Secret Fears

Forty years ago I spent a summer in Kabul Afghanistan, graduate exchange students at the local University. Before the Russians invaded and all went to Hell. Eight of us there were, four men on one side, four women on the other, sharing a duplex -- the plan had been for each of us to stay with a separate family, but the Communist revolution had occurred, and no one knew what might happen next. Better, the Embassy thought, for us to be in one place, where we could have a guard and be monitored.


That made very little impression on me, and I spent many afternoons wandering the city alone, in every sort of neighborhood, nearly always greeted in friendly manner, or politely ignored. Never a serious threat. One evening a University professor stopped by and told us how awful things were, the pressure he was under, the lack of freedom of expression. But that didn’t stop my wandering and, against the advice of the Embassy, we even went on a three-day tour of the countryside. Some predictable inconveniences, like lack of plumbing and a sand-storm, but nothing else. Occasional army outposts, but no sign of violence.


It was all so easy, and, now, it seems so naive. To wander like that now in Afghanistan or anywhere in the MIddle East, openly American, would be inviting danger to the extreme.


I thought about that while in Eastern Europe last week, following my wife to an International Conference. Slovakia is a small, peaceful, quiet little country, a member of NATO. What’s to fear? I had a bit of a second thought, though, when I noticed the American Embassy -- it stood right next to our hotel, but was hidden away behind a tall wire fence, with entry available only through a fortified checkpoint. Local police patrolled in front of it, and no doubt closed-cameras monitored the site. The cops looked bored, and it occurred to me that they would be no match for a determined band of terrorists. And, if I were a member of a terrorist group, it might occur to me to organize and slip into Slovakia, overwhelm local constabulary, and seize a bunch of high-profile foreigners, especially Americans. Didn’t stop me from wandering the city or playing the tourist role, but that little voice did chime in once in awhile. I was careful not to mention it to my wife, lest she worry.


Five days later we were down in the Vienna subway at 3 a.m., on our way to catch a train to take us to the airport. No one else around, save for a drunk laying on halfway up a staircase. My pesky mind dredged up the scene from American Werewolf in London, when the werewolf finds himself in a mostly deserted tube station and chases down a terrified British businessman, following the screaming man up the escalator until they disappear, then end up in a bloody conclusion. My wife had never seen the movie, and I didn’t mention it to her.


When we got to the train station, the city was beginning to stir, people filtering in, but not many, and no sign of any cops or authority. I saw a group of four young men wander in. My first thought was an image of the Beatles in their pre-fame days, rambunctious and loud but essentially harmless. Then I thought of the movie, A Clockwork Orange, and began to envision of gang of toughs out looking for dangerous trouble. My wife knew nothing of the movie and I didn’t tell her.


Finally we were at the airport and made our way through the usual screening process, removing shoes and belts and emptying pockets, and answering routine questions from bored or jerk-like people. It occurred to me there that it would likely be easy for any determined group to cause great havoc there or somehow game the system. But I didn’t mention it to my wife. I felt a bit more secure in Amsterdam where groups of armed young officers wandered the airport, though they seemed a bit too casual for my liking. I didn’t say that out loud.


And then the long flight home, over the cold North Atlantic and the white mountains of Greenland, our lives dependent on the continued working of a complex system of mechanical operations that kept our huge metal tube in the air, knowing that at any point some sort of issue could arise. Again, my own silent fear.


And now I’m home, and it all seems like a lot of wasted fears. They never rose to the level of serious bother, never stopped me from enjoying the stay overall, but nonetheless there. My young Afghanistan self would probably look at that anxiety-filled old man and shake his head, thinking about how good life can be if you just let things go and stop worrying. “And anyway,” the young man would say, “that old fart doesn’t have much time left what’s he so uptight about? He’s got nothing to lose while I still have more than forty years to go if I want, and I’m not going to spend that time fearing what might happen.”


But that young man, for better or for worse, has merged into me, and now I sit here chronicling the years gone by and the here-and-now, not taking any future for granted.