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.