Pushing while Flying

Pushing boundaries seems to happen naturally for me, perhaps because often I don’t realize the boundary exists, I subconsciously ignore it or I blatantly disregard it. This time it may have been a combination of all three.

Innocently sitting on the roof top terrace minding my own business, I was staring at the brown Heidi height wall, enjoying the warmth and quiet when a kite crashed at me feet. It took me so much by surprise that I stared at it in blank surprise like aliens had just landed.

I looked up expecting to see the head of a young boy peering over the edge looking for it. When none appeared and there was no tug on the string I grabbed hold and tugged. When there was no resistance, I started pulling in the string right to the frayed end. Stupidly and proudly grinning to myself I had captured a kite. Deciding to test it I tried setting it a flight on my own running back and forth on the roof to no avail. So, I tucked it into my room and thought I just want to fly it back and then I will donate it to the kids out on the street.

Kite flying has returned to Afghanistan since the fall of the Taliban who had banned it during their reign. I had not seen any yet in Kabul, but spring was in full bloom so the kites were out as if in celebration. At any one time, I would be able to count at least 20 flying high just from my vantage point on the top terrace. Made very simply from tissue paper or a plastic bag, the boys all over the neighborhood would spend hours flying and sometimes fighting their kites in the sky.

When Azeem asked the next day if I wanted to go to and visit a very secure park. I jumped at the chance to get out of the compound and then, bubbled out my story about the kite and asked if I could bring it and try to fly it. Of course, he said.

After making it through the security detail to get into the park, I walked through the gate and stopped in my tracks. It was all men, no women. Of course, it didn’t even occur to me that this would be the case, but made complete sense. In the past, they did have one day for women and one day for men, but the religious officials pulled rank and banned women completely from the park. Regardless, Azeem was totally non-plussed about walking in with me.

It struck me deeply on this trip to Jalalabad how blessed I am as a woman to have Azeem as our host and counterpart on the business side, but also the tourist side. Although he takes the security situation very seriously and is a pious Muslim he is still not afraid to stretch what most see as cultural limits – at least with me – I am not sure about with his own family.

(The Hindu Kush mountains from the park.)

The park consisted of some drink and food shops, a net ball turf pitch that was being used for a short field soccer game, a kids playground and a large grass soccer pitch that was empty; perfect spot to fly a kite.

Within moments of entering the park a small boy saw my kite and wanted it. Azeem explained to him that first we were going to fly it and then he could have it. By the time we reach the soccer pitch we had a small gathering of young boys in tow, like the pied piper. One of the boys grabbed the kite and went across the field to the maximum length of the string.

When we said ready, he let go and I pulled on the string. With the short length of string and lack of wind it was a difficult task to get the kite to stay in the sky but it was fun. It kept crashing and they would run after it and help me get it in the sky again or if they could catch the string before it hit the ground they would yank on the string to try and help me keep it in the sky. By the time we were done the kite was in rough shape, but they were happy to take off with it.

To my surprise and great pleasure the following day, Azeem eyes brimming with excitement came to tell me he had just gone out (leaving the training that was in progress) to buy a new kite and a proper length of string. “We will fly it at lunch.”

So, after the roof top lunch for two, Azeem joined us with the new kite and roll of string in tow. While tying the string to the kite he explained that when he was living in Peshewar as a refugee he would fly kites with his kids teaching them handling and sky fighting.

There is definitely a technique in getting the kite in the sky off of a roof with all the wires, trees and other buildings, and then keeping it up there. Even though it is made of tissue paper one has to take an overhand approach while yarding on the string in a forceful pull release motion to be able to capture enough of the breeze.

(Terrace flying with Azeem and the Heidi height wall)

When the tip of the kite is pointed in the direction that you want it to go you yank on the string and voila it follows your lead. Kite fighting is a different sport altogether. Another kite will come towards yours very slowly and if you end up in a fight you try to be the first to cut the other kites string - that was level 3 flying that I didn't graduate to - next time.

A few of the other men came to the flying terrace for ablutions before prayer when I was flying. One of them said please Heidi sit down. He thinks I am going to tire myself out and wants me to preserve energy, I think to myself, but nope. “Sit down or women in the neighborhood will see you flying a kite.” And what, cause a kite flying revolution?

Azeem and Pete, bless them, didn’t say anything and just let me fly. Combine the confines of my clothes, the security situation, my swinging honorary man status and being compound bound flying that little kite was exhilarating. Add that statement to all and the stubborn female fire inside me burned stronger which cranked my enjoyment factor. You put me to the roof to eat because I am a woman, well look what happens, I fly anyways.

(One of the many kite carcasses...)

A Gentle Man, A Muslim

“May I ask you a question?” I ask as my heart is stammering in my chest. As a woman and as a non-Muslim I am afraid I may be overstepping my boundaries, but I am hoping that either my foreign card will be a security pass or it is inoffensive to this man.

“There are the Sunni and Shia Muslims, right?” Yes. “The blue mosque over there,” I point in a direction over the man’s shoulder, “is it Sunni or Shiite?” (Now I can’t even remember – I think Sunni). “And the mosque on the corner is…?” Shiite. “OK.”

“So…what is the difference?”

Ah, he says, here is the real question you are meaning to ask.

Well, yes, I think to myself, but I couldn’t start with that one.

We are sitting eating dinner together as we, Pete, Shah Aruf and I, have done almost every night that we have been here. The three of us are the regulars and other guests that come to stay are the transient participants or observers to our conversations. We are all bundled up; Pete in his down jacket, Shah Aruf with his touque and wool blanket thrown around his shoulders in true Afghan style that makes it appear as if he was born wearing it and myself with my sheepskin boots and multiple layers on.

The two guests tonight are young men that seem fairly conservative and stick to themselves. The sense I get is that they haven’t quite figured me out yet or what they are to do with themselves while they consume their meals in my presence. I can feel pretty quickly when it is pushing men right out of their comfort zone to have me around and these two have my neck hairs standing on end; which is why I have kept my head covered as I try to squelch any further discomforts for all of us. Within moments of my question, they get up and leave the table, leaving the three of us to continue.

Shah Aruf takes a breath, as though diving in, reaches for a hunk of flatbread and starts to explain.

From my perspective fundamentally they are the same, Sunni and Shia. We believe in the same God. We believe in Prophet Mohammed. Mohammed came to earth to teach the people that men and women are equal as they both come from Allah. He taught us that all living things must be treated equally, that we must care for each other. We must treat all life with care, and help each other.

As he was talking, he would slowly take pieces of the flat bread with his delicately elegant fingers, methodically put them in his mouth and chew slowly. There was no rush.

We believe that we return to this earth. “You mean resurrection?” I ask. Yes, resurrection. “All things or just humans?” All things living return to earth after death.

It was after the death of Mohammed when the separation started based on the followers of Mohammed at the time of his death. But fundamentally, spiritually we are the same.

(After looking it up myself, I found that the division was political. The Sunni Muslims believed that after Mohammed’s death, the leader should be elected to rule the Muslim nation. The Shia Muslims believed that the leadership should remain in the house of Mohammed – like a royal monarchy.)

Then he asks me, are you asking yourself - why Muslim?

I kind of laughed uncomfortably, looked down, thought about it and then replied, “Actually not at all. I have never questioned why someone else chooses the religion they dedicate their souls to. I am just hoping to gain more understanding about the Muslim religion. And my question was more founded in why there is the clash between the two when they are both Islam. Kind of like the clash between the Protestants and Catholics.”

As the call to prayer started, I asked, “What about your prayers, what you pray about?” What we pray about is the same. Maybe some of the ways in which they are said are different, but what we pray for is the same. “What about the call to prayer? What is playing now?” This is the Sunni mosque call to prayer. It is the same, the Shia add a few extra lines into their call. “How often do you pray?” As Sunni, we pray 5 times, in the morning, at noon, in the afternoon, evening and night.

[Here is where I got a bit lost – whether it was lost in translation, his attempt at diplomacy or a combination of the two.]

What becomes difficult is the understanding of why we do certain things. In the beginning we would cover our bodies completely because it was cold. What we need to understand is people’s objective for wearing such things. Like, maybe I am wearing very dark clothes and you, he points to Pete, are wearing lighter clothes, and you, he points to me, are wearing a red scarf – but what is the reason behind wearing such things?

If we push that we all must be the same without trying to understand each other, then we have difficulty with each other. The problem is that the majority of Muslims, say 80%, do not understand or question why they are Muslim. Their father was Muslim, so they are Muslim. They do not believe because of faith, they believe because of the culture of their house. They do not question why they pray, or why they must go to the mosque. Pete and I both interjected that that is the case with most people in most, if not all, religions.

[It was this last bit that made me sit forward and want to dig deeper.]

We believe in heaven and hell.

“What determines if you reach heaven or hell?” You will make it to heaven if you believe in Allah, in all the prophets (not just one), in the holy Quran and the other literature that supports the Quran, as well as do good things, treat each other with love and respect, if you help one another. You must believe and do these things if you are to reach heaven. And hell, well if you do not believe or do such things that please Allah you will go to hell.

Sounds familiar.

At this point the call to prayer has stopped and I can see his minor muscles are starting to twitch as his faith calls him. But then I put two and two together and am confused.

Click.

“So, wait. You believe in heaven and hell, but you also believe in resurrection.” Here Christianity meets Buddhism; I never even thought to put these two tenements together for a single soul to aspire to. “So, do you have to reach heaven to be able to be resurrected?”

The question penetrates, he methodically nods and says, ah interesting question.

Yes, whether you go to heaven or hell you will return to this Earth. “Even if you do all the bad things, and go to hell you get to come back,” I ask. He smiled slightly, and replied, well yes. But God will have a conversation with you about what you did that was good or bad. It is a meeting with him to evaluate your life. “Judgment Day,” I say.

Yes, exactly. Judgment Day.

Regardless of which leadership they support, every Muslim I have knowingly met has met me with grace and kindness. While cycling through northwestern Malaysia in 2002, watching Osama Bin Laden photos taped to the back windows watch me as buses drove past, I have to admit the timing was unnerving to cross the border from Thailand. Quickly, I realized that I had nothing to worry about, in fact I felt safer and more relaxed without the drunks, prostitutes and drug dealers I left behind in Thailand.

Like all faithfuls, within the Muslims I have now met, there are varying degrees of piousness and liberalism. Now I am not sure, but I think I have met one of the most pious, ever, in my workshop this week. I can’t say for sure because I don’t have the guts to ask, but there is a man that has a dark grey and chapped callus on his forehead; right where it would meet the mat through his spiritual ministrations.

Although I watched him in prayer, I couldn’t see a difference in how he was praying compared to the other men, but that is only one time of prayer in five. They were all side-by-side on the green prayer mat that was provided by the hotel. Interestingly for me, it isn’t like praying all together, the same prayer at the same time in the church I grew up in or before a meal. They arrived at various times after ablutions, removed their shoes, stepped on to the mat and prayed at their own pace. At one given time some may be standing with their hands clasped together in front of them and head bowed lips murmuring prayers or at different intervals in the three times they do the motions of kneeling and touching their foreheads to the mat.

Sadly, what I have heard the most is about the violence committed in the name of Allah painting the Muslim religion in black; the news-making stories, the stories that paint Muslims and particularly this country with a wide swath of barbarism.

That is not to say that the stories of the violent action of some in the name of Allah are not real, and not so incorrigibly sickening and senseless making me feel like I’m being gutted alive. Has there not been violent action also taken by people in the name of most religions as some point in history?

Is it not blatant ignorance and prejudice to not accept that the fundamental belief of any religion, even Islam, is to serve its followers in helping us bring peace to our souls, to guide us to be better people?

So, maybe instead of asking what is different about the two factions of Islam, the gaping question that begs asking is this:

Why is it that, as people, we have to work so hard and need this much help from God (whichever one you are praying to) to treat each other with understanding, respect and kindness?

Honorary Man

Culture here runs deep in history, tradition, respectability, honor, trust and survival. Harsh climate and landscape, age-old tribal law, and religion have shaped the people in a way that I have not yet come across in my other travels. Through my experiences with them these last weeks I am changed and yet not completely surprised.

This past week, as a foreign woman and a guest, I was bestowed with a partial privilege of being invited into the world of Afghan men – and so became an honorary man. Infiltrating into this world is like seeing into the pope’s private chamber, at once scary, exciting and seemingly sacrilegious.

Every day, as the only woman in the office compound in Jalalabad, but more appropriately as a guest, I was welcomed, well… invited, to eat in the main room for breakfast and dinner. The epitome of man cave. The room was probably 10m X 5m, had at least 20 foot ceilings, tall windows along one wall and floor mats about office desk width set in a U shape along the main walls. Large stiff cushions were positioned to support our backs.

Before arriving in Afghanistan, I had read in The Places in Between by Rory Stewart that in the main room of an Afghan house, the most honored position in the room is furthest from the door. This was reserved for the leader/eldest man. From there the hierarchy spread in each direction along the walls.

If a man of greater status walked into the room and men of lower status were on the mat, they would all stand up and move closer to the door to make room for this individual. Sometimes there was even an argument if the individual didn’t feel deserving of the position, but the lower status men always thoroughly insisted and won. When the floor mat was full the rest would sit on the bare floor, their backs supported by the wall.

As guests, Azeem, Pete and I were along the wall facing the door. (Pete and Azeem were the woman buffers sitting on either side of me.) Once the meal was ready, one of the servers would come in and role out a large plastic mat that fit into the U of the mats and the dishes started arriving.

Small portioned plates of sabji (a vegetable dish cooked till they are limp and then swimming in oil), rice (that is also thoroughly oiled), usually a meat dish and of course bread – lots of it – dropped from up high so they slapped like a beaver tail on water as it landed on the plastic mat. Each person gets handed a plate, they tear their bread and use the pieces as we do cutlery – a vehicle to get food to their mouths. Subconsciously they would pick off the parts of the bread that were too crisp or burnt and toss them on the plastic mat.

Platters of apples, bananas or oranges for dessert would accompany every lunch and dinner. The peels and left over bits were also tossed on the plastic mat.

When the meal was sufficiently ravished often in silent masticating concentration, the servers would start, what was to me, a mesmerizing ritual. First they would collect the plates of left over food and used plates, piling any left over bread. What was left over on the mat were the bits of bread, crumbs, and fruit peels.

One of the servers would then sit on the floor mat with a cloth in hand and start wiping the mat collecting the bits together as far as he could reach from his seated position. He would then roll up the clean part of the mat moving the still contaminated sections towards himself. He would continue this from one end of the mat to the other, wiping, rolling, wiping, rolling. At the end, the pile was usually substantial, so to collect it he would lay one of the cloths on the carpet at the edge of the plastic mat and wipe the pile onto it. With the plastic mat cleared and the final portion rolled up he would put the mat away, wrap the pile up in the cloth and exit.

Once the plastic mat was cleared and away, the tea ceremony would start. “Without tea, fighting is not possible, “ an Afghan proverb. When Afghanistan was fighting Uzbekistan (I am not sure when) they joke that they lost that battle, because the fighters were supposed to engage, but insisted “first we have tea, then we will fight.” And in doing so, lost the battle. At least that’s how the story has been passed down.

A tray of mugs would be brought in with large pots of green tea, which was surprising to me that it wasn’t chai or black. The server would squat down and pour a small amount of tea into each mug, like tasting wine, swirl it and then dump out the contents, not like tasting wine. It was explained that this served two purposes, to warm the mug as well as extra cleaning of the mug. Each mug was then heaped, and I mean heaped, with sugar and filled. Mugs were then distributed again according to status.

Sticking out like a sore thumb is not hard in places like this no matter how hard we try to fit in. Special treatment just makes it more prominent even if the intention is to honor us as guests. So the white teacup with saucer instead of the clear glass mug, the glass plate instead of the tin one, the heaping plates reserved for us made me squirm from the start. Instead of making me feel more honored it succeeded in making me feel more uncomfortable; its not as if I would ever blend in, but at least it would make me feel as such if they were the same as for the rest.

How did this make me an honorary man? Well, women and men do not typically eat together, pray together or even marry together. There are always separate rooms. I am not certain, but I would imagine that in a normal household, the women would cook, but the men, or boys, of lowest status would do the serving and clearing for the other men.

Now, there are always shades of grey with cultural maneuverings particularly comparing one province to another or in city and rural contexts, as is the case in any country you go to - even in North America. Here in Afghanistan, the more conservative provinces, like Nangarhar where this story takes place, and in rural areas is some of the strongest segregation of women from society.

And this is what happened during the Jalalabad workshop every lunch; I was safely tucked away from the men.

Very diplomatically, one of the WET Centre staff, who I am certain was forcibly nominated by the others to broach this delicately, explained that maybe I would feel more comfortable not eating with all the men – like I said very diplomatic by making it about my comfort. Pete was still encouraged to join the men, but he graciously said that he was not going to leave me to eat alone (as I was the only woman in the compound). What a friend and a man, gasp.

Summarily stripped of honorary man status, I at first felt incensed and somewhat shamed by it. Even though I was fully aware that we were in one of the most conservative provinces of Afghanistan, being invited during dinner the night before and breakfast that morning, I was confused. Within moment, though, of Pete and I being set up on the roof terrace in the sun I felt a bit better. Although we couldn’t look out at the mountains due to the Heidi height wall, having a break with the sun on our face was a nice reprieve every day during the training.

Like all things, with time we can adapt to pretty much anything if exposed to it long enough. Like wearing a head covering and long clothes; I have in fact become so used to it that it has started to feel as if I am exposed if I am not covered. That’s also how I felt with the DACAAR men during mealtime; they were more used to having me in the room by the end of 5 days.

Although, it was probably more due to the fact that I was a guest and treated with honor and it wasn’t a cultural shift as I was not one of their women, so it was easier to accept for the time I was there.

And really the bulk of them had no choice, I was leaning on the honor wall.

The Expatriate Hyperbole

Back to Afghanistan 2011, Friday is holy day in Islam, so Thursday night marks the end of the workweek. The bar was packed. My seat was oriented towards the entrance and I was fascinated by who was walking through the door; trying to figure out what they were all doing here in Kabul.

Immediately crossed off the list were UN and Embassy staff, as they are not allowed to frequent these restaurants and bars due to security. In fact, I have been told that the UN staff, after a bombing at one of their guesthouses, are now confined to their compound where they work and live. When Pete visited the embassy last time, the Field Officer was quizzing him on what it was like beyond the walls of the compound as he had not been out there in weeks. How ironic to have a title like that and ask that question.

Can you imagine? Already I feel a little caged because I go from my guesthouse into a vehicle, drive 10-15 minutes to the hotel where the trainings are, stay there for 9 hours and then return by vehicle to my guesthouse. No walking the streets. Not enough space to stretch the leg or heart muscles. The widest open space that I have is the view from my room, or from the roof (and when I am up there I am conscious that I am a sitting duck).

Can you imagine living in a country and having no contact with the people and their life that is going on outside of the compound? Can you imagine feeling like every Afghan is going to shoot you? This particular sentiment is very real for some and baffles and concerns me based on the locals that I have met.

Back to the bar; Pete and I started predicting what occupies people in Afghanistan. A group of 4 very wide, a bit scruffy around the edges, well muscled men, my imagination decided, were contract killers. The group of mid 20s-30s group with their wide rimmed, 80s Ray Ban style glasses wearing ribbed touques pulled low over their ears and plaid long sleeves, definitely the documentary journalists.

Reaching fever pitch of curiosity, I finally had to ask. There were two groups I was intent on probing into. Right beside us a cluster of 6 or so we had decided were working with an NGO that we predicted worked in a variety of sectors. Two younger women right next to me were my target. Excusing myself by interrupting their conversation I asked what they were doing here.

“We work with the Tribal Society Initiative.” (I think that is what it was called.)

“What’s that?”

When they explained the areas they were working in, it was again gibberish to me. So they finally said, “Maybe we should be asking what you are doing here.” Water and sanitation, I stated without much more detail as I was intent on my mission.

PhD research was what they were doing. Couldn’t quite get the topics because of the din in the room, but the organization they are working with focuses on Tribal Culture, Peacemaking and Livelihood Preservation. What felt like the opening to a very interesting, intellectual conversation about their studies, interpretations and conclusions turned into a rant about their frustrations of living in Kabul.

On my right was an Asian American from Massachusetts that had just been living in Hawaii for 7 years. “How long have you been here?” Six months. “How long will you be living here?” I asked, assuming really that there is a time limit for all of us non-Afghans. “Indefinitely, “ she replied with a mixture of disdain and resignation. “My husband is an anthropologist whose main study is Afghanistan.” Ahh, didn’t quite look at that part of his CV as being important at the time, maybe?

By the end of her rant about the muddy streets and wearing so many layers of clothes, she concluded by saying “Don’t get me wrong, I love the people. They are strong, firm, proud, genuine, but at the end of the day I still have mud on my shoes.” Seriously? Seriously. That’s what it comes down to? Ah, perspective taking once again.

(OK. So it's a bit muddy.)

“What do you think of Afghanistan? Wait, how long have you been here?” they asked me.

Well, a week, I replied, and I think it’s amazing. I love it. Mind you, I explained, I am comparing this to Haiti and Zambia, not Hawaii.

On my left was a student from Holland that had been back in the country for just two weeks. After spending 3 months here the previous summer she had been in Holland since to organize her study project and had just returned to Kabul. Her rant – “It takes FORever to get ANYthing done in this country.”

Ah, the classic westernism of time.

One of the women in the training last week described her generation of Afghanis as a “restful” generation that likes to eat and discuss and enjoy life. We are happy to enjoy life. We like to work, but we are a ‘restful’ as well. The younger generation, she continued, seems much more motivated to live at a faster pace.

Which in the eyes of the Hollander, I would imagine, was still not up to her western standard.

As a Zambian once said to me, Westerners have it all wrong. You buy time with your technology, but don’t stop to enjoy it; you just fill it with more.

When you have a culture that has been here since, what feels like, before time even began, time has a different quality to it. It is one of the many aspects of these cultures that I truly enjoy.

I never did make it to the next group to determine what their function was in this massive political and cultural chess game. So, I promised myself that next time I would start my research sooner in the evening.

Contraband Ingenuity

Alcohol is illegal in Afghanistan; as it is in parts of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh.

Sitting in a restaurant bar on Thursday night did nothing to convince me of that fact. Somehow, alcohol has to be smuggled into the country and then the proprietors have to reach an understanding with the authorities and keep palms lubricated enough for them to turn a blind eye. The very bar we were sitting in had been raided recently, all their alcohol confiscated and a big fine slapped on them. Word on the street is a couple weeks later they were able to buy their stock back from the police. That might explain the exorbitantly inflated prices.

Once their alcohol stock was restored they would try to be more discreet in serving the alcohol so that if the police raided the place, the evidence wouldn’t be on the table in the form of a bottle. This is strategically done for example by serving wine in teapots, for they surely wouldn’t be able to figure it out by the red colored liquid in the wine glasses on the table or as I would imagine, from the shocked look on all the foreigners faces.

Up until recently you were able to buy alcohol from the UN stores, but “the UN is dry right now,” one DACAAR expat staff explained. Afghans with their guns are hired to protect the restaurant, standing outside protecting the entrance and then in the gun "locker room” where they do body and handbag scans and have locking 'safes' to store patrons’ guns in. Afghans are also serving the alcohol, but Afghans are not allowed in to the restaurant as customers. If you look like an Afghan you have to present identification to prove otherwise.

That’s not to say that Afghans don’t drink, although I haven’t actually seen any myself, what usually happens, as it did in North America during prohibition, is drinking goes underground. Publicly condoned, but privately treasured by the liberals. And liberal is what we decided the staff of these establishments must be or they wouldn’t work here. I might also comment that they may also feel a sense of freedom in being in that environment, away from the conservativism that rules the streets and public life.

Cycling in India in 2002 was my first exposure to prohibition. Alcohol? Illegal? It was so foreign to me and yet fit the state of foreignness that was in my face every day travelling in India. Not like we really noticed, at the time, as we were on a different mission than smoking hashish and drinking that many a backpacker was drawn to for the challenge and adventure that it provided in being able to procure this ridiculously cheap contraband.

On our way up the coast from Goa to Mumbai I realized ‘illegal’ just meant ‘underground’. We arrived in a village on the edge of a river that we were hell-bent on getting across instead of cycling 20 kms up-river to the bridge and another 20 kms back to the coast. We found some boats and waited for a time for a boat owner to show up so we could pay them to take us across. It was disturbingly quiet for an Indian fishing village with only one or two milling about and seemingly void of other inhabitants.

Eventually we got tired of waiting and started searching down the road for someone to help us. A few villagers, once asked, kept pointing us further down the road. Finally we reached a door that was open, but curtained, as were the windows. We could hear a number of voices inside, so we knocked and popped our heads in only to find a crowd of villagers, having a bit of a party, with their tables full of bottles of spirits. We managed to extract a boat owner from the party long enough to get us across the river after much convincing that it was worth his while to leave the party.

Although it is also illegal in Bangladesh, Pete explained that while he was living and working there it was very easy to get something to drink, particularly as an expat with diplomat status. With this status you had a gold card for essentially being above the law of prohibition. In pretty much every international hotel or restaurant frequented by the expatriate community it was available for a price as well as at the clique national clubs that were expat only meeting, sport and entertainment establishments; quite snooty for Pete’s taste but had it’s benefits.

Working as he was with many Bangladeshi locals, he described that they would have picnics as a staff. Once settled in their spots, the Bangladeshis would pull out bottles of spirits and thump them on the tables. Large doses of which were poured with a flourish into coffee-sized mugs, a hasty toast and gulped back all in one throw. “They necked the things as fast as they could,” he asserted. They would then hide the evidence away and sit there beatifically and three sheets to the wind, as if the picnic could then begin.

Another time, himself and two Africans travelled into the south of Bangladesh, where diplomat status had no meaning, but upon arrival the driver asked if they would like some beer. Within 30 minutes their rooms were loaded with cases of beer that he figures was smuggled from SE Asia somewhere, although he wasn’t sure what kind of beer as the labels had been scratched off. To prevent getting caught with the contraband in their houses, the locals would bury the alcohol at the beach. Over time the sand would rub the labels clean. This storage facility would definitely make building sand castles fruitful.

Once the beer was secure in their rooms they ingeniously hung the cans in front of the air conditioners to cool them off. Pete, nodding his head in appreciation of their innovation, declared that it worked quite well indeed as the beer was more than sufficiently cooled.

Now Pete was on a roll as his stories started to flow we moved on from Bangladesh and he took me to Afghanistan in the 90s during the Taliban regime's reign. A team member that was really only there to be a chaperone for the female doctors and nurses doing needs assessments. The poor guy would just sit there in the vehicle the whole time. A great position to be able to finish your PhD dissertation, was Pete’s take on the situation. Considering the guy didn’t have that to work on, to keep himself occupied he set himself the task of smuggling alcohol into the country. At first he was able to remove the panels of the car and hide the bottles behind them, but once the officials caught on to that he was forced to step it up. So, he started emptying and washing out the windshield washer fluid tank and fill it with spirits.

I had to laugh. Now is that really for the spirits, or the spirit of adventure in trying to outwit the officials? Well, it gave him something to do at least, Pete said with his Scottish lilt.

A Refugee's Adventure

February 19 - A few days ago....

My nose was cold. I was cocooned in my bed, two layers of thermals over my entire body, a touque and a luke warm hot water bottle, which I had had to get up in the middle of the night to refresh as I was feeling like a cocooned popsicle. My nose was the only part peeking out for obvious reasons, oxygen. I was starting to squirm with needing to relieve myself though otherwise I would have stayed tucked in. It was Saturday morning; I was in no rush to get the day going.

As soon as I left my room I was thankful for the little heat I did have. It was like getting out of a tent; you realize that your little fridge is better than the freezer outside. Oh how I wish they had a squat toilet; the toilet seat on the western style one is Freezing!

While Pete and I were hopping from foot to foot in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil for tea we watched as the thermometer on my watch descended to a mere 6 degrees. The 10 degrees in my room actually felt warm when you walked through the door, at least for the first few moments; a good example of perspective, which I tend to get a good dose of on these trips.

When Pete announced that he was going to have a shower, I shuddered at the thought. It’s one thing to sit on a cold toilet seat, another to stand in your birthday suit under cold water in 6 degrees. Even when, to my surprise, he said there was hot water, I still wasn’t tempted. The shower in Dubai was still a close enough memory to convince me to keep my clothes on.

Azeem, the Wet Centre manager at DACAAR picked us up around 10 in his car, which he pointed out was safer as it was a local non-descript blue car, Toyota Camry style; not the 4x4 Toyota Prado types that are like neon signs with bulls-eye targets. He drove us through the main part of town and then up to a park where we got out and walked.

The views from the park were not as they could have been due to the smog in the air, but enough to give some perspective of the surrounding area. Perched on the foothills around the city the houses were stacked high. They were fairly large looking flat roofed, rectangular and with plenty of windows. Some were plastered cream, blue or red, but most were left exposing the earthen or concrete structure, blending them into the hillside.

One of the first things I noticed leaving the airport were the grand long needle pine trees that I now see are scattered throughout the city particularly in the park areas. During the world wars in Europe I remember reading that the trees of cities like Paris were either victims of bombs or cut down for fuel leaving entire parks decimated, so I was surprised to see so many of them still standing here in Kabul.

On the walk back to the car, Azeem told us a bit about his story.

When he was an engineering student at the university of Kabul in the 70s he used to frequent the very park we were walking through with his friends, to sit, drink tea, smoke hookah and chat. When the Russians invaded in 1978, I was 1 year old, he was in his third year of study. Even with the invasion, he did manage to finish his studies, but by that time they wouldn’t hand out the diploma certificates. He explained that their fear was that if you received your certificate then you would be more likely to leave the country. Which is what ended up happening anyways.

Once he was finished he went back to his hometown in the Eastern mountains of Afghanistan living with his wife and children. As a man there was always the fear of being pulled into the war against the Russians and he was not willing to join rank. So, he started traveling, often 4 days by foot through the mountains, over the border to Peshawar, Pakistan to work. Here he was working for NGOs (non-government organizations) on design teams and often managing the construction of schools, hospitals and a mosque. In the summers, he would take a great risk to return to his family and tend to his crops, which he explained that in doing so helped him to have some of the best crops in the village as there were few men who did so.

It was a grueling trek he explained where they were carrying very little with them: a sleeping bag and two pairs of shoes so that when your feet were tired of one pair you could put the other pair on. During one of these treks in the winter, there was a large group of them travelling together, over 100 people; some travelling for work, others transporting firearms, some on horses, others on foot. Azeem, his two brothers, a few cousins and neighbours were near the back of the group and they decided to stop near a small stream to pray. The rest of the group kept moving along the valley.

Suddenly fires were being shot from over head at the front of the group and the back; Russians in white suits camouflaged in the snow.

Azeem and his group jumped up from their prayers and started running. Shots were hitting the rocks on his left and on his right. There was nowhere to hide. All but two of them managed to make it to a small gorge and jumped in. They stayed there through the night. The next morning more that 40 people had been killed and 50 taken hostage.

As he was telling the story there was a sparkle in his eye. Did they keep going, I asked? Oh no, we were not far from home, so we returned. It was adventurous times, he said with a chuckle.

By 1988, after years of leaving his family, trekking over the mountains to work in Pakistan, he was finally able to procure a truck to safely transport his family to Peshawar. For 17 years, they lived there for as refugees. During this time was when he started working for DACAAR – Danish Committee for Aid to Afghan Refugees as a senior surveying engineer of the refuge camp; mapping the camp entry and exit points, the alley ways and general layout.

Telling the story years later in the company of someone like me having never been shot at before it is a fantastic story that sounds crazy, scary and surreal. I would imagine if he was telling that story with a group of his friends that have lived through war, shootings, guns, battles, it is another one of those adventures that they survived.

Like technology, life is a collection of perspectives that develop and transform moment by moment– at a pace that I can barely keep up with.

Azeem and I at a closed down restaurant in the park.

Wind Under Mending Wings

"Experience indeed. Once it was ignorance, fretting over explosions and rapid firing weapons from the Shining Path but still getting a good night sleep. Now, experience, you just don't sleep."

A friend's response from my Ignorance vs. Experience piece.

And that is exactly how I am feeling tonight.

We were eating lunch during the first day of our first of four workshops. Myself and the three other women were sitting at a table together, which is expected since we are women. Breaking news: another bombing today in Kunar province, at a government administrative center. 30 killed. This is another blow after the attack on Saturday at a bank in Jalalabad, which killed 18.

“How do you feel about this as Afghans?” was my question to the three women. For the next 45 minutes the resulting conversation turned me upside down and backwards. I sat in the next session of the workshop, unable to concentrate, my cheeks burning at my ignorance that I blatantly left to flap in the wind in my last blogs.

“We do not agree with this. No person in Afghanistan agrees with this. We all live in fear. This is not right.”

“Why are there more bombings right now? Why do they continue?” I asked this after hearing that this is unusual for this time of year, nor are the soft targets they are choosing to attack.

“Because the Americans are still here. They (the Taliban) want to maintain fear. And they are. We live in fear every day.”

“How is that it took that Americans one week to take the country from the Taliban and now 9 years later they are still here and the bombing and attacks by the Taliban are still happening?” All I could do was lamely shrug my shoulders and say I don’t know.

“Where do the Taliban today come from? During the Russian occupation, like you said, they were trained and armed by the Americans, but who is supporting them now? Where is their foreign support coming from?” That is a really good question, and I hadn’t really thought about it in that way.

“Why do they (US and other foreigners) not believe that Afghans have the capacity to rebuild their own country? We can do this on our own; we are capable, intelligent, educated. We have the capacity with us.” I think she and I both know the answer. Money. Contracts for foreign companies is way to ensure the economic sustainability of those that have pledged the Aid; it's called the Business of International Aid.

“Why do they give the reconstruction contracts to the foreign companies? For example, a contract that is worth a lot of money will be put out to fix a series of roads. The contract will be given to a foreign company that builds roads of such low quality that the roads only last 2-3 years. Why, when we are capable of doing it ourselves?” Again. Money.

“As women, life is extremely hard here in Afghanistan. Women are still beaten, sometimes killed, and many are still not allowed to leave their houses.”

“Most of the people in this country are only concerned how they are going to find something to eat. Why must we live this way?”

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The hammer falls. ‘Luxury’ is what I wrote. ‘Calm’ is what I wrote. What was all the fuss about? I thought and wrote that too. My cheeks burn in shame and my heart squeezes.

Luxurious is what I Am living here in Afghanistan, where over half the 30 million Afghans live below poverty, meaning 15 million people are living below poverty. That’s hard to imagine, so instead, the next moment you are sitting at a table with a group of people, think that half of you are starving as you do not have "the bare minimum income to provide basic food requirements; it does not account for other essentials such as shelter, clothing, health care and education. That is why some times the poverty lines have been described as starvation lines." (Below Poverty Lines, Wikipedia) Living this luxury keeps me at arms length with reality.

Even when I tried to imagine this tonight as I sat to dinner with 5 Afghan men and Pete, I know I will never feel what it is really like to live with hunger and fear of starvation Every Day.

Calm I wrote. Well yes, it is calm. We are staying in Kabul, which has had large-scale efforts to make and keep it safe, but today, in light of the recent bombings and this conversation, it sunk in past my cognitive recognition to my center where I Felt that this is absolutely not the reality beyond the inner city sanctum of the Ring of Steel (a series of ANF manned security points that ring the city). And even within that ring it is not absolute safety either considering the two other recent bombings were within that ring.

Yesterday, I asked Azeem if he was okay, if I could help him so he wouldn’t be stressed as he prepared for the workshop (because I am always stressed the day before).

A former mujahidin commander (and now the Water and Sanitation Program Manager for DACAAR) who was sitting in the room remarked, “Why would he be stressed? He is not fighting, so there is nothing to be stressed about.”

Crack.

Talk about a perspective rearrangement for me, like a kickboxing blow to the jaw. After 30 years of war, the population obviously has a different tipping point for stress, or, on the flipside, for calm, than my sheltered Canadian perspective. Call it survival calm. Under this veneer of calm lay layer upon layer of deep scars of stress. The people in the city are not in fire fights fighting for their lives and freedom, but they have in the past.

(Call it stress Education for someone that manages to live in a high stress state when there is absolutely no need for it.)

Maybe I didn’t want to believe or feel the depth of the horrific things that I have read, particularly by authors like John Pilger and Kholed Hosseini, about human rights violations against women and minority groups, or about Western politics and money creating and profiting from the blood of Afghanistan.

Maybe I didn’t want to really feel that I am in a place where my life could just be a pawn in this sick political and financial game.

Do I feel like I am crazy to be here as I really start to feel the depth of this beast and my resulting confusion? Not at all. In fact as I meet the people and feel their heart, their passion, their intelligence and determination, the more determined I am to support them in their efforts; to support them by continuing to feed their intense desire for more information as they continue building their own capacity.

These women and men are the ticket for their country’s resurrection from the tyranny of the few who continue to capitalize on these years of war. Added to that maybe I will be an ear for them to express themselves and disseminate what they think and how they feel about what is happening with Their country.

As I write this I have written and then erased these women’s details and hopefully any identifying factor for fear of affecting their safety. Grounded or not, I do not want to put them at risk. Although they did not fear speaking out passionately, loudly, I realize that I do not in any way understand this beast and as a result fear for them.

But I will tell you this; these women are professionals (an engineer, lawyer and water and sanitation specialist) that practiced their professions before and during the Russian occupation. They then lived and survived the Tyranny of the Taliban where they were not allowed to leave the house without burka and a male family member escort; where they could have been persecuted and killed for the slightest misstep.

And now they have returned to work, to life.

Like being a bird who at one time knew the sky and the wind under its’ wings, even if you are caged and covered for years, once you know what wind under the wings feels like, you never forget it.

Kalashnikovs and Koffee

Kabul 1755 hours

After four hours of delirious and disorienting sleep, Pete woke me from my comatose state to meet up with Gerry, the expat Chief of Water and Sanitation with DACAAR. Once outside again, in the sun, it was noticeably warmer outside than in, which is often the case in concrete buildings without centralized heating – great in the summer, not so much in the winter.

The courtyard has hand pump parts stacked high, a little patch of brown soil, which must be the summer garden, their water well and a clear plastic tarp covered greenhouse. High hopes and excitement at having homegrown vegetables for our meals were quickly dashed and at once educating as to priority of the people tending to the greenhouse. For me it was also a cultural indication of appreciating beauty and fragility – it was full of flowering plants, not the opium producing ones but pots of geraniums and the like. As soon as the door was opened for us to peek in the waft of tropical humidity came over us, so much so that Pete’s glasses fogged up. A complete contrast to the cold arid air of winter, in an 1800m desert, that surrounded us.

Gerry picked us up in his car and took us to a local restaurant/coffee shop near his home. A tiny sign with small print identified it as such. A Kalashnikov totting guard opened the door and then closed it behind us. There was another gate before us and before we could move on we were asked to leave our guns. I want to admit jokingly that we had left ours back at the guesthouse so had nothing to hand over, but instead I remark that I have never been asked if I am packing a gun before. Once we had established being unarmed, they called out to another Kalashnikov totting guard on the other side of the gate who opened up the walled garden oasis. With the sun warm on our shoulders, we decide to sit outside to capture that warmth. Residual snow was still holding on in the shadows but a feeling of spring was in the air.

(Gerry is on the left and Pete is on the right)

On the menu was anything from salads to sandwiches to Mexican fajitas to pizzas. I was soon munching on a grilled chicken salad sprinkled with almonds, Pete was digging into huevos rancheros and Gerry the fajitas. Polishing off lunch we warmed up with lattes.

And I thought, really? This is what I had been internally fussing about? Gerry did point out that it is Friday which is the muslim Sunday so most people are home and shops are closed. But still, the energy in the air was anything but tense. Flocks of cooing pigeons flying overhead, chirping birds in the trees and a calm quiet surrounded us, well when the helicopters aren’t buzzing our heads, added up to a surreal atmosphere.

Haiti, I have decided, should be the first stop for everyone. After that every thing else is luxury. Running water, electricity, climate mediation (that being heat here), salad (in my first hours on the ground), lattes, wireless and quiet. Incredible.

After lunch, Gerry took us into the house that was the restaurant and inside were at least 14 young foreigners chatting in small groups, typing away on computers or quietly reading. Comfortably furnished and decorated I was struck that you could feel as though you are in many places in Asia besides Afghanistan.

Next stop was the supermarket, the sister market to the one bombed two weeks ago. There was a flurry of activity outside as they were beefing up the security of the perimeter and there were four guards outside that did a body scan for firearms of both Pete and Gerry. I was left to enter the market without the body search.

Once inside, I was amazed to see the stacked shelves of everything from tuna to peanut butter to canned vegetables, Kellogg’s cereal, an impressive fresh fruit and vegetable section, European cheeses, yogurt, a whole aisle of pet food, and wouldn’t you know it the glass jars of Starbucks Frappaccino. I actually had to take a picture. This market rivaled that of the one in Ndola, Zambia that we shop at for foreign food.

(Seriously? Seriously.)

After purchasing some nuts, dried figs, the small hard ones I used to get in China, milk for tea, some muesli for my breakfast (they do say that a meal in Afghanistan is not complete until you have bread so I figured I needed to arm myself with something I can eat), and Pete’s tea time bikkies (he Is a Scot) and chocolate. There were scores of young men working in the store that were quick to say hello and help when I was looking for something. I had already remarked to Pete how beautiful the people are, particularly the men, and my first sense is now being perpetually validated. Now, don’t worry I have no motivations for love here, but their high cheek bones, clear skin, dark to light brown hair and sometimes green or blue eyes are hard not to take note of. Everywhere I look I wish I could take pictures of them up close to share them with you.

As I finish off my first day here I can see the moon from my desk presenting itself like a link to home and here the call to prayer like a lullaby. It is now 10 degrees in my room and my hot water bottle is calling me. The dogs have just started up…now that is common to the developing world no matter where I have been, South Asia, Africa, Haiti and now here. Though, I have a feeling nothing will keep me awake now.