Memorial Day 2024

I have learned much since the days described below.

I am a child of God and Jesus mounted a rescue operation and saved me.

I now know, that I MUST redeem the time He has so graciously given me by reflecting His love back to Him through others.

Forgive me, when I fail.

This will be the last year that I mourn for those lost in the wars that I participated in. Instead, I will honor their memory by living the type of life that their sacrifice is worthy of.

I no longer feel pride in how I fought…but I no longer feel guilt or shame either.

Malik Noor Afzhal or “Sitting Bull” as he became known – was a good and honorable man who showed extreme courage and bravery in the face of darkness and uncertainty.

I loved him as my father and he loved me as his son – in a time of war.

I miss him more than words can say but many wonderful people are honoring his memory by helping those he left behind.

Sitting Bull…I love you so very much and I will see you again – soon. In the meantime…

ONWARD.

MONTHS LATER, WINTER BROUGHT the first dusting of snow on the mountains around Mangwel. Noor Afzhal, his wooden cane in hand, watched a group of workers as they lay one stone upon another, building a new qalat. To everyone who asked, he said the same thing: “You’d better not give me any trouble,” he said. “Jim is coming back to live here.” Yet by the beginning of January the air was so cold it took a man’s breath away. Soon afterward, the cruel winter winds stole away the body of one man, and the spirit of another. On the chilly evening of January 11, 2013, at about nine o’clock, I received a call from Imran. It was the middle of the night in Jalalabad. “Just a few minutes ago, I got a call from Asif in Mangwel,” Imran said. “Sitting Bull has passed away . . . a stroke.” I closed my eyes, no longer hearing what Imran was saying. I saw Noor Afzhal’s jaunty wave from the back of the motorcycle, his boyish smile when he arrived at the qalat holding a bouquet of flowers for me, and his wise determination as he stood tall and spoke to the American soldiers and Afghan tribesmen, hoisting his cane to underscore his words. When I told Jim, he bent over, put his head in his hands, and collapsed into sorrow. His body convulsed, his sobs so violent that I worried he was casting off whatever it was that held him together. We wept, and then I helped him slowly to his feet. I guided him to the door, threw a jacket over his shoulders, and stepped with my arm around him into the bitter, moonless night. I had to keep him moving forward, so we just walked, saying nothing. One foot in front of the other. From that day on, each night I lit a votive candle in front of a framed photograph of Noor Afzhal and our fractured family. In the picture, he smiled as he sat next to Jim, me, Dan, Abe, and Ish outside the kitchen of the qalat in Mangwel. Jim’s hand rested comfortably on the older man’s knee. One by one, the candles burned and melted.

Ann Scott Tyson. American Spartan: The Promise, the Mission, and the Betrayal of Special Forces Major Jim Gant (pp. 355-356).

Our first meeting…early 2003.

We are together – again…2010.

The end was nearer than we knew…2012.

Together We Transform – always, ALWAYS TOGETHER.

Jim

John 13:35