Who's Elvis?

I share an office with two Afghan translators, Ahmad and Faraidoon. We have gotten to know each other quite well and spend a lot of time making fun of each other, comparing experiences and traditions and swapping slang expressions in English and Dari. Ahmad and Faraidoon are both fairly open-minded: they work with Westerners, have online girlfriends through Skype, and at least Ahmad will happily spend one-tenth of his monthly salary on a Diesel t-shirt and a pair of Levi's jeans. Our discussions at tea-time often go from homosexuality (which is surprisingly accepted here and merits its own blog post) to Russian beer to marriage and love. What they say could very well come out of the mouth of any half-liberal Swede or American.

And then yesterday, Faraidoon walks in with a suave new haircut and a clean-shaven upper lip (mustaches are standard here). It makes him look a bit like Elvis, so I say "Faraidoon, great haircut, you look like Elvis!" And both of them go "Who is Elvis?" Ah, priceless.

While giving them the Elvis 101 lecture, I pondered how easy it is to forget that these guys, seemingly worldly and modern, actually grew up with war, have seen their fathers fire rocket launchers, have been chased by the Taliban for possession of videotapes, and have never been further than Pakistan.