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.
“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.
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