singular family.

In Columbus Hala was once again united with her sponsor Patricia and her husband Doug. They had room for us all at the inn, so we settled in, had dinner, and I began to tell all the stories of our journey not only to catch Pat and Doug up but to help the children to internalize their own stories that they themselves will want to tell. It is a vital part of this endeavor: the stories that follow all the way through life, lessons that give strength when we need it.

The next day was a big one, our final presentation on the road. It would be held at an Islamic center, and lots of media coverage would be there. The turnout was huge. At least a hundred and twenty people and all very eager to help. The children did their usual performance and it was Nasrin’s turn to take the lead. She gave the best talk I’d seen her give in all the presentations. In the end the religious elder took the podium and basically led from the front. He donated a thousand dollars right on the spot and like an auctioneer challenged everyone to start donating there and then. It was miraculous. Then a group of children from a local school donated almost a thousand dollars, and finally an Afghan American college student got up and gave an emotional speech about giving and what it means to her to help her homeland she had never seen.

There were interviews for local news channels, and a group of physicians approached me and along with Patricia we started to form a proposal that would bring children from AFCECO to central Ohio for medical care, much in the same way SOLACE has done in the past. Only this program would be designed to serve AFCECO children specifically. Two sponsors showed up as well, one of Mohsan’s and one of Eraj’s. We later had dinner with two more sponsors. It was the most number of sponsors we had had in one place. It was fun as we watched one of the AFCECO videos and then saw our presentation broadcast on the nightly news. In all the children count 48 sponsors we have visited on this journey. One of the three objectives was to make such contacts, to strengthen the bonds in this extensive ever expanding family. With a few more in New York we will undoubtedly achieve that goal beyond our expectations.

The next morning we gave a talk to a high school class. This was a chance for the children to share some of their experience and to shine in front of the American peers. I couldn’t help myself as I asked a series of questions to the class: How many of you have been to Disney World? How many have been to see a Broadway musical? How many have been on an airboat in the Everglades, gone whale watching on a three mast schooner, ridden a trolley car, been down to the depths of Carlsbad Caverns, or seen the floats of Mardi Gras? How many have given a speech to ambassadors and the entire State Department, or been live on CNN? How many have raised tens of thousands of dollars for the care of orphans? By the time I finished, and I did go on for a while, the students were tremendously humbled and impressed. Though I was shamelessly bragging, it was time to stand before my children and let them know how much I am proud of them.

One of the students asked what the children think about American people. Maria took this one. “Before I came here, I thought the people of America and the government were same. But now I know they are not same. I know that government does not represent the people.”

This brought a great applause. And a whole lot of food for thought in this big election year.

Now we had to empty the bus, clean it and pack our bags. This took only two and a half hours, miraculous given the job before us. Thanks go to Patricia and Doug for helping us every step of the way. Again, on last time, we took to the open highway. Once again we had a 13 hour drive, so we would one last time spend the night together on the bus in an RV park. We chopped six hours off the drive and ended in a small Pennsylvania town at a KOA campground. I wanted to have one last dinner just the eight of us, so we found a nice country restaurant only a few miles away. For the first time on the entire trip we were all happy with our meal!

It was at this time I asked for the floor and for Nasrin to translate for me should there be any chance the children did not understand. I expressed to the children the need to anticipate a great transition back to Kabul, and to our loved ones and sisters and brothers in the orphanage. I told them they must understand that they are special, they are VIPs, they have been given a gift and their peers will wonder how these emissaries will have changed. I explained that they should never forget who they are, to remain humble and share their gifts generously. I explained that they may feel some confusion in going back, along with the joy, and that this would be natural and would evaporate in a short while. They all of six of them understood these things before I told them. They have perceptive abilities and wisdom beyond their years.

We spent our last night on the bus in the woods, alone in the park. It rained, and we fell together into a deep sleep. I dreamed of the children singing their songs in my ear as I cruised across the American landscape in our little home.

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The Magic Freedom Bus rolled into my sister Lindsay’s ranch northwest of Sacramento just in time to feed the horses. Here we would rest for four days, visiting with my father who is living with my sister and her husband Jim. They have a heated lap pool that would occupy the children for hours. An old and dear college friend and his family surprised me by flying down from Seattle to see me at my sister’s before I once again disappear to Kabul.

My family worries a lot about my safety, but they support my choice to live in Kabul and be with the children. It is a bittersweet thing to meet with them, so wonderful to see them but in the back of the mind is the notion I will again leave and again wonder if and when we will see one another again.

This was a time for the children to regroup, just to play, and for me to reconnect with family and friends and for Nasrin to catch up on her sleep and sort through the vast amount of materials we have accumulated: photographs, business cards, donations, gifts, various connections with people who want to help in the future, and so on and so forth. All before the final California presentation and then the big push East to New York.

If there were a time during this journey for misfortune to hit, this was that time, when nothing was scheduled and we could address the situation head on. First, Hala required a trip to the dentist to address growing pain in a tooth she had broken a year before. It required extraction, and along with that five cavities needed filling. The doctor was tremendously gentle and generous. We walked away without a tooth, but also without any charges. That afternoon the children started a little game called “who can leap over the tennis net”. I was not there watching, and blame myself for not supervising them. I just couldn’t imagine what trouble they might get into on this very safe farm with no skateboards. Lida caught a toe jumping, fell and chipped her front tooth diagonally. It could have been so disastrous, a broken and bloody nose, a cracked chin or skull, but nothing else was damaged. Still, Lida was mortified. Her smile had been destroyed. I immediately set my sights on arranging for a dentist to see her in Denver, figuring the time frame and leeway.

Lida wins the prize for most injuries on the trip, from a bite by a dog to scraped knees and bicycle crunches to crunched elbows she seemed to manage one injury per stopover. Never major, but always just enough to be noticed. I began to pray. Three weeks. Three weeks and Nasrin and I will have these children safely on a plane back to the sanctuary of the parwarishga. Please please get us there!

On our final day in Sacramento area we had a presentation at the State University campus. Wendy, a professor there had arranged for what she hoped would be a very successful fundraiser. We donned our Afghan clothes for this one and drove the bus into the city. Many Afghan Americans were there as well as other Moslems studying Islamic Studies at the university. Though we were a little rusty the event went well. Often people in such venues ask if the children receive instruction in their religion. It is important people know that all the children go to the public school where they receive the government issued curriculum in Islamic Studies. AFCECO also employs its own Islamic scholar that instructs the children on the actual and true content of their holy text. When people see the girls going swimming, not wearing their scarf or charda, when they hear the girls speaking their minds and their hearts equal to boys they sometimes believe these girls are drifting away and becoming unfaithful. There are two things that come to mind in addressing this concern: first, please remember how Islam in Afghanistan was hijacked by extremists and their absurdist interpretations of the Quran, men that washed their country in blood (and continue to do so) of innocent and faithful Moslem citizens for these decades after the Soviets left. Because of this the girls do not attach the accoutrements and so-called laws of Islam with being truly Moslem in your heart. These girls are very very modest, and find the way American girls dress to be equally absurd, as well as the almost naked women in advertising and on television. A second point to be made is that I can say the girls see themselves as Moslem, believe in the true teachings of their religion and are pure of heart, charda or no charda. They respect the traditions of the Mosque and follow these expectations within its walls. They are in my view the very people that will create a lasting strength for Islam, rather than dismantling it or rejecting it.

A great treat for us at was the arrival of another volunteer who I’d invited to teach some years before, Angela Nibler. She had flown down from Idaho to see the children. She came with jewelry she had made for all the kids, and great tears of joy at seeing them again.

The short week came quickly to an end and suddenly we found ourselves loading up on the bus and saying goodbye to my family. My father is frail and has suffered many health problems over the years. He was the one that along with my mother who passed 16 years ago made me who I am. He was always there for me. Always. Every night he came home from work and played with his five children. Every night he lay beside me in bed and read to me, about history, about science, about adventures at sea, Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery. He is still there for me. I owe him everything, and though I am not the one in the family taking care of him now, I know that his greatest wish is that I fulfill my dreams, follow that sunrise, make something happen in the world.

I tried to hide my tears from the children. They watch me like little hawks. Their silence was respectful, and the power of their love the greatest comfort of all.

Ten hours to Salt Lake City. The weather over the mountains couldn’t have been better. It was, all considered, uneventful and easy. We arrived at Sandra’s home by 8pm, another sponsor offering to host us and arrange a fundraising event.

Here was the first stop where the family had children all the same age as our six emissaries from the orphanage. They were all extremely polite, engaging and talented. Recitals on piano and singing were first order of the night. They all stayed home from school to spend more time with their special guests. The next morning It was a first experience with the trampoline. Eraj, after spending an hour bouncing around came walking into the kitchen exclaiming, “Ian, I cannot walk! I feel like I am still going up and down!”

Sandra planned a silent auction to raise money. This included dinner that was donated and a great assortment of products from quilts to artwork to gift certificates to fancy stores for people to bid on. It added another thousand dollars to the kitty, pushing us beyond $60,000. The people were so kind, and Sandra later stayed up late sewing blankets that fold into pillows for all of us to take on the plane with us back to Kabul. All too quickly our two nights in Utah came to an end. I’d planned the push East in five legs, breaking each up with two nights in each destination.

Our drive over the top of the continental divide afforded our first encounter with snow the entire winter trip. I pulled off in Glenwood Canyon, a most beautiful mountain river where plenty of snow carpeted the ground. I went to the bathroom and upon my return Mohsan asked me where to find the toilet. Something sneaky about his crooked smile as he snuck closer and closer to me. Suddenly a barrage of snowballs were flung at me from all sides. All out war. I believe Maria got the worst of it, snow down the back and all. Nasrin also got hit hard by Maria, an ice ball to the wrist. The sun was bright and the temperature was seventy. It couldn’t have been a more beautiful spring day. I subjected everyone to my John Denver collection the rest of the way down into Denver.

We arrived at our new host family’s home at 7pm, not knowing what awaited us. Halima and her Husband Wahid were both Afghan Americans. Wahid’s father had been abducted and killed by the Soviets before the family fled the country. We entered their majestic home to find no less than fifty people awaiting our arrival, a feast set out and a steam room all ready to go for the weary bus driver. The children fell right in, as there were a score of other children, many of them able to speak Dari. I held on for a while, helping Nasrin navigate the dozens of questions people wanted to ask. But our new host kept pressing me to try that steam room, and I could no longer resist. The driving was finally beginning to get to me, and my body was starting to break down.

The children stayed up to two in the morning. I slept deeply. In the morning I followed Wahid to get some errands done: some medicine for some skin cancer on my leg, a new gas cap (yup, I lost another one) and an oil change for the bus. Then we met the children and Nasrin at a hair salon where all of us, myself included got a free cut. We all agreed Lida got the most points for style. Then it was off to a pizza house and finally to another first experience: a professional sports event. The Denver Nuggets took on the Cleveland Cavaliers and friends of Halima and Wahid had reserved a box for all of us. This was a quintessential American experience. Of course Hala had to root (loudly mind you) for the visiting team. Why? “Because my sponsor lives in Ohio!”

Cleveland won in the final seconds. I was certain I’d have to sneak Hala out quickly as she whooped and wailed for her team.

I later was pleased to sense that the children really didn’t get blown away by all the pomp around the game, the crowds and balloons and cheerleaders and noise and signs and head banging music. They mostly were enamored with the game itself, how it was played and how the tide kept swinging back and forth.

The next morning we gave a presentation at a Denver area Rotary Club. When all the agendas were finished we only had a half hour. Everyone was so tired, I decided to take the lead on this one. The kids sang one song and recited one poem. I gave this group what seemed to be what they wanted, the story of an American volunteer in Afghanistan. So for only the second time in all our presentations I told the tale. Then it was off to the dentist, where Lida received a cap on her chipped tooth, again for free. Dr. Grossman made her tooth look like new. Lida began to smile again.

Another tearful goodbye, and we were on our way across the great belly of America, Nebraska. Omaha was our next stop. The great expanse of the plains opened up to the Magic Freedom Bus. Like an ocean.

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Gurbir Singh and her husband guided us through the tight gate to their castle-like home on the hill overlooking the El Camino Real corridor in South San Francisco. Here we would pause for three nights, including a fundraiser there at the house and a few forays into the city by the bay. This was yet another entirely new experience. Gurbir and her friends and family are associated with an aid organization Goodwill Without Borders, and they like to dance. In fact our presentation for the fundraiser was relatively beside the point, as the entire affair was scheduled to be a series of dance instruction courses outside on the tennis court. It was a wonderful stay for our Hindi film loving girls, especially when a vocalist who trains many of the Bollywood stars showed up and did some Hindi Karaoke with them.

For the Saturday event many of the Afghan community had followed us and joined with the eclectic group Gurbir had invited. It was truly pinch myself amazing to find all of us dancing just like in the movies, that aerobic Hindi group symmetry that is so infectious. Young and old, fat and thin, we all did it. Mohsan and Eraj were hilarious as they wiggled and jabbed their way through the moves. Hala was by far the most adept, but Maria and Lida quickly improved and only I and Nasrin were left behind, eventually bowing out to converse with some of the spectators. Then, after the third instructor one of the volunteers that I had invited to Kabul the year before arrived, Miriam, a Berkeley grad shooting for medical school. It was a wonderful connecting of dots and reunion. Another young Afghan American couple also arrived and together we hit it off, making further plans to spend time together.

The presentation went very well. Among the Afghans many tears were shed. Following this another talk show host for Afghan network television arrived to give us an on the spot interview. Other Afghans showed up with goods for the bus, especially the kindest man who had been going through a very difficult time with his wife battling cancer. He loaded the bus with juices and fruits and cakes and gave the children more and more gifts of jewelry and clothes. They all wanted to take the children shopping, so off we went to the mall.

The bus was already full to the brink with gifts from Boston to Philadelphia to Washington to Florida to Phoenix to the Gold Coast. I was beginning to wonder just how we were going to get everything home.

The next day we took the train into Chinatown, where we met the young couple and their little girl. In each place we visit I do not strive to “do” the city and all it has to offer. I only schedule things that compliment what the children have already seen and done. In this way we don’t repeat experiences but also don’t overextend. A cohesive population ethnically identifiable occupying an entire section of a city is something we had yet to see. You couldn’t get any better example than Chinatown. We took a trolley car from the Bart train to one end of the neighborhood and walked down the main street. When we saw the signs for 5$ T shirts we couldn’t help ourselves. One thing for certain, the children have become smart shoppers in America. Their favorite store by far was the Dollar store.

After Chinatown we met another sponsor, Allyn Rosenberg for dinner. He had invited a filmmaker from LA to join us, along with some other people interested in AFCECO. He had it in his mind to make a documentary about me, leading into an expose on Andeisha and AFCECO. To me, like the book I have just finished and am hoping will find a home, my story is beside the point. I do not wish to be the center of it, only the lens. Not yet another story about a westerner (always a white male) in desperation from his own life going to the land of the barbarians to save them, discovering himself instead. How many of these stories can we take? The name of my book is Undestroyed: notes from an American Volunteer inside an Afghan orphanage. I do not appear in it until page fifty-six. Periodically Ian disappears from the text throughout. It is, I pray, a different book about the heart of Asia. To me, watching Maria engaging with these people, asking questions, actively approaching her experiences as learning opportunities, this is the real story. Here is a girl who survived rocket fire, witnessed death and extreme poverty, the Taliban era and the complete loss of hope. Here is a girl embracing life like no other. Later Allyn noted how much he was impressed by Maria.

On our final day in San Francisco we said our goodbyes to Gurbir and her family and made our way to the Golden Gate Bridge. The vista set up for visitors at the SF side is indeed exhilarating. It was Lida who noticed the other view, a perfect sunny blue sky above the cleanest skyline in America. We discussed the island prison and some of the stories of the men that lived there. We talked about the time a very long time ago I left America for the first time, traveling on a ship that sailed out to the Pacific through that gateway. “It is true,” Hala yelled. “This is the most beautiful bridge.”

We crossed over and then wove our way down to Muir Woods. I had given the children to think these would be the biggest trees in the world, which they are not, so they were desperately looking for the one big one. We skipped our way through the trails looking, until we found one sizeable specimen that required all six of the children with outstretched arms to encircle. The forest is a place that still holds a lot of folklore for Afghan children, and with that a bit of fear. Fear of the darkness, of strange bears and wolves and beings. My hope was that this visit would inoculate them with the nurturing I feel from the woods, the holding close to Earth and the protection of Nature. I think to some degree this was achieved, as I watched them huddle inside a cavity of one tree that had been struck by lightening.

Now we were off to spend a night with Shokoufeh Hanjani, an Iranian American who for some years has been caring for an AFCECO boy, Khalid, while his unique medical condition is treated by curious doctors intent on getting to the bottom of it. Khalid suffers from a strange immune disorder. Mohsan and Eraj were terribly excited to be with one of their brothers from the orphanage. Finally they would not be so outnumbered! When we pulled up to Shokoufeh’s home the boys leapt out of the side door and flung their arms around Khalid who was waiting in the street to greet us. I remember Khalid from my first year teaching in Kabul. He was one of the small children in Sitara I. He remembered my classes, and even my lessons, which made me smile.

Shokoufeh had company visiting so most of us slept on the bus that night. It was a delightful evening with Persian cooking and deep conversation about Afghanistan and about America. Here was yet another re-mixed American family, with links to Paris and other places around the world. The children talked and shared stories and watched videos on Youtube. Shokoufeh and Nasrin sat talking late while I took time to be alone on the bus, playing my cittern, trying to form a new song.

What will it be? I have been changed by this journey, deeply affected. It is so easy to stop growing. So alluring is everything we know. I had once again abandoned myself to the unknown, this time with some of my Afghan family. I think perhaps this new song will be about these arms embracing the unknown.

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Santa Barbara was a stop arranged by another sponsor, Jennifer Shively. The pristine park and rows of neatly trimmed palms greeted us as we pulled the bus into this quintessential California Shangri-la. Jennifer and her good friend MaryJo met us with sandwiches and we spent the afternoon playing games in the park. The eight of us on the bus by this time began to feel the significance of this journey together, the closeness and the fact nothing like this has been done and most likely will be done again. As I instructed the six kids to make a people pyramid I felt our reconstructed family bonding in ways I could not have imagined. It is as if Nasrin has indeed become mom, helping them in ways I could never, the one they can confide in, the one they can communicate with best. I, the dad, am unpredictable and yet always there in a pinch. All seven of them have begun to worry about me a little, can he last, can he keep this thing going? I have made them to depend on me too much, a fault I must alleviate somehow.

MaryJo had not known of AFCECO or very much about this group, and had been wary of opening up her sanctuary to strangers especially since she had s few housemates to think of. But only a few minutes with the smiling, open, trusting, inquisitive children and she flung her doors open wide. She invited us to stay at her house in the mountains overlooking the ocean. This home is the most artistically designed I’d seen, a Spanish theme with pieces from all over the world. It felt like a sanctuary, nestled in the folds of the hills, with horses and landscaped gardens and the salty air. All around us adorning the walls, in the architecture was art and remembrance of MaryJo’s beloved sister who had passed away some years before. We learned about a different sort of love that can linger long after a person is gone. It was wonderful to see the light the children brought to MaryJo’s home, and to see them engaging at the fish pond, or the barn with the horses or surveying the gardens.

This was merely a rest stop on our way to San Francisco, but it quickly turned into a significant chapter. Many guests arrive the following late morning for a presentation that turned out to be one of our best. There was a famous chef in the audience that was kicking himself wishing he had time to prepare a big fundraiser. He said that he would invite some of the biggest celebrities that are huge fans of his cuisine and hold a $1,000 a plate event. Yet another thread for the future. Several sponsors showed up, and with each and every one we all told stories about his or her Afghan child. An important goal of this trip is to connect and solidify AFCECO’s relationship with its sponsors, and on this day we made great strides. It would be a dash to get to our next performance: north of Monterey by 6pm, so we actually had to say goodbye as soon as we were finished with our Santa Barbara show. Now we really are beginning to feel like a rock and roll tour!

Skirting one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world, the Magic Freedom Bus wound its way north another four and a half hours. Following the commands of our precious GPS, loaned to us by my cousin back when we swung through North Carolina, we arrived exactly at 6 o’clock in the evening, just as the crowd was showing up for our little show. Here again we were met by several sponsors. Our organizer and host Roger Aikin who sponsors two girls from my Leadership Workshop (Sosan and Sediqa) walked up to the driver’s side window smiling and applauding. “Timing couldn’t have been better!”

The Interfaith Fellowship Hall of Aptos was full of people, as well as reporters from two different papers. More gifts for the children awaited them in specially prepared bags of goodies. Among the crowd was an elderly gentleman that had been in Afghanistan with the Peace Corps back in the sixties. He told of how beautiful the country was at that time, and how much he fell in love with the people. This group of people were especially interested in the future and what is actually happening on the ground in Afghanistan. Everywhere people seem to realize they have been kept in the dark, only getting the revolving reports of embedded war stories and corruption. We gave our presentation and were then whisked away to Roger’s home. The girls would stay with a neighbor, the boys with Roger and his wife Wendy, and Nasrin and I would stay with a close friend of theirs. We were served a hearty Italian dinner and then given a tour of Roger’s collections. He has been around the world and his home reflects it. Especially impressive to the children was his impressive collection of chess sets.

These days of reprieve from sleeping in the RV are so valuable in terms of really getting to know people from all persuasions, all ages and backgrounds. Thus far the children have experienced such a wide swath of Americans they are beginning to realize one of the great things about my country: its diversity.

The next morning Nasrin and I returned to find Frishta hopping upon a skateboard and the others tooling around on scooters and bicycles, the two boys having dashed down a winding mountain road. Though they were having the time of their life I was simultaneously relieved none had broken a skull or elbow and annoyed I had not been there to monitor their activities. The neighbor was used to American kids and didn’t realize the extent these children fear nothing and lie about their ability to use these dangerous contraptions. I barked at the kids, “No helmets, no using. And no skateboard!” I was an ogre, but I just can’t let another incident such as Maria back in the Florida pool have a chance at making sudden tragedy.

This was yet another brief yet very full visit. Now once again we had to press on. This time for a noon lunch and then tour at Google corporate headquarters in Mountain View. We packed up, took our pictures and waved goodbye. The resilience of this crew, of the children with changing schedules and a grumpy dad, of Nasrin having to be on, on, on all the time with the children, managing AFCECO business, being communicative and magnetic with the hundreds of people we encounter and all their questions and needs, for all of them performing in so many presentations and having to live on such a strange American diet impressed me to no end. For me this kind of thing is not so terribly strange, it is indicative of the life I’ve led. For them everything about this journey flows against the rhythm of their life at home. Yet they do not complain, and they rub my tired shoulders and sing their songs and keep our little freedom flame alive and well.

Google is located in the shadow of Stanford University. We made a round of the grounds in the bus before settling on a spot reserved for us with orange cones. Around 32,000 employees, and dozens of state of the art buildings. Public art is everywhere, sculptures and places to relax. Two of the people on staff, Mary and Steve were there to meet us, both having chosen to sponsor AFCECO children after once visiting Mehan orphanage. We were given a full tour of the facility after a lunch that included the choice of food from around the world. Not too many people over the age of 35. I think the children were infinitely impressed that this could be a place where people work, where they seem to be so well taken care of. Nasrin and I spoke with our hosts about the need to pursue some diversification in funding for the orphanages. Quickly they came up with a variety of ideas. These are, quite obviously, idea people. Though they could only fit us in for a few hours, I know they are committed to helping us solve some of our problems in the long run.

Before heading to our next host, we wanted to drive across the Bay to see what everyone had been calling “Little Kabul”. In our minds it was a place that resembled a street in Kabul, a half mile of shops, businesses and restaurants all run by Afghan Americans, in the same way you see ethnically homogenous streets in cities everywhere. We were terribly disappointed as we drove into the main road of Freemont. It looked like Everywhere USA, fast food and chain stores and gas stations. There was only one Afghan grocery, and two small restaurants. We decided to buy some nan, at least, then we sat down in the restaurant to order a little food. Then in walked an older couple, relatives of Afghans we had met in San Diego. They had tracked us down somehow, and the evening was saved. The woman was so happy she cried, and made conversation with the children for an hour and a half about all things Afghan.

Something important transpires between the children and the expatriates they meet. Afghan Americans initially are compelled to save the children, to draw them into the fruits of their adopted home, to give them cash, gifts, food. Many ask about adoption. The children accept these gestures graciously, but they give no indication they desire anything from America other than support for their orphanage, and that they have no intention or even dream of coming to America, but to stay in Afghanistan, to become strong, to help their people there. This touches the hearts of the American Afghans so deeply as to produce tears of joy, of guilt, of yearning and of admiration.

Soon we would arrive at yet another household, this time Indian Americans in South San Francisco. The city so many people have told us is most beautiful in the country awaited us, and we were eager to see it.

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