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.