On July 28, while in Istanbul, I received devastating news via WhatsApp: my friend Wali Ahmad Habib had passed away. The message came from a friend in Virginia, who relayed that Wali had died in his sleep, likely from a massive stroke. The details surrounding his death remain unknown, and out of respect for his family, I’ve chosen not to ask further.

Wali and I served as interpreters in Herat, Afghanistan, but even among us, Wali stood apart. Initially, we were merely acquaintances—a connection that lingered until both of us made the journey to the United States.

Wali returned to Afghanistan as a Category II combat interpreter with the U.S. Marines in Helmand Province. Over time, our causal relationship deepened into a true friendship, sustained by Facebook messages across time zones. Wali took immense pride in his service to the Marines and, by extension, to the U.S. military. He often downplayed our contributions, insisting that the opportunities granted by living in America far outweighed the service we gave. Though he dreamed of serving in the military as a soldier, his immediate priority was settling his wife into their new life in the United States. He wanted to ensure she was well-adjusted before pursuing that ambition.

There is a largely overlooked group in America: Afghan combat interpreters like Wali, who served alongside U.S. troops throughout the Afghan conflict. These interpreters have extensive combat experience. Men like Wali were not only fluent in Afghanistan’s languages—critical to the survival of Marines on the ground—but also became skilled in the weapons of war, playing pivotal roles in the fight against terrorism.

Wali was a brave man, unflinching in his loyalty and readiness to sacrifice his life for the Marines he served with in Helmand. Although the U.S. government has rightly relocated many of these individuals to America, much more needs to be done to support them. As a soldier, I’ve benefitted from services designed to heal the scars of war. But interpreters like Wali, who face the same demons of depression, anxiety, and trauma, are often left without similar support.

I write today not only to remember a dear friend but to acknowledge the successful life he built. Wali came to the United States over a decade ago with little to his name, yet he quickly began working diligently toward a better future. He earned a Bachelor’s degree and had just embarked on a promising career as a terrorism analyst when fate cruelly intervened, cutting his life tragically short.

Though Wali passed over a month ago, his absence lingers—creating a void in my life and in the lives of everyone who knew him. What is it that pulls me back to thoughts of him? Is it the jarring realization that someone so young and full of promise can be taken without warning? Is it the memory of a war that has faded, of which Wali was an integral part? Or is it the thought that, despite not seeing him often, I knew he was always someone I could rely on? Friendships like ours, forged in unique circumstances, are rare. They take years to develop—if one is fortunate enough to find them at all.

War has a way of forging bonds, unlike any other experience. Wali was a product of Afghanistan’s war, a conflict in which hundreds of thousands of American soldiers served. Each soldier has their own memories of Afghanistan and its people, and for me, the war will always be framed through the lens of interpreters like Wali—the unsung heroes who risked their lives to make their country a better place.

The Roman poet, philosopher, rhetorician, and humorist Marcus Tullius Cicero wrote in his treatise on friendship that true friendship can only exist between good men—those “those whose actions and lives leave no question as to their honour, purity, equity, and liberality; who are free from greed, lust, and violence; and who have the courage of their convictions…[and] to the best of human ability they follow nature as the most perfect guide to a good life.” These values were the very essence of Wali. He was a man of honor, integrity, and courage. He lived well, he did well, both for his homeland and for the country that adopted him.

May our paths cross again one day, my friend.