Interlopers (like myself) hear this phrase repeatedly and ubiquitously in the Muslim world. Situation: You’re embarked on some enterprise or journey in the presence of Muslims, and things, whether great or small, are going wrong. Sometimes the difficulty is obvious and, from your perspective, undeniable. Sometimes it’s just a hunch you have. If you express worry, however obliquely, your keen-sensed companions will notice. And, whatever the true degree of severity, their Muslim response is likely to be “No problem.”

Often the phrase comes in English from otherwise non-English speakers. You sense, unnervingly, that they’ve had occasion to practice. The sentiment flows even more freely in Muslim languages such as Pashto, Persian and Arabic. “Problem” in these tongues translates as some variation of the Arabic mushkel which in turn is rooted in shikaal or hobble used by herdsmen or caravaneers to limit freedom of livestock. Typically one of four legs is restricted, and the animal can’t move far. For bipedal humans, “hobble” problems can immobilize you completely.

Thus “No problem” or “Mafish mushkela” (heartland Arabic version) means not to feel hobbled by worry. Things, the speaker is assuring you, will be fine – are fine – whatever temporary blips. It’s precisely when this phrase is used that I feel least reassured.

Once, in Persian-speaking Kabul, my visa renewal application was unexpectedly and inexplicably denied. Much rode – or seemed to ride – on the decision: a whole year’s scholarship and sustenance when, as a graduate student, I was already living on loans. “Mushkel nayst,” the official said at first, despite knowing that the matter was decided and that I’d soon be gone. (Deferred outcome: an all-expenses paid year at Oxford to write my dissertation.)

“Mushkel neest,” said the auto mechanic in Herat where Persian is Iranian-accented and where my VW camper needed minor repairs. I returned, as directed, three hours later to find the entire engine in pieces on a dirt floor. “No problem,” said the shop owner, now accompanied by a full pit crew, “we’d never seen a carburetor quite like yours and, well, one thing led to another.” Two (seemingly) wasted days later, I was on my way with no problem. (Deferred benefit: prior and invaluable knowledge of Herat when I tried to circumvent Taliban restrictions in humanitarian work 27 years later.)

“No problem,” I told my mother in mid-Khyber Pass at 5 p.m. when a tire blew and there was no jack (contrary to my earlier reassurances) in the luggage compartment. Mother muttered and stared into the gathering dark whence, to her added concern, a half dozen armed Afridi tribesmen appeared. “Moshkil na-di,” they said in Pashto while changing the tire with one adjustable wrench and utter disdain for our offer of payment. (Immediate value: Brief respite from maternal muttering.)

“Mafish mushkela” and then “pas de problem,” said the lead camel drover as I lay, bucked from one of his beasts, on the rocky desert of southern Morocco. Standing was impossible, let alone walking. Well and truly “hobbled” with (later diagnosis) three broken ribs, I could barely crawl to the faint shade of a bush which the drover called “this great tree.” Sticks were gathered, a tiny fire lit, and tea set to brew. I’d had my share of tea in the Muslim world – seemingly several hundred thousand cups – and believed that I knew what tea could and couldn’t accomplish. Tea alone wouldn’t get me anywhere, and the oasis was five miles away. I said so, with considerable force, but had no alternative except to lie there and wait for the tea to boil. With much repetition of “No problem,” a cup was poured and, from the folds of someone’s robes, a packet of hashish was added. (Extra-legal result: I walked the five miles with no pain, and my companion, now likewise ambling slowly on foot, found a Neolithic axe head among the trillion-odd pieces of stony rubble along that ancient track.)

Fast-forward to last week as I stood last in the airport immigration line of an Arab capital much in the news. Last because, despite prior assurances, I knew there would be a problem. My passport was valid and my entry visa was for real … but so were the two Taliban visas from a year earlier and several Pakistan visas dating back a problematic half-decade. Correctly and in cooperation with the United States, the country I now wished to enter was concerned about al-Qaida escapees from Operation Enduring Freedom.

I handed my passport to the immigration official. He looked at it casually, then closely. Then he looked at me … and we both began to giggle. It would, we both knew, take a while. “Sit over there,” he said. “I’ll keep the passport.” Then he smiled again and said, “No problem.”

I sat and sat some more. Phone calls were made in an office with three phones and a short wave radio. I showed the officials a special letter and provided a cell phone number. More officials arrived of different ranks and different branches of service. I was asked to sit outside where I’d be “more comfortable.” More smiles and more “No problems.” I spoke by cell phone with the man who had invited me to come. As luck would have it, he was meeting at that hour with a government minister who promised to call the airport. My friend excused himself from the meeting to call me back. “No problem,” he said. The minister was organizing the necessary airport call at that moment.

In fact, it took several more moments, but ultimately there was, indeed, “no problem.” The immigration officials had acted exactly as they had been told … and as they should act in the aftermath of Sept. 11. Later I learned of the minister’s reaction when my friend returned to the meeting.

Ministries are serious places, not given to random levity, but the evening’s events had evoked considerable merriment. My friend found the minister and his associates in stitches.

The best humor, here as elsewhere, depends on irony. And here, after all, it was the Americans who support this government so strongly in the common effort to hobble terrorists. Now it was an ordinary American, not an al-Qaida operative and not even a national of some suspect state, who’d arrived with all the wrong travel CV. The government was doing its best [by all reports, doing it well] and luckily I was “no problem,” but how funny that an American had tripped the American-assisted counter-terrorist alarm!

Anyway I’ve made it past the guards and out of the airport. (Deferred consequence: Stay tuned for further on-the-road No Problems in the Bangor Daily News.)

Dr. Whitney Azoy, a cultural anthropologist and former U.S. diplomat in Kabul, has worked for 30 years with Afghanistan and the Muslim world.