The case of the overdue...

Hello dear friends and family...

I have reached an all-time record of blogg-negligence. And as negligence goes, the longer it is extended the more difficult it is to face. Anyhow, I'm going to try and commit to shorter, more frequent updates from here on out (enshallah).

I've been back in Kabul now for over a month, and after a few weeks of strange transition (wondering why I had left the land of freedom and beaches to that of curfews, travel restrictions, dust, and a rudely approaching winter) I have now settled back into a life in which in I feel authentic, and privileged to be a part of.




Work has continued on well with the Ministry of Health, combining old projects with a smattering of new ones. Meanwhile, I'm attempting to write my Master's thesis throughout the mayhem of work (slightly poor planning on my part). I'm writing my thesis (technically closer to a long paper, as it doesn't require original research) on using what we know about high-risk groups to HIV transmission in Afghanistan to postulate the extent of an HIV epidemic in Afghanistan, and how that should guide national surveillance and program efforts. Though currently only around 200-300 cases have been reported, a estimate of closer to 2,000-3,000 is thought to be HIV positive. So many days pass thinking up creative ways to collect information on injecting drug users, commercial sex workers, truckers, returning refugees, migrant workers, and MSM (men who have sex with men) in Afghanistan...which can be quite the tricky task.




Upon my return, I've started Dari (the Afghan version of Farsi...or, as Afghans would say, the basis for Iran's Farsi) which has been a delight. I appreciate the doors it has opened and the conversations and perspectives I'm able to have and hear because of it. I've made a habit of practicing Dari during our lunchtime break, sitting in the sun to soak up what remains warm in Kabul. In practicing simple questions like "where were you born?; when were you born?; do you live in the same house that you were born in?" and others taught during my Sunday lesson, I turned to my Afghan colleague to practice the question "When is your birthday?" to which he replied (in English), "We have more pressing issues in Afghanistan." Hmmm...so much for a lighthearted language practice.

The photos above are from a few Kabul excursions:
1. Kargah Dam, just outside the city 30 minutes or so
2. Istalif, a village about an hour and a half outside of Kabul known for it's traditional craft of pottery.
3. Babur's garden, inside Kabul. They say Kabul has the highest concentration of airborne fecal mater in the world. The haze in the background may give evidence to such.


Post Script. More substantive thought is promised in future updates. But I feared that if I didn't write today, it would simply never happen.

Thanks for listening...

Considering it's been a month...again

Thought I'd give a short update:

I left Kabul at the beginning of September to enjoy nearly a months long vacation in the states. I've spent most of in in California, but also had the chance to visit my wonderful sister, brother-in-law, and miniature zoo (in their house...yes) just this past week.

I've decided to return to Kabul for at least the fall to finish our project with the Ministry of Public Health as well as to potentially look into other contracts.

Will be giving a more detailed update soon...but wanted to at least provide a "where in the world ARE you?" update and hello.

Hope you are well...

Afghan Weddings

Imagine entering a giant Easter basket…though to enter you must walk up five flights of stairs decorated with neon orange and blue flashing palm trees. “Paris” Wedding Hall (which now reads as “Pars” due to a seemingly permanent electrical problem) sits on the outskirts of Kabul among a row of similarly alarmingly decorated wedding halls. With the heat and (relative) electricity of summer comes waves of weddings, an event which hoards hundreds of guests…family (loosely defined), friends, neighbors, colleagues, friends of families, families of colleagues, neighbors of friends…you get the idea.

After hiking up five flights of stairs, you are hit with a sound wave only appropriate for a concert at Red Rock and a room full of…women in 80s style prom dresses (no joke). Hundreds of women whirl around the top floor-wedding hall with curled hair up-does and glittered arms, eyelashes, and hair to match their sequenced dresses. In this nearly entirely man-less crowd (wedding ceremonies and celebrations take place in completely separate rooms for women and men) women are free to expose arms, legs, upper-chests, shoulders, and the likes.

The combination of the brightly colored guests with gaudy and gargantuan chandeliers all swinging chaotically in front of the pastel green-walled backdrop can only be appropriately interpreted as a transportation into a titanic Easter basket.


At my second Afghan wedding the other week, I passed the night away dancing to a mixture of Arabic pop music and Bollywood hits…a task typically dominated by single women seeking the attention and approval of potential mother-in-laws (a dynamic only pointed out to me days following the wedding…no wonder I had such a wonderful reception by so many of the women!☺) The hilarity of the dress-code and the hall preparation aside, weddings are a wonderful chance to actually interact with Afghan women rather uninhibitedly. A large proportion of the guests had spent time in Pakistan as refugees, which meant I could blunder away in Hindi in hopes to find something comprehensible in Urdu. The guests were overwhelmingly welcoming, intrigued and eager to discuss the state of Afghanistan, the USs involvement, and what it will take as individuals and nations to move this country into a place of stability.

Panjsher Valley

Beautiful, beautiful Panjsher.


Munching on fried fish which followed a full portion of naan covered with Pakistani cream...I think this meal will unfortunately stay with my digestive system for quite some time.




Rahim...our driver for the weekend and a good friend. He noticed my love affair with melons over the weekend (unlike anything I've ever tasted in the states) and, with a sincere smile edging on laughter, would bring freshly cut melon to us by the river for our afternoon tea break.

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Despite the dust streaming into the open windows of our blue corolla (which quickly turned my white salwar kurta a golden brown) I sat, jaw completely agape. Scurrying along Afghanistan’s main “highway” north (an unpaved 1.5 lane road), we raced the snake-like river carved into the jagged mountain ranges of Panjsher Valley. Nearly comatose from the beauty, Kabul (only 3 hours south) could not have seemed farther.*

*Security note: the road north of Kabul is quite safe; light years different from the ones running south.

Panjsher Valley, renowned for both it’s physical beauty and one of the only areas never controlled by the Taliban, was the chosen destination for a short work trip. Despite the physical beauty of this place, the historic reality of war was painfully visible. Old Soviet weaponry (literally covering the entire valley) jarringly integrated into currently used infrastructure: an old Soviet Tank, rusting in a nearby stream, now used as a fishing platform and picnic bench; sections of 1970 Soviet Fighters spotting the hillsides with segments removed for building material; and shipping containers converted into shops, grocery stores, and schools. A rather rugged, and eerie, illustration of survival.

Photographs and icons of Masood, the herald Mujahadeen from Panjsher killed by the Taliban only days before September 11th, 2001, decorates houses, clinics, shops, and roads. Now seen as a national hero (to many), Masood is also recognized as a leader in women’s rights, where the Panjsher Valley was one of the only areas where girls education has remained fairly uninterrupted.

We visited a number of health facilities included in our health survey to both settle logistics and help maintain a more contextual understanding of the information we gather, in hopes to bridge the context with the health programs/policies we attempt to guide. Working from Kabul on a policy-concentrated project, it is easy to get bogged down with numbers, program plans, analyses, etc., forgetting the stories and faces which these policies and programs supposedly impact. Roya, a 20 year old Nuristani, placed these stories back center where they belong. Having traveled for over two days (presumably by donkey) to reach the health clinic, Roya sat muted by fear with her 18-month-old daughter, who (by weight and size) looked closer to 6 months. This 5 room health clinic, carved into the side of the mountain, was one of the best sources of care for miles around.

Kabul Complexities

Driving into Kabul city from the countryside makes the city’s numbers (frequently quoted by journalists, demographers, political analysts, and the likes) disappear from importance….the landscape says it all.

The hillsides are covered with makeshift housing…quick-builds replacing the houses destroyed over 25 years of war (1 out of every 3 houses were destroyed during they decades of war) and meeting the needs of the millions of returning refugees from Pakistan and Iran annually.

In the past 6 years, Kabul’s population has burgeoned, with only small gains in the physical size of the city. Though this phenomenon is widely understood, actual figures on Kabul’s population is difficult to come by. Population estimates range from just over 3 to nearly 5 million, shedding light on the lack of quality information about city demographics and needs. With basic information such as population lacking, one can only imagine how difficult it must be to create and run systems of education, sanitation, health, governance and the likes.

To complicate issues further, Kabul’s artificially inflated economy (resulting from the large ex-pat presence among other factors) places rent (alongside household needs/commodities) at exorbitant rates. Despite an annual per capita of around $360, a 1 bedroom apartment in Kabul averages at $200 per month (compared to $7/month for a 3 bedroom home prior to the Soviet invasion...and thank you BBC for the quote!) Consequently, families often live together, pooling incomes to make rent.


**The above picture is taken from an IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camp on the outskirts of Kabul. No matter how long I live here, I don’t think I’ll ever get over the shoe choice for women. It seems if I could imagine and manufacture the worst type of footwear possible, practically speaking, for this terrain (under a burqa no less) I would have created the local shoe market.

The Penthouse View...in all her glory.

You can see the side of my penthouse on the right portion of the second photo. Many afternoons are spent reading and evenings chatting away with dear friends on this rooftop. As you can tell...the view from our rooftop (and consequently my room) is simply stunning. Unfortunately the penthouse quarters, made from the clever combination of tin and glass makes the room act strikingly similar to an oven. As long as I avoid my room from the hours of 10 AM to 4 PM, however, I tend to be OK.



And, my gosh...I cannot believe a month has passed without a blog update. I plan to make up for my negligent behavior in the upcoming week. :)

A day in the life...

**Forward: I wrote this entry a few weeks ago, but in the fury of work failed to find time to post it. If it seems a bit anachronistic...well, now you know why. :)



6:30 Barely awake, I shuffle the mere 20 yards across the compound in search for coffee; a process which, in true Afghan style, takes nearly 20 minutes. Each greeting spins away in Dari (the Afghan version of Farsi—Persian) with a barrage of salutations that translate as, “How are you? Are you fine? How’s your family? How’s your health? How was your previous day? How is the weather? How’s your style?...” and countless others.

7:10 With Arabic pop music blasting through broken speakers, we pile into the 70s minivan and truck across town. The streets buzz with morning life in Kabul, which results in a near 8:1 male: female ratio.

7:30 Training begins. The distinctive features of Hazaras, Pashtuns, Tajiks, and Uzbeks are present in a wide and abundant variety as 59 men and 2 women from Afghanistan’s 12 central provinces gather for regional training. I’m responsible for managing the national health survey within Afghanistan’s central region, which can prove quite the entertaining as well as challenging undertaking.

12:00 Lunch break. Trays of kofta (ground beef), mutton (goat), Kabuli Pulao (fried rice with raisins and carrots), and an absurd pile of naan gather into a sea of food. The table of 12 men explodes into laughter following a recurrent joke of the misery a man faces following marriage. So…after the laughter subsides I comment that I’ve frequently heard a given rendition of this joke and wondered if women joked similarly amongst themselves. Blank face, they stared back until one responded…”Oh…well…we have no idea.”

2:30 Tea break….number 4.

5:00 While discussing details for our compound 4th of July party, an Afghan colleague comments that such is our Independence Day. “In your country you have only one Independence Day, but here in Afghanistan we have many….one from the Brits, one from the Russians, one from the Taliban, and hopefully, one from the US”…and the list continued. Though executed with humor, his comment was a stark illustration that Afghanistan’s fight for independence is centuries old, and will not easily be solved.

6:30 Over dinner with fellow ex-pats, the conversation turns to stories under the Taliban reign. Some stories were dreadfully horrific, others well documented but nonetheless unfathomable, and then there were recounts of the simple mundane daily occurrences. Two accounts, however…caught me so off guard, they simply must be shared.
A. Resulting from (apparently) the global rage over Hollywood’s “Titanic”, “Titanic Haircuts” were national outlawed under the Taliban…the Leonardo Dicaprio golden hair swoop would simply not fly in this country.
B. The summer of 2001, a friend was invited to join the local security force (aka…the Taliban) for dinner. After what he recalled to be a frightful dinner with long bearded men refusing to break a smile, he noticed a large display of trophies in the back of the mud compound. Plagued with curiosity, my British friend delicately probed for an explanation of the competition, war, etc. which resulted in such a collection. Stone faced, a man responded “Oh…the Taliban volleyball competition.”

9:00 The fifth and final call to prayer (aazam) echoes throughout our room with the two nearby competing mosques proclaiming from the top of their minarets:
“Allah is great
Allah is great
Allah is great
Allah is great.
There is no God but Allah
There is no God but Allah
Mohammad is His prophet
Mohammad is His prophet.
Come to prayer
come to prayer.
Come for deliverance
come for deliverance.
Allah is great
Allah is great
There is no God but Allah.”

10:00 The electricity cuts out…for the 10th time today. I surrender to this reality, and quickly fall asleep.

**The photo is from our Regional Training which took place over the past 2 weeks.

Driving in Kabul

Well…it’s a bit like herding sheep.

(Granted, I’m not exactly proficient in the ways of sheep herding, but we’ll let creative thought suffice for now.)

The same routine occurs daily at the end of the Ministry of Health workday. The drivers stream though the single entrance parking lot without the slightest consideration of the return route. The cars pile in, and quickly thereafter drivers hop out to chat with a long-lost cousin, grab a cup of chai, and goodness knows what else. Exits invariably consist of long drawn out arguments over how to resolve the unfathomable parking crises, which frequently settles through a number of Afghan men manually moving the now driverless cars. My daily dose of deja vu…

I distinctly recall overhearing a conversation between two colleagues my first week in Kabul.
Dasha: “Are there any stoplights in Kabul?”
Kumar: *Pause*…”No, I don’t believe so. Oh wait, yes…there is that one by the main roundabout.” And then, as if divinely conspired, we arrived at that exact roundabout, driving straight through the red light.

Oh, the simple delights of Kabul...


Driving has proven all the more creative in the rains last week. An anomaly to say the least, Kabul experienced downpours three days in a row. The roads promptly turned to mud (as only a few major roads in Kabul are paved), the once marigold hills turned a smoky brown, and the city’s lacking public sewer system “naturally” networked throughout the city (a thought which I’ve avoided to dwell on at all costs). Though the rain proved quite entertaining within our compound (as we stood inside watching the windowpanes’ fruitless attempt to hold back any amount of water which quickly resulted in compound wide floods) I am reminded of the large toll regional rains have taken. Though 80 people have died in Afghanistan due to recent flooding, this pails in comparison to the near 300 deaths in Pakistan and 150 in India. Though the rain death toll now fades as old news, the impact remains with 1.5 million Pakistanis alone internally displaced and otherwise impacted by the floods. It’s so easy for numbers to remain distant and cold representations of the latest in international news. As I seek to recognize these stories as those affecting my neighbors, I hope it is appropriately reflected in my actions and commitment to this area of the world.

I’ve been told there’s a contagious hope in Kabul…you see it in the people’s eyes as they welcome you to Afghanistan and sincerely thank you for the little work you contribute; you hear it in their laughter as families gather in refurbished Mogul parks once destroyed by war now adorned with roses, water pools, and mosques…you can almost feel it. I’ve watched this hope unfold as Samin, our 23-year-old night-shift guard resolutely studies simple arithmetic in attempt to pass his university entrance exam. Having spent most of his adolescence as a refugee in Pakistan, his access to constant, quality education was spotty at best.

I’ve also been told this hope is interrupted…but unyielding offenses against women’s rights and by violent acts where civilians get caught in the wake of political factions and foreign interest. The 35 deaths from the Kabul city bus bomb on Sunday morning and the weekly civilian death toll from foreign/US coalition operations are both bold interruptions.

It’s really difficult to know what to say, and how to respond with any sense of wisdom and compassion. I remain acutely aware that I don’t understand the “why’s” of most of what goes on here, and quite honestly feel ill-equipped and tongue-tied as I write. But…if I can hold any ground on this conflict, it is that innocent civilians largely reap the effects of these wars, both directly and indirectly.

Though opinions here widely vary, from what I gather most Afghans welcomed the initial US/foreign presence, as they saw it as the end of the tyrannical rule of the Taliban as well as a chance for a new start. Six years down the road, however, it is easily argued that little has changed for the average Afghan, corruption and road banditry have returned (nearly eliminated under the Taliban), and their lives are now threatened both by insurgents and international forces.

In 2006 alone, 3,700 Afghans were killed by NATO-ISAF operations, with an estimated third as civilian casualties. This compares to an estimated 700 civilians killed by insurgent forces in 2006. Such a comparison does not condone Taliban activity (which has included bombings of educational institutions for girls/women and direct assassinations of leaders in women’s rights) but sheds an interesting and needed light on public opinion on foreign forces.

I try to take this chance to listen…to watch my colleague Sahibulla’s eyes brim with tears as he asks why his people, attempting to recoup after over 25 years of war, would attack one another; to watch men from the ministry gather round Dr. Zia Jon as he shares the news that his nephew was killed in the bomb; and to hear Mr. Zekria, both sincerely welcome me to his country while explaining with anger that he believes Americans are largely responsible for the chronic conflict over the past 6 years. Perhaps if we spent more time listening we could also hear the simple cries of people in Afghanistan, and that these cries aren’t so different from those we call at home ….we want to live to see our children married and well, we want to have an education which surpasses the 2nd grade, we want our friends to survive childbirth, and above all…we want peace. I hope that as the news rages with flashy titles, and analysts give (though perhaps valid) reports of tactics and theories, that these cries, muffled by the fantastic, are not forgotten.


“Peace demands the most heroic labor and the most difficult sacrifice. It demands greater heroism than war. It demands greater fidelity to the truth and a much more perfect purity of conscience.” --Thomas Merton

Where I live...

Simply stated: Behind “Opium Lane”, beside a Pashtun family, and along Butcher Alley.

Our compound is located in Shar-i-Now, the relatively ex-pat concentrated part of town. The rugged Kabul terrain, with houses nested along the edge of barren cliffs, is apparent in panoramic appeal from our compound rooftop (and incidentally my penthouse room). North of the compound is “Opium Lane”…the unofficial title for a rather incongruous construction of three-story, fully furnished houses. The disparity in Kabul is painful…tent houses in IDP camps within miles of luxury housing. Incidentally, Kabul is the largest city in the world without a public sewage system and running water, which becomes acutely apparent as the heat rises. (Another security aside…even though this lane my be financed by opium revenue, this does not make it a violent/unsafe to live by. Opium related violence is pretty much isolated to regions (predominately in the south) where it is grown.)

Afghans are (arguably) famed for their resolution on privacy. It is difficult to discern if the demand for privacy is innate, passed down from generations of cultural norms, or if their disclosure is a last attempt to hold onto something that is theirs. For decades, and arguably for centuries, Afghanistan has been a land of invasions and attempted conquers. I am increasingly convinced that the psyche of the occupied is unyielding, and understandably so. Afghans will hold onto what is theirs…be it their tiny garden in the middle of their walled house, in the middle of a country at war…and protect it. Understanding this psyche is paramount as we engage with Afghans on both individual and international levels. In any case…though we can see much of the surrounding blocks from our penthouse, we’ve been specifically instructed not to look down into the Pashtun family’s house/garden in respect for their privacy. (Which I realize may sound like an intuitive conclusion, and consequently I found it quite interesting that our compound manager explicitly pointed this out.)

Butcher lane…as a state-side vegetarian, I have successfully avoided this street so far. Swaying, skinned sheep, however, is impossible to escape while driving through Kabul. I’ll be sure, however, to update on any future butcher adventures... :)

The Kabul Arrival

The cockpit had announced two minutes until landing. As if rehearsed, fingers cross in domino fashion and heads pivoted from side to side gauging the distance from the end of the wings to the mountain’s edge. The 360° view was stunning...snow-capped mountains with glacier fed streams carving through the lower dry and barren ranges.
A sigh of relief…we have landed in Kabul.

We were shuffled through customs by a vivacious, scrawny Afghan who took immediately to Dasha, my fellow colleague, as they fluttered away in Russian. With papers waving, suitcases flying, and passports angrily shoved back following approval we made our way to the roadside. Military trucks streamed by, apparently escorting an esteemed Afghan political figure, and we were once again delayed. Two gates more, and countless gusts of dusts, we were pleasantly greeted by Zia, our driver to the compound.

The cross-section of jet-lag and disbelief creates a bit of a murk on memory. Consequently, recalling my first hours in Kabul parallels that of viewing dusty, old, slide reels. Somewhere along the reel is a carpet store on Chicken Street. Others in the compound had some last minute shopping to do, so for a bit of Kabul-orientation I joined the outing. The hospitality was overflowing, evidenced by green tea, raisons, and nuts quickly catered to our carpet-viewing chair. (As a security aside, we only visit markets which ANSO (Afghanistan NGO Safety Office) deems safe for foreigners.)

Five carpets and ten scarves later, we made our way back into our compound-bound vehicle to be greeted by a courtyard biriyani dinner with members of the Ministry of Health. Though the conversations remain recalled like reels, many mentioned the days of the Taliban, and consequently their relatively extended stint in Pakistan.

Exhausted, and yet thrilled, thus finished my first day in Kabul.

16 hours in India...

After a 14 hour Newark-New Delhi flight...I spent the following 16 hours in India before the next flight to Kabul departed. (Flights to Kabul operate only a couple times per week.) Despite its brevity, my extended layover in India was absolutely delightful. (The expression on my face moments after arriving in India may lay evidence to this. :)) Strangely enough, returning to India brought with it a return to a piece of home.

Pre-departure

Combining far too many shopping trips with a liberal dose of creativity has rather successfully provided a bit of a summer wardrobe. In the compound (where I will work with American, Indian, and Afghan staff) I am required to both cover my arms, legs, and rear-end at all times and have a headscarf ready to wear. Any trips outside the compound, however, will require another more modest layer.