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.