At the end of the day, after all of us had been herded back into the sleeping quarters, most of the Afghans huddled at one end of the dimly lit hut in a circle. Two of them stood facing me, apparently to block my view. Not that it mattered. I did not speak their language. In hushed tones, they talked, debated, argued, and gestured with their hands and arms.
They spoke quietly enough that any guard listening from the outside would not be able to hear them. They surely didn’t want to share their discussion with the enemy. But I was also the enemy, another American. Yet the Afghans must have decided I was not a threat to them. They must have decided that I was not a spy amongst them, that I was truly a prisoner just like them. Maybe I was not entirely alone in here after all.
After a lengthy discussion, the group dispersed. The Afghan who had taken a beating in the field for me glared in my direction. Whatever they had discussed, I interpreted his glare to mean I was part of it. I just didn’t know what my part was.