Christmas Eve Miracle

The sadness that is often Christmas came crashing down on me over the past few days. I have cried and brooded, and finally I came up with a different option: several of us decided to go out to a Christmas Eve dinner that was being specially cooked in one of the local restaurants that caters to ex-pats. It was the only way I knew to make sure I was with other people so that I couldn’t look at the computer or the four walls of my little room and be so depressed that I would want to simply crawl into bed.

So we set out.

We got into our vehicle and took out over the incredibly bumpy road, as usual, full of potholes and ravines and occasionally speed bumps. The dust was overwhelming. It swirled around the moving car like the heaviest fog I have ever seen. We could see the red taillights of the cars in front of and beside us, we could see the headlights of the cars that were, as usual, headed right for us, and we could see the occasional donkey cart on the side of the road, but only as we sped past, bumping and bouncing from one rut to the other. I wondered where we were headed; because it was dark, I couldn’t see any familiar landmarks, nor could I see anything that pointed to one direction or another.

Eventually, we turned onto a piece of road that was smooth and paved, with no holes, speed bumps, or patched spots. Then again we were on a dirt road swerving to avoid big holes, hitting little ones, and occasionally moving from one side of the road to another, all the time enveloped in the shifting cloud of dust that surely could have choked our car’s engine.

Finally, we made another turn onto what turned out to be a gravel parking lot, and we got out of the car. I was looking at what every other public building in Kabul is – a fortress buttressed by walls and iron doors. This place even had a little sliding door in the iron entrance door – it looked as if it had come out of the Roaring Twenties. Someone slid the little door back, and I felt as I were supposed to whisper, “Lefty sent me.” But instead, I entered an anteroom and was searched with a hand held metal detector, and my male companions were patted down, and then we were sent through yet another set of walls and doors. We then walked through an open courtyard on a rock walk and entered a restaurant that immediately offered comfort, beauty, and twinkle lights, letting me leave the swirling, thick, stinky dust, the oppression of the heavy air, and the overwhelming paucity of my spirit, outside.

I had entered another world, one that did not include Afghanistan, or at least the Afghanistan that was responsible for yet another American’s death that very day.

Inside the lovely restaurant that could have been in Anytown, USA, we were led to our table by a young Afghan man in a Santa Claus hat that blinked on and off in red lights – “Noel,” it blinked. “Noel.” We walked past a table laden with fresh-baked breads, rolls, and breadsticks, we walked past windows that looked out onto a courtyard where some kind of shrubs or small trees were outlined in LED lights that shone almost but not quite blue, and we walked past tables that were set for the elegant prix fixe menu that was to come – every place setting with two knives, two forks, two dessert spoons, wine glass, water glass, and precisely folded white cloth napkin.

Our table was in the corner of the room, so we could see the courtyard, slightly illuminated by the lighted shrubs, waiting for warmer days so that diners could grace the tables there, and we could see the rest of the room as it began to fill up with other people anticipating the special treat that was still to come.

Another young man in another blinking hat offered us a “Christmas Cocktail;” we could choose from three options, and his offer highlighted the lack of knowledge regarding alcohol that one might expect from a Muslim country where alcohol is simply off limits. “We have,” he said, “uh, something with fruit juice and, uh, vodka, then we have margarita, and we have, I can’t remember third choice.” I really didn’t want either fruit juice or a margarita, but I certainly wasn’t going to take a chance on something that the waiter couldn’t even remember, so I took the vodka drink (rule number one: NO TEQUILA).

It wasn’t bad – Hawaiian Punch with a punch! Then we nibbled on bread sticks – twisted puff pastry sprinkled with Parmesan cheese – and a sesame seed roll while we waited for the rest of our party and then the first course. As we waited, the stress of the workday, the sadness for the killing of the day, and the discomfort over being in a war zone with helicopters chopping overhead faded ever so slightly into the distance, and then, with each passing bit of conversation, retreated even more, so that we eventually felt almost normal about being out to dinner at a restaurant.

And then dinner service began. The blinking hat waiters brought the amuse bouche: risotto with a seared scallop and slivers of asparagus. The amuse bouche is supposed to be something that just “tickles the lips” or teases the palate – not a lot of food, just a bite or so – and this dish was exactly that. The risotto was done perfectly, and the slivers of asparagus were just enough to add some color and crunch. I think the chef had sliced the scallops in half horizontally, so that the scallop in each dish was thin but flavorful – and seared to perfection. The dish was topped with thin-shaved Parmesan. Even before I tell you about the rest of the dinner, I will tell you that this was my favorite dish. I ate it all.

Service was good in that we were not rushed from one course to the next. So when the next course, which was the appetizer, arrived, we were almost chomping at the bit. The appetizer plate was a classic: smoked salmon, a blini (a small pancake), piped mounds of dilled cream cheese, a quenelle of caramelized onions (a little mound that has been rolled between two spoons to arrive in its final football-oid shape), three thin slices of nut bread, and a slice of pâté. My only complaint was that the pâté was not seared. I think that would have made it better.

Aside: Now I will tell on myself: When I went to New York for the first time as a junior in college, a little girl from Thayer who had been almost nowhere other than Springfield, Missouri, Mr. Harriman, our professor and arts enlightener, took a group of us to the nicest places we could imagine. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria, we went to Broadway productions, we went to the Metropolitan Opera (where I saw Paul Newman, but that’s another story), and we ate at some fine restaurants. One of them served pâté de fois gras, which is THE pâté, the one that is goose liver. Never a liver fan, I nevertheless tasted it, and then told Mr. Harriman, probably pretty loudly, that it tasted pretty much like liverwurst. I am sure he blanched.

Anyway, though not in a fine dining establishment in New York, this pâté plate was just fine. I ate about half of the food, because I knew that we were just two courses down and four to go. I wasn’t about to miss anything, and I didn’t want to feel at the end of the meal as if I were ready to founder.

The waiter cleared our plates and then brought the main course: duck breast. This was quite a treat, although I think I would have preferred the meat a little less rare. Regardless, it was quite tasty, and it was served with sautéed mushrooms and a citrus reduction sauce – I’m pretty sure it was orange – and two vegetables that I couldn’t identify. I don’t eat turnips, but these cubed, tender but not mushy, white things could have been turnips. Another unidentifiable vegetable, although I thought it could be spiced pureed parsnips, was also on the plate. Again, I ate about half the food, because I knew more was coming.

The next course was a salad – a real salad!!! – with, according to the menu, fried reblochon. I had no idea what reblochon could be, but I assumed it was cheese, as I know that in European style dinners, salad and cheese are served at the end of the meal. I was right! The salad was comprised of Boston lettuce and slivered red bell peppers and something hot, although I couldn’t find that ingredient. The dressing was a classic vinaigrette, and it tasted SO GOOD. I haven’t had a real salad in so long; I was ecstatic and ate every bite, including the fried reblochon, which were fried cheese croutons. The outside of each was crispy and the inside of was melted to cream. They were delicious, and I hope to replicate them in my next dinner for hire. I have since investigated reblochon cheese and have found that it is a soft cow’s milk, washed-rind cheese – similar in style and texture to Brie. Three kinds of cows, and three only, produce the milk from which this kind of cheese is made. I will be looking for it when I get home.

After that course, I would have been happy to leave; however, we had two dessert courses coming. The first was listed on the menu as “Pre Dessert Colonel” and the second was “Dessert Macaron.” I had no idea what a “Colonel” is, except, of course, the obvious, and I assumed the “Mararon” was what I know as a macaroon – a chewy, coconut cookie – which would have been the perfect end to the meal. I was wrong on both accounts. The “colonel” was akin to citrus ice cream, although I think it should have been sorbet – kind of a “cleanse the palate” dish. It was sliced through with a wafer sugar cookie; I ate the whole cookie, but only a few bites of the colonel. The “macaron” was NOT a chewy coconut cookie; it was exactly what www.dictionary.com says it is: a traditional French pastry made of meringue and stuffed like an ice cream sandwich with ganache or cream. My pink, peppermint-flavored macaron was served with raspberry coulis and rosewater ice cream, and a rose petal bisected my ice cream serving. Beautiful!

After the entire meal was concluded, I was sated but not stuffed, I was full of good company and conversation, and I had completely forgotten that I was in Afghanistan. My forgetfulness came to a screeching halt, however, as we left the restaurant for our vehicle, climbed into the car that was covered with dust and mud, and went back to our home away from home over the rough, pitiful excuse for a road, passing , even late at night, people tramping through the heavy dust, all on foot, all barely off the road, their faces covered by scarves probably failing to keep the dust out of their noses and mouths, carrying babies, and going who knows where. Our way was lighted only by the half moon, stars, and headlights and taillights of other vehicles, because no street lamps illuminated our path.

Surprisingly, though, my mood did not fade with the bumpy trek back, because it was Christmas Eve, I had been out in another life with people for a few hours, and the sky was clear and crisp. And as I walked from the gate to my little room, I looked up at the bright night and could have sworn I heard voices:

. . ., “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy
which will be to all people. 11 For there is born to you this day in the city of
David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. . .13 And suddenly there was with the
angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: “Glory to God
in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

Peace.

Sayonara

I have to sign off on my blog for the time being. Please do not worry about my safety. I am fine. I just have to discontinue my communications for the time being. I hope you miss me! You can leave me messages with the last blog post, and all of them will remain up for new viewers. I appreciate your words of support and your general support, and I will be back sometime later. Deborah Mitchell

Today is Tuesday

As exciting as yesterday was, today was not. This has been a day to assess projects and work on projects, and figure out how to communicate writing skills to a young woman who has less-than-basic English writing skills – but she has a beautiful disposition and works very hard. I taught a technical writing class to several young Afghan men who will be out looking for jobs soon, and in as delicate a way as possible, told them that they need to be ready for an interview at all times – meaning that they must be showered and clean, have clean hair, and wearing clean clothes, so that their pheromones will be the good kind instead of the “we’ve been inside all winter” kind. I have tried to get Google Voice to work on my computer and iPad to no avail, and my package arrived from Max, leaking Swiffer Wet Mops liquid. Fortunately, nothing in the box was contaminated with the lovely “cleaning” smell, but the box was about ready to fall apart. When it arrived, the mail people almost sent it back because the address was wrong (Max got it right; the person who gave it to me gave me the wrong one) but their better judgment kept them from doing so. Now I am going to have to tell all the people who have asked for my address NOT to send anything until I get the correct one. You would think it wouldn’t be a big deal because we are all on the same campus, but you would be wrong.

It took me a while to put all my lovely life stuff away – things such as my winter coat and my NEW PILLOW! I have been sleeping on thousands of foam rubber lumps that are pressed into a bag of sorts and then flattened out. To support my head, I have supplemented that “pillow” with my travel pillow. I have no idea what it will feel like to sleep again on a normal pillow, but I am longing to find out.

The young people I talked to about resume writing and interview skills are nothing short of delightful. They are pretty fluent in English, and they will someday be leaders in this country. They are so willing to learn; it is a pleasure to try to teach them. They ask to be corrected so they can learn more. I know I have said that before, but every time it happens, I am pleasantly surprised again.

The days are still beautiful, with brilliant sunshine, and just enough warmth to keep me out of my long black coat. Nights, however, are much colder, so that I have to keep the heat on in my room, and even so, as I sit and write to you, my feet are pretty cold. I have tried to figure out a better way to configure the room so that I will sit in the heat stream as I talk on Skype and write my blog, but nothing has jumped out at me.

I will close for tonight, because for the first time in a long time, I am tired and ready to go to sleep before 11. I think that bodes well for my new pillow’s job tonight. Until tomorrow.

Going to the Movies

I was lucky enough to go to the Embassy again today, but I was in the same drab building I visited last time; however, our reason for going was spectacular. I was able to see a documentary film entitled Mohtarama that was directed by Malek Shafi’i and Diana Saqeb. The title of the film is, as far as I could understand, a term of endearment for women – something akin to calling a woman “Mother,” “Darling,” “Wife,” “Sister,” “Daughter,” and the like, and Director Diana Saqeb was at the showing.

The film is about the lives of Afghan women, and it showcased women in Herat, Kabul, and Mazur-e-Sharef in three different years – 2009, 2010, and 2011. Although because of technological glitches (as if I don’t understand THOSE by now!), we were unable to see the end of the film, it moves through the day-to-day lives of these women who are oppressed by society, religion, and men in general, and how, for many reasons, a women’s movement has not taken hold in this country to provide women with more opportunities.

I think most of the people who attended, and the drab room was full, would agree that in some ways, women’s lives are better now than they were under the Taliban regime; however, the women in the film who shared with the audience their lives had little to say that was good. One woman’s father had died when she was young. Her mother eventually remarried a man who had a son. The two parents affianced their children, and so the interviewee gave her age as 24, telling us that she had been married for 12 years. Another woman, who is a professional, tells about being unable to go out in public without layers and layers of clothing lest she be called worse than a prostitute. Another, a young woman and an activist trying to make things better for women, despairs over the fact that no organized women’s movement in Afghanistan exists.

As an aside, one of the women of the film idolizes an ancient Afghan poet, a woman named Rabia. She was of royalty and fell in love with a servant. She wrote beautiful poems that dreamily told of the love she felt – secret love, doomed love, unexpressed love – and eventually, she died for love. One story says that she was found out by her brother and he killed her for dishonoring the family; another says that she killed herself because she had been found out; another says that she was killed by soldiers as ordered by her brother (by the way, I know all this because of Esman, who schooled me in Rabia lore when I happened upon her name in a piece of literature). Unfortunately, it seems that women in this country still die for love – or almost so (please read the NY Times article I posted on my Facebook page). I suppose, however, if one has been married since age 12, true, deep love seems something too good to have missed.

The most important part of the film, I believe, is that these women want better things for their lives and for the lives of all the women in the country. My colleagues and I discussed the film after we left, and we had different “chill factors” – when chills ran up and down our spines. Leslie’s was a three-word phrase: “Victims of change,” which was the phrase used to talk about women who are reluctant to go too far out on a limb, lest they become those victims. Sarah’s was a line of Rabia’s poetry, which was beautiful, and gave the image of a woman whose soul is seen by the man she loves.

Mine was two-fold: First, the women talked about how education was the best opportunity to change. However, one of the screaming male zealots berating women for wanting their Constitutionally-guaranteed rights was an instructor at one of the universities. If that teacher is an example of what students learn at the university, I see little help for women in education. Second, was the hope of the young woman for a cohesive women's movement. My aunt, Susie, whom some of you know, was in on the beginning of ALL the movements (and I am proud of her stances in those years) – women’s, Civil Rights, Voting Rights, anti-Vietnam War – and the one thing in the women’s movement she never had to worry about was getting killed or maimed.

These women in the film, the ones who ask for what their own Constitution guarantees them – equal rights – risk their lives in doing so. I believe they are going through what the Civil Rights workers and activists went through in America in the 1950s and 1960s – they are risking being “victims of change,” real victims, just like the little girls who were killed in the bombed-out church, and the innumerable northern Civil Rights volunteers and Civil Rights activists who found themselves dead in the South for speaking up for change that was required by our Constitution. Many people died in that fight. I wonder how many will in this one.

The very good news in all this is that I had a discussion with Diana Saqeb, and she has given me permission to get the trailer for her film from her Facebook page and put it in my blog! You will be able to see at least some of it. I haven’t had time to do it today, but I will do it as soon as I have a minute or two, and I guarantee you will see something that will make you think. I enjoyed talking to her; she is a beautiful woman, and she has made several films, including one about the first Afghan woman who competed at the Olympics (Run Roobina Run).

Most important, she and I share a very important viewpoint: change, any change, comes one person at a time. I am grateful to have been given the opportunity to effect change in one person, or maybe two or three, and I am grateful to have been given the opportunity to be changed.

The other things that I want to tell you, including that on the way to the Embassy, I saw, get this, a COW standing in the bed of a teeny-tiny pick-up truck that was careening down the road, seem unimportant after my viewing the film, shot in stark black and white (of course). Sometimes, things just change perspectives. This was one of them.

Blooming Where I am Planted

I started writing my blog last night, and I got a few paragraphs in before deciding that it was really bad. My heart simply wasn’t in it.

And so today, the truth is out. I am a mess. Coming home was wonderful and leaving was hard, but I guess I am just homesick. I don’t know if my malaise has to do with the holiday season and my being away, or whether it’s that I can’t very easily comfort my daughter through what is a hard time for her, or whether it’s that I can’t talk very easily to Max (nor can I hug him!), nor see my family, or what, but I am having a hard time going to sleep and a hard time staying asleep, and then, of course, a hard time waking up.

I did have a pleasant surprise today, although it made me cry. On the campus, some of the nationals are attending a three-week management seminar. This is a great idea, because these people will someday be leaders in this country, and they can use all the help they can get. Well, one of these future leaders is my very own Hasat! I found out that he had come in, and I went to the classroom to drop off his ticket to an English test. I saw him, and I ran over and probably embarrassed him to death. I put my head on top of his head and hugged him, and then quickly left. It was only AFTER I left that I thought that might not be such a good thing – on many levels! But I don’t really care. After I walked out of the room, I started crying, recognizing, perhaps for the first time that I, as I said, am a mess.

After the class session was over this afternoon, he came to my office and he hugged me! We will be catching up over the next three weeks, and I am looking forward to helping him study for his English test. He said that his wife and son might come to Kabul to see him for part of the time he is here; his father-in-law lives here, so his family can have a place to stay.

Seeing him made me realize how long it has been since I was permanently on my home turf, and how long it has been that I was in Herat, being protected by Huge and Ferocious, talking with Esman and Hasat almost every day. Seeing him (and I swear he looked older!) made me realize that I am here for the time being, and it is both longer and shorter than I expected. Right now, I have been here for what seems like a long time. Tomorrow, however, after I get some sleep, it may seem that I got here yesterday. Regardless, I must keep to my mantra: Today is Sunday.

I went to church tonight, although my Skype connection stinks right now. I think part of it has to do with the fact that by 9 p.m., when I have to “go to church,” everybody and his brother are (is that the right verb? Mother? Cathy?) on Skype or the internet, so I get diluted access. I am trying to fix that by buying a “dongle,” whatever that is, and my friend from Washington, who is really from Somalia and was the first person last summer to pique my interest in Islam, is setting me up tomorrow afternoon with GoogleVoice or something like that. My lack of technogeek is shameful. I have to give myself a break, though. The people who are explaining these things to me are speaking English as a second language, one with a heavy Somalian accent, and one with a heavy Dari accent. Maybe I’m not so bad after all.

Now I am going to make myself talk about Christmas. When I went to church, it hit me all of a sudden that I won’t be there for any of it – the anthems that I love, the decorations that the “church ladies” make so beautiful, the smell of the tree, the hours of baking that I do each year (Max says, fans, that he can put together the poppy seed bread, and I’m sure he will do really well!), the stress I feel with the cantata and Vespers, Christmas morning when we make Irish Mocha (with Bailey’s, of course), and Christmas Eve when we get together with our friends to share a glass of wine. Or two. I have thought that I could steel myself against feeling bad – if I’m not there, it’s not happening – but seeing the church tonight made me realize that I AM there, but not as I would usually be. It’s going to be harder than I thought.

And then I will be seeing Max a mere three or so weeks after that, when we meet in Dubai or somewhere like that. So my Christmas present will be just a little late this year. And then it will be a mere 60 days before I will be able to join everyone at Easter time. That is what I will focus on, and maybe I can get through the next few weeks unscathed. Besides, I have something remarkable to tell you. Do you remember when I told you that the day was cold and rainy – so much for the roses? Well, since that day, the sun has been out, the temperature has been chilly but not frigid during the day, and, you guessed it – the roses are still blooming. The most beautiful one put out a new bud yesterday, and it will bloom tomorrow.

Maybe I can be like the roses in Afghanistan – in Afghanistan, for heaven’s sake! – and continue to bloom even after a bad day.

First Day Back at Work

It’s been a hectic first day back at work. I was planning to treat myself to a waffle (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at the “DFAC”) and a leisurely stroll across the street to my desk; however, I got a call from my section leader, who needed me in the office as quickly as possible. As I was standing there with wet hair and no make-up, I told her it would be a little while, but I would hurry – and hurry I did, leaving off one entire coat of mascara. Aside: Whoever said blondes have more fun wasn’t talking about the amount of black mascara needed to make a blonde’s eyes stand out from the rest of her face.

I got to the office, amidst the pelting rain and cold – so much for the roses – and found that she had been called to a meeting and needed me to go to a couple of other meetings that morning: One was with the director of a governmental department, and neither of us had ever met her; and the second was with the young woman I had met before – the one I described as “flashy,” although in a good way. Leslie had a list of things that I needed to discuss with each one, and I looked at her through the fog of not jet lag but “missing home no sleep” and no waffle, and said, “Wait. I need to write this down.” I also needed to make a copy of some material, and I needed to get my Kevlar vest, and I needed to catch the car in about five minutes. That was when I found the irritatingly slow copy machine wasn’t working and my computer wasn’t booted up.

Fortunately, I was to be accompanied by two of this office’s shining stars: Azizah, a young woman Emily’s age, who is the deputy section leader; and a man a little older, who is a very good translator. I had thought I was going alone with the translator (I’ll call him Waqid), but Azizah said that she wanted to go. By the time our visit was through, I was certainly glad she had asserted herself.

We left in a hurry in the cold rain, me with my umbrella from the 2005 Municipal Judges’ conference at the Lake (which I will be missing this year), the 30-pound addition to my chest, and my miraculous Talbot’s black wool wrap, which is warm without being bulky – who needs bulky on top of a Kevlar vest? But the hurry soon dawdled to pokey, as the traffic was simply terrible. As usual, cars were going in every which direction, but their inanity seemed worsened by the rain. They reminded me of Kansas City drivers in the first snow of the season, even if the snowfall is just a dusting (Scott Holloway, are you reading?). Cars were stopped everywhere, nursing fender-benders, I assume, and people were ambling among the honking cars as I have never seen them before. We even passed a traffic cop. He was waving some lane – or lanes – of traffic through an intersection, and then he just stopped moving and went over to talk to some man who was standing in the other lanes of traffic.

It didn’t take thirty seconds before the intersection was full of cars – cars trying to turn right, cars attempting to turn left, cars nudging their ways into the intersection so that the drivers could be the next ones the cop waved through. We were on the other side of the intersection, not having made it far enough to even enter. And we stopped. And we sat. I looked at the clock on the dash, and we sat in that intersection for at least 20 minutes. The traffic cop was still in the other lane, talking to someone, and the same man was wandering around in the weirdly empty lane. I figured that someone had blocked off the road. Now, this could have been for something as innocuous as the passing of a funeral procession, although I haven’t seen one since I have been here (we have passed what appears to be a cemetery – which doesn’t look right in dirt with no grass and flowers), or it could have been that an accident was keeping people from traveling the road. It could have meant that we all were sitting ducks for someone who decided to drive a car bomb into us, or, and this is the one I hoped for and suspected, it could be that we were waiting for the passing of some motorcade that was transporting some important person. And that was what it was.

After our sitting for what seemed eternity, five or six SUVs, all looking alike, raced through the intersection, and that was that. We started moving again, and though we were now late for our first meeting, we soon arrived at the ministry grounds, where we had been once before – but never in the mud. If you remember all times I have talked about what this city looks like, you will remember hearing about “dirt” and “dust.” When it rains, those things turn to mud, and that is what we had today. Fortunately, I had worn my new boots that were designed to withstand water and mud. I was fine. Azizah, however, had not checked the weather before starting for work, and she was wearing high heeled boots, which were not very practical.

Regardless of the mess, we made it to our meeting only 20 minutes late. The Director had already begun another meeting. So we waited and drank hot tea. We drank more hot tea. And then, when it appeared that we would be late for our NEXT meeting, we were ushered in to hurriedly meet the woman I needed to meet and talk to about the law regarding women’s rights. She was not unhappy when we told her we would have to reschedule because of our other meeting, because she had two more people waiting to see her after we were through.

Avoiding one disaster, we headed to the next office. The woman in this office is the head of another department within one of the ministries, which I have explained is like a cabinet position in our country. We were able to walk right in and talk with her, arranging some educational courses for her staff regarding the law on women’s rights. But it wasn’t as easy as all that. We had talked with her before, but somehow, something was lost in translation; what she thought we were doing was not what we were doing, but she was happy with our course, and we all finished the meeting satisfied.

By this time, I was determined not to drink any more hot tea, because I might have to find the ladies’ room, and I’m sure you remember my first and second encounters with public bathrooms in Afghanistan; I was not about to have another. And boy, was I praying that we didn’t hit another traffic jam just like the one we rode in on!

We took the best way back to the compound, passing my favorite farmers’ market, where the produce displayed was still, regardless of the time of year, rich in color, huge in size, and appealing to the eye. We saw one little donkey-drawn cart, but instead of one medium-sized donkey, the cart was pulled by two little bitty donkeys. They were so cute, but I felt so bad for them. After all, it was cold and rainy. And, oh! I forgot! When we were at the meeting that was not to be, I realized that I didn’t have my purse. That meant either I had inadvertently left it in the car, or that it had fallen off my shoulder as I was waddling through the throngs of people who were waiting to enter the ministry grounds. I hoped against hope that I was going to find it in the car – and my hope was rewarded. The bag itself is a cross-body bag, but when I am wearing the vest, the purse gets caught in the Velcro if I wear it below, and flops around if I wear it above. That means I usually sling it over one shoulder. No more.

On our way back, I took time to tell Azizah how impressed I am with her demeanor. For a woman so young, she is very serious and able, and she speaks well to older women in power. I think it’s important that she know her own power, so I told her about how her power affects others with whom she is dealing. I think she was surprised that I told her of my admiration, but I think she feels her own power, and I want her to be comfortable with it.

Power in a woman is a tricky thing. Some young men, who do not yet know their own strengths, find power in a woman intimidating and off-putting. Some men are attracted at first to the power, and then find that they do not know how to negotiate with it, and so those men begin finding fault with the women to whom they were attracted in the first place (I watched something like this happen in my family more than once – after all, the women in my family live, on their own, well into their 90s, or even to be 100 or more – now, that’s power!). Some men, who find their own strength, who know themselves, and realize that the woman’s power is an attribute to them both, admire the woman’s power and match it with their own so that they make a good partnership. I want this for all powerful women, so I brought it up to Azizah. And Waqid turned around from his perch in the front seat and said, “She could run for political office.” Now that statement from a man in a society that presumes men in power – that’s what I’m talking about!

Regardless, I think Azizah was pleased with my observations and my telling her about them.

Soon enough, we were back at the compound, ready to begin the second half of the work day, and I jumped in with both feet, picking up on the project I had but only begun when I left for home, and enjoying the office camaraderie around me. I felt as if I had a place, as if my desk were mine, with something on it that mattered to people I didn’t yet, or maybe would never, know. Most of the work I have done in my life is up front and face to face with the people my work will affect. And yet, right here, right now, the work I am doing for those I don’t know seems very important indeed.

I'm Baaaaaaaack!

Tonight, as I made the long trek from where the car let me off at the gate to my now two-weeks empty room in Kabul, I noticed that though the air is colder, the roses still bloom – Remember? Beauty's where I look hard enough for it, even in the desert.

It has been exactly 13 days since I left Kabul for my first trek home, and yet it seems as if I left and came back yesterday. I haven’t written a lick since my plane took off at 6:20 p.m. on November 15, and the reason for that is not that I have nothing to say. It is that I re-entered my real life, and real life took over – you know, the wife, mother, lawyer, judge, pianist, daughter, sister, piles of papers on my desk real life. Now I know why I had to go to Afghanistan to find time to write. And I have missed it. So I will take some looks back as I begin my new chapter here.

The day I left, I had a new adventure: I got to go to the American Embassy. I don’t know what I expected, but what I saw looked a lot like where I am living now, except the Embassy grounds have more garden spots, as well as more barriers. I saw only a portion of the Embassy during my short visit, but I think a larger, more beautiful building lurks somewhere on the grounds – I just didn’t see it. I hope for a trip back to see more. I did finally meet a friend of a friend, with whom I have been passing like a ship in the night. We had time to chat a bit and I was delighted to make his acquaintance. Everything told to me about him was true – he is a southern gentleman.

After our meeting, the time came for me to wind my way through the maze that is the Kabul airport, and I did so successfully, although if I had to do it again any time soon, I probably wouldn’t be able to (as was evidenced by my trying to find my way back OUT of the airport today, having to call our security twice and listen over the phone as he directed me through what I didn’t remember at all)! That night, I found myself with about two hours to kill, and during that time, I decided that all of Kabul was traveling somewhere by plane that Thursday night!

The waiting room, and I think it was the waiting room for the whole international terminal, was a sight to behold. It was packed! Many young families were traveling together. I giggled at one young man, his wife, and their two sons; one of the little boys, probably about four years old, had on a little suit and tie; however, his younger brother was more casually dressed in a denim outfit, and if you believe my mother the teacher, the way a person dresses affects his or her behavior: the suited little man was quiet and dignified and walked about very importantly, while the younger boy in jeans was wilder than a pet ‘coon (hillbilly for really rambunctious).

While we probably think of traditional Muslim dress as somewhat limiting – dark-colored, long, body-covering robe and headdress for women, and non-descript long tunic and baggy pants, and maybe a hat of some sort, for men – I saw lots of people adding interest to their traveling outfits by adding “bling” to them. If I saw one black dress and head covering dotted with silver sequins or Swarovski crystals, I’ll bet I saw 20. Men adorned their “pants suits” in the same way, but the man who wore the sequined hat took the cake. I just didn’t expect to see a sequined design sitting atop a man’s head.

And I discovered that Afghans in line are just as testy as Americans in the same spot: three self-important men tried to crash the line in front of me, and a man who had been waiting a little longer than I told them to go to the end of the line. They hadn’t realized there WAS a line! Really! I can’t imagine what all those people in single-file order could have been doing other than populating a line!

Eventually, I got on the plane that began my journey home. We left Kabul around 6:20 p.m., and we arrived in Dubai at 9:00. Kabul is one half-hour ahead of Dubai as far as time, so the flight was a little over two hours. It took half that time to get through the Dubai airport to wait for my next plane. I remembered that airport from my trip in August as being slickly cosmopolitan, with the finest jetway, the finest running sidewalks, the handsome, sheik-looking (and it could be “chic”) young men directing traffic at passport control (which was something I had never seen before), and ads for everything upscale in English plastered all over most flat surfaces. I realized, however, that I had come in the first time on an international flight, because coming in from Kabul was a different story. Instead of the fine jetway, we walked down a lot of stairs to be met on the tarmac by some buses that took us on a 20-minute circuitous ride to get to the terminal, where I was once again met with the lovely running sidewalk, the handsome men, and the expensive ads. I think it is pretty obvious where the important people come from into Dubai, and I’m thinking it isn’t Kabul.

My flight to Paris left at 1:45 a.m., and after I got to the Paris airport at around 7 a.m., I had about a four-hour wait for my flight to Minneapolis. Only after THAT did I get on a plane headed directly for Kansas City. By that time, I was chomping at the bit, and my energy was intensified when I saw my friend Lorraine, who was my welcoming committee, waiting for me outside the terminal gate holding a sign that said, “Welcome Home, Debbie!” I felt like a 16-year-old cheerleader again!

Thus began a wonderful trip home – playing the piano and singing at the contemporary service at church, making chili, seeing friends, eating steak at McGrath’s (the restaurant in Sedalia where everybody knows your name), going to the dentist (okay, not much fun), going to the optometrist (more fun than the dentist), picking up our daughter at the same airport where I had arrived a few days before, shopping for, cooking, and then eating a traditional Thanksgiving dinner (though fewer dishes and less stressful this year), watching the real Miracle on 34th Street with Natalie Wood, having “day-after” Thanksgiving wine and munchies with our friends in front of the fire in our fireplace, sitting in front of the fire in our fireplace, getting a haircut of sorts, getting a massage – all the things that make “home” home.

And then it was time to head out again. I tried not to dread leaving. I thought about every day at home the same way I think about every day here: Today is today. But I knew that leaving would be too soon and difficult – and it was, on both counts. I turned and looked at my wonderful husband and spectacular daughter one time more before I got on the plane, and turned away, just as surely as I had turned away in August, tears starting, but with a place to go and things to do.

After my short ride to Atlanta, my six-hour wait for the 13+ hour plane ride to Dubai, my overnight in a lovely hotel, and the hop, skip, and jump to Kabul, I picked up my laundry, cleaned my room, opened my computer, and began the next part of this chapter in my life, where today is today.

And today, I came here with another little hole in my heart, but without fear, because I had done it before, knew I had done it, knew I could do it again, and knew that my time here is worth something to people I didn’t know even four months ago. Did I tell you the roses are still blooming?

The Wednesday Before the Thursday

I get on a plane tomorrow. This is just about the only thought in my head right now!

But before I get on the plane, I will be going to a presentation regarding women’s rights tomorrow. I am looking forward to meeting the people and seeing the city again. I will try to meet a friend of a friend, who works in the building where we will be presenting. I figured out that planning ahead doesn’t always work: this is the third time I have tried to connect with this man, and so far I have struck out. But the third time’s the charm. My section also will be making a presentation next Monday, but, of course, I won’t be able to be there – I will be HOME!

Not much went on today; I got some e-mails from my students, a couple of whom asked me to correct their grammar. Can you imagine? A student who wants to be corrected? It’s de-lovely!

Tonight, as I was preparing to write this entry, I heard a huge explosion. Of course, I was terrified until I remembered that I had read an e-mail regarding some controlled explosions and range shooting that was going to be going on over the next few days. I hoped that the boom was from the controlled detonations, but I thought I should probably take a look. As I stepped out into the hall, I saw our security guy – not Huge or Ferocious, but a nice person just the same – looking out the door. I thought that was either a really good sign – that nothing was going on – or a really bad sign – that he didn’t know if anything was going on. I asked him whether I should be worried, and he kind of shrugged and said, “Well, the sirens aren’t going off, so it’s probably nothing.” Hoping for something more definite regarding my safety, I stood and looked at him for a while as he continued to look out the door. He said again, “Well, the sirens aren’t going off, so it’s probably nothing.” I mentioned reading about the explosions, and he said, ‘Well, that was far away, so it’s probably nothing.”

Giving up, I went back in my room. After a while, I thought I heard something else, and so I stuck my head out in the hall again. He was going out the door. I asked if we had any more information on the big boom. He said, “Oh, yeah. It was a controlled det. No worries.” I assumed that meant “controlled detonation.” Then I went back in my room and said a silent “thank you” to Huge and Ferocious, who came to my door to tell me that we were going to hear some explosions and not to be worried, and who came to my door to tell me that we were under a threat but not to worry because they would take care of me.

I have to admit that when I heard the boom, my first thought was about how I was going to get to the airport tomorrow if we were on lockdown. I think I would have tried to walk.

Enough for tonight. I am going to try to get some sleep so that when I have to stay up for hours on end tomorrow, I can do it. What a time to have run out of Jameson!

I will be writing from home over the next week and a half. I hope I have something to say. So until Friday!

Teaching Can Be Fun

I will be on a plane in fewer than 48 hours. Woo Hoo!!!

First, here is a "stranger than truth" story: I was working on a lesson plan for the law dealing with violence against women. I was doing some research and came across an article setting out some statistics regarding violence in Afghanistan. As I scrolled down to the bottom of the screen for verification of the site's publisher, I happened across a posted comment - from a student at State Fair Community College. I just stared for a few minutes, and then sent my own post. I wonder if she will see it!?

Today was a most interesting day. I got to teach a class of Afghan nationals. They want to learn good English, and they want to learn how to write well in English. I wish my students at home could have the opportunity to see these men and women and their eagerness to better their master of my language. Prior to today, I have been very impressed with the level of English that most of the students speak, but I can’t tell you how gratifying it is to have led a class of people who hung on every word I said. The lesson was simple, and it was one I have been teaching for “nigh onto” seven years now: when, if ever, is e-mail appropriate in a business setting, and how does one write such an e-mail? An e-mail in itself is contradictory to the idea of a business setting: it is a casual communication for a formal setting. How to get it done right is more complicated that one thinks at first.

I first introduced the class to Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style, which is, as far as I’m concerned, the most easily used primer on writing – and it’s been around forever. I gave Max, an MU journalism major, a leather-bound copy for his 60th birthday, and he was actually grateful; he used that book as a text in one of his writing classes so many years ago at Mizzou. Then I told them about what used to be taught in fourth grade: the parts of a letter; next was how to incorporate those parts into an e-mail, and then came the most important lesson of all. If a person has a message that is fairly long and complicated, he or she should take the time to write a detailed letter and attach the document. It’s much easier to read than an e-mail that is usually packed, single-spaced, into a huge screen. If the message isn’t read, why write it? And people rarely read things that don’t look inviting. It’s like cooking and eating food. The first appeal is to the eyes. If it looks good, people eat it. If it looks awful, people don’t eat it. The same is true with writing. If it looks appealing on the page, people read it. If it looks like a bunch of words packed on a page, people don’t read it.

They wrote down everything I said. I was almost giddy.

Their assignment was to write me an e-mail by the end of the day. I don’t know how many I received, because we had an unexpected meeting at 3 p.m. today, and the nationals leave at 4. I expect, however, to see my in box flooded tomorrow morning. I will be surprised if that is not what happens.

At the end of the lesson, I told all the students that I would be willing to hold conversation with them so that they could also improve their conversational English. Verb tense and articles (“a,” “an,” and “the”) present specific problems, and practice is the best way to get it right. I was surprised, however, about 10 minutes later, when I was eating lunch quickly and alone, to hear, “May I join you for lunch?” It was one of the young men who had attended the class.

He was polite and intense, and wanted to talk, but he also wanted to thank me for the class. I took some conversation time, my asking questions and his answering them. He is Emily’s age, and, thank heaven, is not married. He is the youngest of seven children, and his parents have health problems. Both parents are after him to get married, because, as I have described before, he and his wife would live with and support his parents. His wife would be expected to help his mother with household chores, therefore making life easier for her. And he wants to help his mother.

I asked him about facing the fear of violence in his country. He said he cannot think about such things, because to do so would take his focus away from his job and his education and his hopes for the future. Like Esman and Hasat, he says that he realizes that he could be gone just like that in some explosion, but that is not what he chooses to think about. He wants to think about what lies ahead for him.

You see, he has hopes and dreams for his own life. He is enrolled in a college degree program and hopes to someday be an international businessman. This is a young man who rises every day at 4:30 for his prayers, goes to the gym at 6, is at work at 8, works all day, goes to school at night, and gets home by 9. On his days off, he does household chores to help out. He is handsome and earnest, and I could tell he was a bit nervous talking to me, but he did not hesitate in beginning our conversation. I was humbled that he felt comfortable coming to sit with me and talk. His was the first e-mail I received.

When I feel down, I am invariably brought to indefatigability by the young men and women who have so much to offer their country and who are doing their best to make sure they and their children have a better place to live. I see that their lives are filled daily with challenges, and that they do their best to rise to them. When I talk to them, as I have done today, I know that my life is changed, my world view is changed, and these people I will remember when I come home. They are filled with hope, and that means that so am I.

My suitcase is almost packed with the essentials of life. Lorraine will pick me up at the airport, Max will meet me after his meeting, sometime while I am home, I will see Vida and all the Schroeders and many more at church, and all who have time to say hello. My time will pass much too quickly, and then I will be on another plane back here, to a different life, one that is more difficult, one that has possibilities, and one that reminds me that my life has been one big, long party. I am grateful. And I am filled with hope.

A Quiet Day

Today is Sunday and I am coming home soon. I have been waiting so long that it feels as if it cannot be true, but it is.

I am struggling with what to write about tonight, because I have had a busy day at work – that means that I am limited to what went on inside the building. Today, not a lot went on inside the building!

This morning, I woke up and got ready for the gym. I stepped outside and the air was crisp and the sun was shining beautifully. I called Max to say hello, because he had spent Saturday with a couple of friends in Springfield. The funny part about that is that these friends came from my Thayer connection, and they like each other so well that I didn’t even need to be there for them to have a fun visit. I think those are great friends!

After my jaunt on the treadmill, I got ready for work and headed over to the building that houses our section. On the way (it is about a one-minute walk), I pass a green area that is a lovely little park, and the walkways are lined with roses. It is November 11, and the roses are not only in bloom, but also are still budding out. They are beautiful! One of my favorites is a deep coral color, and I look at it every time I walk past. The contrast of that beauty with the ever-present dirt and dust is startling. I think it means that if we look hard enough, we can find something good in just about everything, even if it is a very little thing.

At work, things went well. I worked on a project and got a lot done on it, I helped a couple of our nationals with their reports, and I started on another project. Toward the end of the day, the national staff prepares to go home. You may remember how I told you that many of the nationals wear open-toed shoes. Well, today as I was working, I looked up, and the doors to the men’s and women’s rooms are within my sight. The door to the men’s room was open, and I saw a man who had been wearing said open-toed shoes with his foot in the sink, washing off, I surmised, the dust of the day. It was just not what I expected to see. Then I thought about all the people who would presumably be washing their hands in the sink, and then I stopped thinking.

After lunch, I like to come back to my room for a while to just relax and prepare for the second half of the day. Almost every time I walk through the outside door to the hall that leads to my, and everyone else’s, room, I see a young man who mops the floors. This is a thankless job. In Herat, a couple of men came every other day to sweep the floors in the office, and they washed off the steps and the outdoor hallway connecting all our offices. They did it quietly and cheerfully, knowing that when they appeared the next time, all the dust they washed away would be back. In Kabul, our floor cleaner is quiet, almost shy, and maybe not quite aware of all that is going on around him – maybe not even understanding that tomorrow, the dirt will be back. He now recognizes me, and when he sees me, gives a small smile, quickly looks away, and goes on about his work. I often wonder how he gets to work and where he lives, and what part of his day is the best. I know I will see him tomorrow.

After work, I worked my abdominal muscles, such as they are, and then went to eat dinner with some of my Washington friends. It is a nice end to a day. We have good conversation, laugh a great deal, and keep each other company. Tonight, one man at the table wanted to know where A Winter’s Bone

was written and filmed, because he thought that it was probably somewhere around where I live. What he didn’t know was that it was written and filmed around where I grew up, and not around Sedalia where I live now. We had an interesting geography lesson using a white paper napkin as Missouri and the table as Arkansas.

So now I write, unable to go to church on Skype because my connection is so dismal, and barely able to have a conversation with Emily and Max because of the same thing. Herat had additional bandwidth that I could purchase, but Kabul does not. I think I will start a petition drive. Maybe we can change that.

So four more mornings here, and then one on the plane, and then 10 days at home. I am happy.

It's Saturday!

Friday was a good day off. Actually, my day off started Thursday night, when I met with my Washington friends and we had a couple of cocktails. We were comparing assignments and realizing that very soon, we will all be together in this camp. It is so nice to have a group of people with whom I have a shared history – even if the history is but two weeks long!

As I was talking to one friend, he introduced me to another person, who, like so many I have met, has been in this part of the world for many years. This man told me a great story about his time in Iraq, when he met an Iraqi who had been out of the country for many years while Saddam Hussein had been in power. He came home when the Americans entered the country. The man I was talking to told me of a night when he visited the repatriating native, who had spent some time in Germany. Apparently, he had fallen in love with German food while he was away and so arranged for a German restaurant to open near his palatial home. The man I was talking to told of a German all-you-can-eat-and drink feast, costing about $50 per person, and consisting of not only wonderful German food, but also delectable German beer, including both light and dark beers. It was just one more story that I didn’t expect to hear about a part of the world that, for many years, has represented nothing but darkness to me.

Well, we had a good time; it was Michael’s birthday, and I had bought him a big dark chocolate candy bar. We sat around, solving the problems of the world, and then it was time to call it a day. At that point, I realized that one week from right then, I would be in Dubai, getting ready to get on a plane to take me home. I had a hard time getting to sleep.

The next morning, I went with Gayle to a place that is like a shopping mall, except this mall was in one building, and one room full of wares opened up into another, and then another, and then another. The items for sale were lovely, and I could have spent a whole lot of money, but I didn’t. One store sold the kinds of tunics I need for work here, and so I bought a purple one, and then I bought a sweater tunic that “the girls” in our office wear. I told them that I wanted to look like them, and they told me I could probably find one of the sweater tunics in any store. Of course, Westerners aren’t allowed to go to just any store for safety reasons. But I was lucky and found the sweater. I also found a store full of hand-made silk clothing – dresses, jackets, tunics, coats. They were gorgeous, but I hadn’t planned to spend a lot of money for clothes that cannot be washed in the machines here that get a LOT of use. So I bypassed that store, though they had some symbolic clothing – several items were purple, and the silk was from Herat. Still, I resisted.

I also loved looking at the jewelry, but I don’t really want to buy any of that unless Kevin Schroeder can tell me what is good and what is not. Afghanistan is one of two places in the world, I believe, where lapis lazuli can be found – and apparently it is rich in other minerals and gems as well. Some of the pieces were beautiful, but I don’t know about the prices. Kevin and I will have a teaching/learning session when I am home in preparation for another shopping trip! The mall also sold original art from local artists. I fell in love with one pen and ink drawing of a bird, but it actually looks like calligraphy. The rugs/carpets were also pretty gorgeous. I must know a good carpet when I see it, because the ones I am drawn to are invariably the most expensive in the room. I also looked at some tablecloths that were beautifully hand-embroidered, but decided against buying any right now. I can see that some are in my future, though!!!

As we left the building to meet our car, we passed a young woman who was selling clothing – coats and jackets. I walked right up to a gray coat that she had made and hand-embroidered, put it on, and it fit. I was thrilled. I was also thrilled because she is an artisan who makes at least a portion of her living selling the clothing she designs. I will try to wear it home.

After that jaunt, we went to a restaurant to eat lunch. This is a place that has been cleared for Westerners, but it is somewhat disconcerting to enter the restaurant’s gated grounds through an iron door, then to have my purse searched by one man while another stands by with an AK-47, and then go through two more iron doors in order to reach the restaurant itself. I felt as if I needed to say, “Shorty sent me.”

Eventually, we got inside, and then decided to eat outside, which was absolutely beautiful. The restaurant’s balcony overlooked a backyard garden. Several dining areas were set up outside, complete with marble table tops and leather high-back chairs. In one corner of the garden was a pergola, in another area was a fountain, and the entire area was bordered by wildflower and perennial flower beds. It was lovely. I ate naan (a flatbread) with hummus, and lentil rosemary soup. The soup was good, but it had a little too much rosemary to be absolutely wonderful – rosemary is a very powerful herb. I also had jasmine tea, which besides being delicious is aromatic. It was a very nice lunch.

After we finished, our car came to get us, and we drove by the American Embassy to pick up a couple of our co-workers. Getting into the Embassy area was a challenge. Checkpoints start before a newbie realizes that we are actually in the vicinity of the Embassy. Our Embassy is surrounded by what I have come to see as the norm here, and not just for American locales. The place is surrounded with concrete blast walls, sand filled barriers, and heavily armed soldiers. Seeing those sights made our earlier trek, as we blithely went from shopping to lunch out, seem frivolous.

Nevertheless, we picked up our cohorts and headed back to camp. Along the way, one of our co-workers told us that he has made it past the first hurdle to a Fulbright lectureship in Macedonia. See what I am here with? Vaunted company!

All in all, it was a really good day. I decided not to even clean my room when I got back, because I will need to clean it before I leave on Thursday, which will be here before I know it – Yea!!! I went to watch the camp movie, which was a Monty Python conglomeration – some funny, some not – and then went to bed, too lazy to finish this blog post.

Then I woke up to start a new work week on Saturday. I have come to terms with working a week that has two Mondays – one is the day after our day off, and the other is, well, Monday. I went to an English teachers’ meeting, and I am pleased to know that I will be teaching technical writing to non-native speakers. Many of the young people here want to know how to advance their careers by writing more professionally (Will I ever have some lessons for my students when I get back!), so our first lesson will be their choice – how to write e-mails for business purposes. Who knew when I began teaching technical writing that my most enthusiastic students would be from Afghanistan?
Today I also got a chance to visit with one of the Afghans who works here in Kabul. His family history is fascinating, and he told me a little more about Afghanistan history, which supplemented the history I had heard from Esman and Hasat last month. He, too, has known little in this country other than conflict and war – and he is older than Esman and Hasat.

After work, I did a yoga class with my friends who want to relax at the end of the day, then I went to dinner for chicken and green beans and roasted potatoes, and now I reach the end of the day when it is time to think about going to sleep. I have settled into a certain rhythm here, and I wonder how that will be affected by my trip home. I know it is always hard to go on vacation and then go back to work. I anticipate the same kind of feeling some two weeks from now, but I know right now that it will be worth it.

Things go well here, but I miss life – my life. I think I should hold that thought – and feeling – in abeyance for a while.

Until tomorrow.

Odds and Ends

These are some things that I would like to add to your vision of where I am.

* * * * * *

Today, we went to a government compound that houses the Ministry of the Interior. This compound is probably a couple of city blocks square; many government offices work in this area. It was bustling. As we entered through a side gate, which, I suppose, was reserved for women (I say this because the gate we entered put us in a little room where our bags were searched and WE were searched), I noticed two long lines of men on each side of the road we had just walked down. I asked Azizah where those men were going, and she told me that they were all going into the MOI compound. I couldn’t imagine what all those people needed to do inside those walls. I still don't know.

Eventually, we got where we were going, and we all crowded into a small office – the four of us, six staff members for the Director to whom we were paying a visit, and eventually, the Director herself. Unlike the woman I met yesterday, who was older, small, attractive, quiet, and powerful, this woman was young and, don’t take this wrong, flashy. She is beautiful. She is tall, she has beautiful olive skin, smoldering dark eyes, and she wears her hajib, which was sky blue with little sparkles, over her dark hair that was tied in a bun to hold the hajib firmly in place without detracting from her gorgeous face. Gayle and I have to keep pulling at our scarves so that our hair kind of sticks out and our scarves slide over our faces, but this woman has the head covering down to a science – and a science that certainly benefits her.

Prior to the Director’s arrival, the deputy director brought out candy dishes full of goodies – the paper almonds that Esman had brought in Herat, golden raisins like the ones in Herat, and two other kinds of candy that I dared not try for fear of gobbling it all down – and a staff member poured our steaming hot tea. It is hard to quantify their display of hospitality. These candies, the tea: these are the best this office staff has to offer, and they are offering it to me. In the South in America, in southern Missouri, in Arkansas, no one, and I mean no one, comes to someone else’s home and leaves without something to eat and drink. The hostess who is caught flat-footed and without something to serve will forever live with shame. I think that people in Afghanistan are similar in their beliefs about what is expected of a socially acceptable hostess.

We talked about business – or at least, everyone else talked and I listened – and then the Director, who sat on my right, turned and burned her dark eyes into me, asking for me to enter the conversation. I, who still had on my body armor because taking it off was too awkward (I would have had to take off my scarf and my glasses, and my tunic probably would have come off, too!), made a joke about being stuck in a difficult place and apologized for being unable to move properly, and for feeling completely out of place. Her eyes were both curious and kind as she looked at me, and I felt the same kind of connection I had felt the day before with Director C, as if each knew I would be talking about them and my meeting them.

As we left, she, new in her job and not as familiar with us as Director C had been the day before, shook hands with us and bade us return another time. I told her that I was pleased to see such strong, powerful women doing a good job in their country. And then we left to return to our office, where work awaited.

On our way to the Ministry, we had driven down an avenue I had not seen before. It was rife with computer stores, called “Stationary [sic] Stores,” that sold not only computer hardware, but also necessities for any office – paper, labels for CDs, and the like. On our way back, we drove past a bountiful farmers’ market, with absolutely beautiful produce displayed in farmers’ wagons pulled by donkeys or small horses – pomegranates, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, and cauliflowers, among other vegetables. It was as if the bounty would never end. And then we drove through another part of town that looked like a small New York or San Francisco neighborhood, with bodegas and small storefronts abounding, even butcher shops with the ubiquitous butchered goat hanging from the ceiling. Going past those shops made me homesick for Herat – except that in Herat, the butcher shops had been open air; here, most of them were enclosed by windows. We also saw lots and lots of construction, which I called “signs of hope.” Cranes and scaffolding show that this country wants to move ahead.

And we saw my favorite sight: a little girl, heading somewhere after school, in her black pants, tunic, and white head covering, looking like a miniature nun. Every time I see one of those little girls, I smile. First, the religious irony is simply hilarious, and second and most important, those little girls are in school – a place they were forbidden to go when the Taliban was in charge here. As Esman said, when the Taliban was in control, only one million children were in school. Now, eight million children are in school, including little girls, who look like little nuns, who may someday lead a ministry in this country, or maybe the country itself. That’s a good thing.

* * * * * * * *

Azizah and I continued our conversation as we drove down the streets of Kabul. I kept seeing clothing stores that displayed Western-type clothing – dresses with short hemlines, defined waists, short jackets, and the like. I asked her who bought those clothes. She told me that Afghan women bought them. “But where do they wear them?” I asked. She told me that many times, Afghan women wear such clothing under their long tunics and jackets. Esman had told me that women wore “normal” clothing around the house, or at weddings, where the women are separated from the men (except for family) and can wear party dresses. Azizah also said that often, women wear such clothing inside their offices, but don their tunics or coats when they go outside, for wearing the clothing is acceptable, but wearing the clothing in the out-of-doors is not.

We also talked about how she, just like Esman and Hasat, has never known anything but war and conflict. She told of her brother’s walking with her to school, and how her mother now tells her that often, when the children left in the morning, their mother had the thought that she might not see her children again – that something could happen – a suicide bomber, a bomb placed at the school or on the road on the way to school – and her children would be taken from her forever. Azizah, who spent a year at Dartmouth, says that when she leaves in the morning, she often wonders if she will see her home, her husband, again, because something in this unsettled land could take him from her or her from him. What kind of life is this for young people? I hope that she will soon know peace.

* * * * * * * * * *

Tonight, Michael, Kevin, Ara, Brian, David, and I celebrated America last night, giving thanks that we are Americans, and have the right to free speech and the obligation to vote to keep it. We do, as President Obama said, live in the best country in the world. I am grateful.

Read This! Not a Campaign Ad!

Today was a very interesting day. I went downtown with my section leader Gayle and my deputy section leader, who is a young Afghan woman I shall call Azizah. We had to leave early (Russ, I was the first one to the car!), and so our trip into town was very quiet, and I noticed that we were taking a different route to the same building we had visited before. I was able to see a completely different part of Kabul, but the people were driving just as badly in this part of town as they had in the other parts!

We turned a corner, and Azizah said, “I love this neighborhood in the city.” She is usually a quiet person, not saying much, and certainly not speaking unless spoken to, so this was a sign for me that I should begin asking her questions. I asked her why she likes it, and she told me that she had gone to high school in the neighborhood, and had worked her first job here, beginning when she was just 15. To me, the neighborhood looked like almost every other neighborhood we had gone through. It was, as usual, dusty, dirty, crowded, dilapidated, and littered with trash. But through Azizah’s eyes, the neighborhood took on new and vibrant characteristics.

This neighborhood, she said, was central to the city’s public transportation. I had not seen public transportation, so I asked her if she rode city buses. “No,” she said, “the city doesn’t have buses, but there are some vans.” She also pointed to our left, telling me that a shopping mall was on the next street over, and while the city has lots of shopping malls, this one is the best. Azizah, who spent a year in the United States in college, also told me that the other shopping in the area is very good, as well.

Then she pointed out the street where she had her first job, telling me that she had gone to work for an NGO (Non-Governmental Organization) that was sponsored by an outside agency, and that because schools in Afghanistan hold classes for half days only, she worked in the afternoons and went to school in the mornings. She said she was grateful to the woman who had given her the job, because most people didn’t put a lot of stock into students who wanted to work, because, as Azizah put it, “You are just a kid.” But this woman gave her a chance, and she took it. She told me that the woman to whom she owed so much died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, and she seemed sad to tell me even today.

Then, this remarkable young woman told me that in the job, she had eventually traveled out into the provinces, taking the message of clean water, good food, and birth control to families who lived in villages without, as Esman and Hasat had told me earlier, electricity or running water. At that time, Azizah was 17. I was, as you might imagine by now, curious about how a young woman would have been allowed to travel, and then how she would have been received as the bearer of news of birth control, and how she had gathered up the courage to talk about it and the gravitas to have been taken seriously. And so I asked.

The project traveled to the provinces in a group of 30 people – 15 men and 15 women (if you can count the 17-year-old girl a woman). In this way, appropriately chaperoned, the women were allowed to travel out into the provinces. The men would talk to the men in the villages and the women to the women. The message was that the people could do much to help their own lives by preparing and eating good, clean food, by drinking clean water, and by taking charge of how many babies they had and when they were born to protect and preserve the women’s bodies and health. I couldn’t help but think about how, over the past few months, the issue of birth control had become an issue in our national campaigns, and how very silly that sounds when compared with what happens in a country that must be educated about how birth control can make their lives, and the health of its women, much better. For heaven’s sake. Our country is supposed to be the one that leads in this kind of self-help so that people can determine their own destinies and have a more advanced society. But I digress.

Azizah told me this in a very matter-of-fact way, and I was again surprised at the “age beyond years” displayed by the young people I have met – first Esman and Hasat and the other wonderful staff members in Herat, and now this young woman, whose 24th birthday is today. She is the same age as my daughter, and though Emily is a mature 24-year-old, Azizah seems years older. Perhaps her experiences, such as the one she shared with me, have shown her that life is often hard. In fact, she said that her trips to the provinces had convinced her to be grateful for the things she has, because she had seen how people suffered and had so little. I was touched by her humility: I spent my time looking out the car window, seeing through my eyes a city filled with poverty and ever-present, choking dust, and she, in the midst of that city, has eyes that
see that she has much and feels for those who have little.

Just one more lesson for me.

And then we went to our meeting, which was with the head of a department within the Ministry of Women’s Affairs. Our hostess, a woman even tinier than I, came out to meet us and gave us a warm greeting, “New York” kissing the cheeks of Azizah and my team leader Gayle, and shaking my hand firmly and looking me squarely in the eye. We went into her office, which has a wall of windows looking out over what will soon be a lovely garden and arbor, and sat in the stuffed sofa and chairs to begin our discussions. We had not been there five minutes when a woman entered and poured each of us a cup of hot tea and set out two candy dishes (aside: I have discovered that Afghanistan is a candy-lovers paradise – the sugar bark from Herat is out of this world, and the little caramels we had today were nothing short of wonderful).

I stop here to describe the woman who poured tea only because I have seen other people in this country squatting in this way – at the side of the road while waiting for traffic, outside a storefront, tending goats or sheep. She brought over to us an electric pot that was full of steaming, steeped tea. In her traditional dress - which included trousers, a long dress over the trousers, and then a head covering – she dropped to a squatting position with both feet planted firmly and flatly on the floor, and poured the tea into the cups that she placed in front of her on the floor. When I squat to pick up something, I usually end up on my toes, because to keep my feet flat on the floor requires more flexibility than I have. This woman, who is probably 5’9” or taller, folded and unfolded herself with great ease, agility, and grace. I was fascinated.

Back to the meeting. We politely inquired about how our hostess was feeling. It turns out that she had a baby about five months ago, and she suffered from gestational diabetes during the pregnancy. I remembered what Esman and Hasat had told me about doing business in Afghanistan. “Americans just jump in. It is not the Afghan way. Spend time talking about the other person’s life. There will be plenty of time for business.” Paying attention to my good teachers, I found out all about the baby and how she was now feeling and how it was to come back to work. I was also genuinely interested – this woman was older that I when Emily was born, although I am sure that this baby was not her first child – in how, in this country that is not always so hospitable to women, she managed to be a mother and work, not just as an employee, but as a very important part of the women’s rights movement in a country that is not yet known for women’s rights. Director C. exuded a quiet power.

Azizah translated for us, and at times, the two women had a conversation between themselves, while Gayle and I looked on as outsiders. I could tell by the looks on her face when Director C. was happy, when she was not happy, and when she wanted us to know that she was not happy. I also saw the looks of impatience when we were continually interrupted by the comings and goings of staff who needed to communicate with her about things that were happening that needed her immediate attention.

We did our business, and then the woman brought us more tea, which meant we could stay a while longer. She also brought us a delicacy – sugar-coated almonds. These are not like Jordan almonds. Instead of being covered with a thin, hard, sugary shell, these almonds are drizzled with a hard white icing that makes the outside of the almond look like it is covered with a spiderweb. I gave Director C. a look of helplessness, and then took my first one of the day. She smiled and told us that these were served at a special Eid celebration, after the first day of Eid, when the Koran is read. I, of course, because of my wonderful tutelage at the feet of Esman and Hasat, knew about different Eid celebrations, and I nodded my assent and said some of the things I had discovered because of my wonderful teachers. She told Azizah that I had a lot of knowledge, and I answered that I enjoyed knowing about the people in the country.

Then I asked about the work of the Ministry. Director C. was expansive in her discussion of what is happening in Afghanistan regarding women’s rights. She talked about the number of young women who had been killed over the past year in Herat, and she mentioned a particular case that I had seen over the past couple of weeks. I told her I had read of it, and I was sorry that those kinds of things continued to happen. I also said that I had worked with some very well-educated and progressive young men, whose wives were not in that kind of danger. She told us that because Herat was more progressive because of the number of educated women, more women were being attacked – their education and progress were threats to the centuries-old culture.

And then she talked about their day-to-day work. It seems that many couples in Afghanistan have the same problems that couples do in America: they don’t communicate. In many instances, the minister said, women will call asking for help because their husbands are continuing to beat them for some reason. The ministry gets the couple in for some good, old-fashioned mediation. What the ministry workers find is that the couples have not talked about their problems. The workers will have the woman state her problem, and then will require the man to respond, and then they will talk together until the problem seems to be resolved – at least for the time being.

The minister said that this approach works because divorce or conviction for abuse of a woman in Afghanistan is not good for anyone. First, if a man is convicted for abusing his wife, he will be thrown in jail. Because most women are not educated and cannot provide for themselves or their families, if their abusive husbands are in jail, the children are not being fed, and the wife cannot help the family. If the couple is divorced, again, the wife has few rights under the law (which, remember, is also the religious law) in that her children will be with her only until they are seven, and then they will be placed with their father. Additionally, because the woman probably has little education, she cannot provide for her children without her husband’s contribution.

Obviously, the ministry’s approach does not work every time, and in some instances, things do not change for the women. The first day I went to a meeting at the ministry, for instance, I saw a young woman walking along the sidewalk with two small children in tow. She was crying. I’m sure she did not have a good outcome with whatever was going wrong in her life. And the law that leaves children with their mother only until the end of their seventh year is certainly a disincentive for a woman to do what may be best for both her and her children’s safety – and that is to “get thee to a” shelter (rather than a nunnery). And at present, Afghanistan has precious few shelters for abused women and their children. So until things change – and they will, some day – what the ministry has to offer by way of mediation is a blessing.

The ministry also helps women whose friends or neighbors report abuse that the woman is afraid to report herself. If someone reports abuse, the ministry goes to the house with the police, and the woman is taken to safety, and is checked to make sure that she is physically sound. In this instance, though, a quirk in the law, at least I call it a quirk, and I think I told you about this a few weeks ago, allows a woman to withdraw her complaint against her husband at any time during the process should he be prosecuted for abuse. This happens in the United States as well, when a woman will be abused, call the police, make a complaint, and prior to the trial, either get together with her significant other and make up, or he threatens her within an inch of, or with, her life.

In all this, I left the meeting feeling as if something is being done, something important, and that this little woman, who showed me her short hair and complimented me on the color of mine, is a part of it. I felt honored when we left and she gave me, as well as my companions, a “New York” kiss. I will see her again, and I know I will enjoy hearing her stories.

To finish the day, I asked Azizah, our birthday girl, where she wanted to be in 10 years. “Doing work for gender rights and human rights,” she said. “That is why I do this work.” And you know, I want to do whatever I can to make sure that she does exactly that.

Tanu and Kabul

One of the unexpected pleasures of my adventure is meeting people from other lands – and not just Afghanistan. One of the most delightful young women on camp is from India, and her smile could light up a room. Actually, her smile does light up a room. She is pretty and sweet and gentle, and she has been very friendly and kind to me. I think she has worked here for a while, and is in the finance department. It seems to me that she worked for a big name accounting firm somewhere.

Well, I was doing something and turned quickly and knew that I had pulled something in my back. It wasn’t serious, but what followed would probably keep me off the treadmill for a few days – or it should have. I kept thinking that it would get better, and so I tried the treadmill, and that wasn’t very smart. When I was with my yoga group yesterday, I mentioned it, and one of the women suggested that I get in touch with Tanu. I asked why, and it turns out that Tanu practices Reiki, which is a Japanese method of relaxation that uses laying on of hands to effect, and affect, one’s energy. I like to say that it’s kind of like Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid; however, Reiki is a much more spiritual endeavor than fixing the Karate Kid so that he could kick the bejeebers out of the big old bully.

What I experienced was total and absolute relaxation, feeling small hands lying without pressure on my back, my shoulders, and, eventually, pressing gently up against my feet. It was if I were having the best massage ever, but both masseuse and client were absolutely quiet and still.

I entered Tanu’s room, which, unlike mine, actually has some character and warmth. I like to think I could add character to my room, too, if I didn’t want to cover everything in plastic to avoid the dust that (here again I defer to Mr. Sandburg) that comes in on little cat feet all the time. My room is bathed in fluorescent bright blue; Tanu’s room has the same kind of lighting, but it seems softer. She has covered a trunk in some puffy things and added some colorful throw pillows, and it looks like a little sofa or love seat covered with bright Indian type fabric. She has turned her mattress upside down, and her bed looks like a real bed with a bedspread and lots of pillows. Tanu even has a bedside lamp. And best of all, Tanu’s room smells good.

She asked me to come in, and then bade me to lie down on her bed any way I felt comfortable. I took off my shoes and lay face down with my arms to my side. Very quietly, she asked me where my back hurt, and I awkwardly touched the place on the right side of my back, about halfway between my spine and my side on that flat bone (and I can’t remember its name!). The next thing I felt was a cool sensation. I could feel both her very small hands right on top of the spot that caught, and they were cool. She left them there, almost weightless against my form, for quite some time, but I don’t know how long. I just felt an overwhelming sense of relaxation, as if I could go to sleep right there.

After a while, she moved her hands to my shoulder blades. She almost immediately asked me if I had pain in my right shoulder. I told her that I did not, at least not right now, but when I have had shoulder problems in the past, they were on my right side. She said nothing, but continued to rest her small, cool hands on my shoulder blades, and my sense of calm and relaxation continued. Eventually, she moved her hands down to my feet, putting one of her hands on the sole of my right foot, and one on the sole of my left foot. Now her hands were hot! Their temperature changed immediately and drastically. I didn’t say anything, but enjoyed feeling the warmth on what were usually my very cold feet.

After a while, I felt her hand on my back again, which couldn’t have been possible because I still felt her hands on the soles of my feet! But I did feel one of her hands on my back, and then realized that on my feet I was still feeling only the warmth of her hands. Her hands on my back were cool again, but not quite as cool as they had been at first.

Too soon, Tanu told me she was through, and that I could rouse myself when I felt ready. I felt ready right away, and slowly got up, not feeling the slightest twinge in my back. I was unsure of what to say, but told her that I felt wonderful and relaxed and energized. I also told her about the varying degrees of temperature in her hands, and she told me that she was experiencing heat from my body. She told me that her mother had been her teacher, and that she felt energized when she touched the people who for some reason or another needed her help.

She then told me that people have physical and emotional pain, and that both are manifested in the human body. Tanu looked at me seriously and told me that when a person feels anger, that emotion hangs in the shoulders, so while I could easily have experienced shoulder pain because of sitting in a bad chair, or spending too much time at the computer, I could also be feeling the pain of my anger over something. I visualized the number of students I have who don’t turn in their papers on time, and, yes! I could feel the pain!

I felt good enough to go to my “flabdominals” group, and was doing just fine until I tried to do something on my side. Guess what? I felt the twinge again, and knew that I had just ruined Tanu’s good work. Fortunately, she had told me that I needed three “treatments” in a row, and so I would have to undergo her laying her hands on me regardless of my mistreatment of my back. But I knew I would have to lay off the treadmill for a couple of days. Well, I will just sleep in until 7:15!

* * * * * * * *

I got to go to downtown Kabul again yesterday – at least I am going to assume it is downtown. It should be – lots of cars go lots of different directions, and lots of people walk on sidewalks, and the occasional horse-drawn or donkey-drawn wagon carrying fresh produce makes its way through the traffic, and storefronts bathed in dust welcome passers-by. Every now and then, we heard the blare of a car horn and someone yelling, but for the most part, the people driving down all sides of the road do so in silence, always looking to find a space between the cars big enough for them to squeeze into, regardless of which way the traffic is going. I actually saw a cab going the other way on a traffic circle.

Here in Kabul, I have not seen the joyful tuk-tuks, the little enclosed, gaily painted motorcycles that dot the streets of Herat. I have, however seen herds of goats here and there along the roadways, juxtaposed with lines and lines of traffic that would rival a rush hour in any United States city. While most of the women I see wear traditional dress, I have occasionally seen women in light blue burkhas with netting covering their eyes so that can at least see where they are going – or what is coming at them. I have also seen several street vendors selling sunglasses – lots and lots of sunglasses – and for good reason. The sun is extremely bright, and walking in and out of dark, dank buildings mistreats one’s eyes. I have yet to see a woman in traditional dress sporting sunglasses, though.

As we navigate through the streets of Kabul, I am struck with how normal the sights are. Other than the dust, dirt, and dress, we could be in any old, run-down city anywhere where crowds of people and cars abound. But we are not. We are in Afghanistan, and I am far from home.

Friday Before the Friday Before the Thursday

It is my day off and I am in Kabul. Because of a security threat, I can’t go shopping! Can you imagine? I was hoping for some ability to travel out into the city so that I can see it and let you know what it looks like and feels like, and here I am in my room and can’t go anywhere – just like Herat! Actually, I did go somewhere earlier today: we had a bazaar on the camp, and I bought myself a rug to try to help me keep from tracking dust into my room. I bought a lapis lazuli box for my jewelry (I don’t have much here, but I wanted to keep it in one place), a colorful wrap, and a backpack for my trip home. I don’t want to have to check any luggage.

Tonight, we are going to have a movie, with popcorn, I might add, and I will be going to that. I also am going to the yoga class this afternoon, which will be good. Yesterday, we worked on “flabdominals,” and then I had lots to do on the “Friday” of my week.

Most of my Washington training class is here at the same time! We agreed to meet for dinner, so after the horrible exercise class, we found each other at the dining hall. The camp has a weekly poker game and bar, so we went from dinner to there and had cocktails and caught up with each other. It was so good to see everyone! We are here in different stages – one man got here a week before I did, a couple got here a little after I did, and then three more showed up over the last month. I think one of our cohorts has taken a job in Cambodia, and I’m not sure about the other person, but the rest of us had a great time talking. It turns out that one of the security people is in the camp right next to this one, and so I am going over there next Thursday to say hello. He is the head of security there, and I was hoping he would be at our camp in that position, but no luck.

At the bar, there were two full poker tables and a very nice bar with one grumpy bartender and one very congenial one. Someone, one of the poker players, I think, had an iPod filled with great music, so while we were sipping our drinks (Michael and I had Jameson, and everyone else drank red wine), we heard wonderful jazz and it was almost like being out on a Friday after work before it’s time to go home. I can’t tell you how much the gathering lifted my spirits.

In two weeks, I will be heading home, and I can hardly wait. I am trying not to count the days, or they will go slowly - but it's only 14 days!!!!!

Tomorrow, it’s back to work, and I will begin again finding my place in a new team, this one dedicated to trying to advocate for gender justice in a country where women are still prosecuted and lashed or thrown in jail for engaging in sex outside of marriage, or for looking as if they might want to engage in sex outside marriage. They are still traded away to atone for the sins of someone in one family against a member of another family. They are still beaten by their husbands and mothers-in-law, and they are still mutilated by their husbands for being disobedient – or for any other reason that might sound acceptable. Under the law and under Sharia law (according to the Constitution, no law in Afghanistan can conflict with the law of Islam), any woman has the right to refuse an engagement. Forcing a woman into a marriage is illegal under both Sharia and the Afghan Penal Code, but it is perfectly acceptable according to culture. That is where I will be doing my work. It will be a challenge.

I’ll let you know how it goes!