In the end, the machine leaked water and was unusable. I loaded the machine up and headed for the bazaar again. This time I went with another office employee. He was not the official translator, but he spoke both Kurdish and English. My proficiency with the Kurdish language was limited at the time and the storekeeper spoke no English. Before arriving at the small store, I made my objectives clear to my translator: trade our faulty machine for a new one and, if that is not an option, get our money back.

At the shop, the owner – the man who sold us the machine – was not present and we dealt with another man. This man told us simply that he could not accept the machine and we would need to come back at a later time. My translator agreed that this was best, but I refused to leave and tried to work through my translator to resolve the problem, but my refusal to return was clearly out of the bounds of normal Kurdish politeness and I could tell he was becoming uncomfortable.

Noticing this, I knew I had two options. Acquiesce and try to come back when the owner was available or take charge of the interaction myself. I settled on the latter and proceeded to achieve my objectives without getting too far away from Kurdish social norms.

The shop worker told me that they did not have a replacement machine. I told him I understood. If there was no machine, I would take the money I paid. He told me that he didn’t have any money and that I needed to come back later. I told him that later was no good; I am here now. He said that there may be another machine in storage, but he didn’t have the key. I told him that I understood the situation, but I wasn’t coming back at another time and I wasn’t leaving without a machine that worked or a refund. He again suggested that I should return at a later time and I politely refused.

Exasperated by me, the shopkeeper turned back to the translator and told him that there was nothing he could do. He had no machine, no money and no keys for the storage facility. The translator relayed this to me, but added “He’s lying.” He told me he was “excited” that I would push the boundaries and proceeded to press the shopkeeper on his own.

The shop keeper relented and took us to the storage facility – for which he had a key – and replaced our broken machine for a new one.

In 2006, I spent six months in Iraq.

On the way back to the US, I stopped in London for a few days. My then girlfriend met me at the airport and we stayed with a lovely English couple at their home just outside the city.

I had spent a few months in London when I was in college, so I had already been through culture shock in that city and I knew fairly well what to expect. This time, though, I found myself comparing the English to Iraqis rather than Americans as I had the first time I was there.

The first thing I noticed was that the English don’t wear any clothes! It was July when I left Iraq and it had been well over 110 degree each day, but the men wore long pants and button-up shirts and the women were covered – if not head-to-toe, at least mid-calf to chin!

But the English – the first westerners I had seen in half a year – were basically nude. Men walked through the city shirtless with shorts on and the women had on small tank tops and barely-there shirts. It was crazy to me and a lot to take in.

My girlfriend, Angie, and I took the train into the heart of the city and wandered around for a couple of days. It felt like a vacation, so I didn’t find any need to necessarily adjust to the British culture by any means. I just visited and had a good time without worrying about who I had to be or how I had to act. I think that’s due to the vacation feel of the days as well as the multi-cultural urban sprawl that is London; it gives greater cover to misfit actions than smaller, less metropolitan locales.

On the second evening, I proposed to Angie in a park. I had the ring sent from the States sewn secretly in a pair of jeans that Angie brought over for me. I took her to Regent’s Park where we lounged before I surprised her with the ring.

In the park we were surrounded by Muslim families. Probably hundreds of Muslims were in the park that day. Perhaps even more, but I can only count the conservatively-dressed and covered as those are the only visual clues to one’s status as a follower of Islam.  I had spent months with Muslim-background Kurds of varying orthodoxies, so I really didn’t think much of the crowd surrounding us until…

When I popped the question, Angie responded as a normal western-woman would; with tears, hugs and kisses. She said yes, but in that moment of affection, my first thought was not of her, but of how “eybe” this was. Eybe is the Kurdish word for shameful and this type of public affection between an unmarried man and woman would be the highest form!

I hadn’t realized how much I had internalized the standard of the culture in just a few months, but Kurdish normal had become my normal and I hadn’t been alone with a single woman in six months, let alone kiss one. In public. In front of covered women!

The feelings of “eybe” quickly passed, but I remembered the shock of the feeling, the surprise of how natural it felt.Iit was the first of many confrontations between American me and Kurdish me.

But not all the time.

This can make it hard for you to process what you’re going through, but remember that everyone else was going something while you were gone. Give them a chance to talk too.

Give your friends and family a chance to ask questions. Share stories about your day-to-day life while you were gone.