Another Day in Kabul Town (with apologies to the Gershwins)

Today was another day in Kabul. At the end of this day, I will turn another calendar page and will be headed toward winter. By the time I come back from my home leave, I will be able to turn yet another page! I now have under 300 days to serve.

It is raining hard right now. I was talking to Emily on Skype and heard some noise and couldn’t figure out what it was. Eventually, I went out in the hall to look, because I suspected it was raining – and I was right! I know tomorrow will be colder – but I am not complaining because I know that those in the northeastern part of America have experienced cold and rain and wind – and some snow - all much worse than it is here. I think I am a day behind, but the last I heard was that at least 50 people had died in the storm. That is a terrible number and a terrible storm.

Today, I went with my team leader to a government compound building and met with another one of my team members who serves with a government agency. I had met him once before in Herat, as he team-taught a gender justice seminar to a group of Afghan lawyers.

I need to stop here and express my admiration for the Afghan people I have worked with. They are, to a person, smart, educated, and (here is the most incredible part to me) they speak their language, as well as mine. I have always thought that I should have some facility with languages – at least that is what research says: Because I am musically talented, I should do well with math and languages. So far, I have not found that to be true. I am so linguistically challenged that I remember French when I am speaking to Mexican defendants, but some minutes after the Mexican defendants have left the courtroom, I can dredge up the Spanish word for whatever the French was that came so easily. These people can listen to someone speak their language and tell me in mine what that other person is saying AS HE SAYS IT!!!

So today, my colleague was reading, in Dari (one of the Afghan languages), some legislation, and telling us, in English, what he was reading. Isn’t that something? My job was to take what he told us and write it as a synopsis for general consumption. It all worked so well together. I love work that happens like that.

Now, after that bragging, I need to tell you about traveling in Kabul. I saw no sheep today, nor did I see goats. I saw traffic as I couldn’t have imagined it. Think of being in a helicopter and looking down and seeing three highways, separated by medians of grass and trees. Now imagine that very heavy traffic on one highway was going west, very heavy traffic on another highway was going east, and very heavy traffic on the remaining highway was going both directions, but not in any given lanes. Now imagine that on the other highways, where traffic was going in only one direction, outlier vehicles were traveling against the flow of the other cars and trucks. And every now and then, add a person who lazily stepped out into the path of vehicles going as fast as possible under hideous traffic conditions. That was what I saw today.

The city itself is simply, as my mother would say, “Filthy McNasty.” Dust is everywhere, including on the leaves of trees and on rose petals. I have yet to see a clean car. It is easy to see the effects of years and years of war and conflict. Buildings look bombed out, worse for wear, and run down. Stores are embellished with signage written in peeling paint. Streets are pockmarked with huge potholes. Trash litters the streets, and I saw a police officer merely kick the trash toward a storm sewer opening (at least I think it was a storm sewer opening). Construction is stopped mid-scaffolding.

People are everywhere, cars are everywhere, the feeling is of chaos, dirt swirls around, people protect their lungs with nose masks and heavy scarves draped over their mouths, nothing seems settled. But interestingly, in the middle of what looks like some H.G. Wells movie set, we found small pocket parks, green with grass, dotted with long stemmed roses, and featuring lovely fountains. Is it any wonder that the country itself is having trouble finding its equilibrium?

I came back to the camp and did my work, had some hot tea, finished work, did about 45 minutes of yoga with some other women here who also aspire to calm, and then went to a Halloween party, where I danced with myself for about an hour (Max wasn’t here to twirl me around). The rain began, the electricity went out, I talked to Emily, Mother, and Max, and now it is time to shower and head to bed.

My overriding feeling after today is that here, amidst all this chaos, all this dirt, all this horrible traffic where the rules of the road are whatever a driver can get away with, some people are working every day to make it a better place – and I am not talking about the Americans who are here doing an honorable job. I am talking about the people who will be here when the Americans are gone – those people who want clean cars, well-maintained buildings, smooth roads, driving rules that make sense and safety, and a lawful justice system.

Tomorrow is another day!

New Place, New Time, New Work

My first workday in Kabul has come to an end, and though I miss the Herat staff like crazy, this is going to be a good move for me.

The first news is this: I don’t have to be at work until 9:15!!! Did I tell you that yesterday? I feel like shouting it from the rooftops! My body clock is back at work! Woo hoo! So today I got up around 7, hit the treadmill until 7:40, took a shower (boys, turn your backs) and got to SHAVE MY LEGS, and was at work at 8:52, celebrating the moments of my life. Does a day start much better than that?

My supervisor is going to be a good supervisor for me. She sat down with me, told me about the projects that are underway in the office and what my part in them would be. She gave me a project to do for the day, we figured out the best way to get it done, and then I started in.

At noon, I joined an English class for Afghan nationals. It is being taught by Afghan nationals, which to me doesn’t quite make sense – if I were learning Dari, I would want the most learned Dari linguist and grammarian to teach me. It seems that the students would want to be taught English by people whose native language is English. But that isn’t necessarily the way it is. Regardless, I am going to teach a class in technical writing next Tuesday, about how to write e-mails. The lesson will be KISS – Keep It Simple, Sweetie!

I finished my project in the afternoon, which pleased my new supervisor, and then I came back to my slightly larger room and talked to Max via Skype. Then I went to an exercise class that focused on abdominals, or as I call them, “flabdominals,” and then I ate dinner with four friends I had met in Washington and in Kabul prior to my time in Herat.

All in all, it was a good day, and I enjoyed the camaraderie. I also had plenty to keep me busy, which was a trade-off for the laid-back environment in the Herat offices - most enjoyable, but not too fast-paced. After all, what could be better than a day with just enough to do and then some extra time to find out more about Islam and Afghan culture from Esman and Hasat? The answer is – not too much. As I said last night, I have been a lucky girl.

Tomorrow, I will go with our section leader to a government office in Kabul, and tomorrow night, the camp is throwing itself a Halloween party. Then a friend will come over from the other camp on Thursday night, and she and I will go shopping for some winter clothes on Friday. A colleague here has arranged a bazaar on Friday afternoon and a movie on Friday night, so my day off will be as full as a day at work. I wonder how I will get anything done – such as cleaning my slightly larger room? It is a good problem to have.

I will have lots to tell you about my trip to downtown Kabul tomorrow. Now that Esman has told me how to add photos – I hope you look down to the last post so you can see Fearsome Handsome Ferocious instead of just hearing about him – I will try to take some pictures so that you can get an idea of what this city looks like – and feels like – and maybe sounds like.

My being in this far-away place evokes many feelings that I was not expecting, and here is one: I really like talking to you and sharing this experience with you. Being able to do that, and hearing from you when something I say touches you, makes me feel not quite so lonesome and not quite so far away from home. Tonight, when I was getting ready to flatten my tummy (fat chance, no pun intended), I talked about how Skype, Facebook, and e-mail keeps me in my life. I got the idea that the other women didn’t spend as much time as I do on this miraculous machine, but I thank heaven above that it is available for me. I never knew I counted so much on the touch of others – and obviously, I am not talking about physical touch. And for my Aunt Catherine (Susie to those special few) and for Vida, both of whom have complained about my general lack of contact, I promise that I will remember that lesson. Because really the lesson is that we have each other, and that itself is a treasure.

Thank all of you. Until tomorrow with a new experience.

On The Road Again

Today has been an emotional roller coaster. I got up and took my laundry to the man who has been so sweet to not only wash and dry my clothes, but also to iron them on occasion (I must remember to give Max a tip for doing the laundry each week) and tried to tell him that I was leaving by noon. Finally, I gave up and went to the dining hall to find Esman or Hasat to ask one of them to please explain that I needed the sheets before noon.

Then I tried to stuff all my things into my two humonga bags and my little carry-on and my purse. Everything went in except my laundry detergent and one pair of shoes that I forgot to take out of the wardrobe (the first time I called it an armoire) closet. The good news is that one of the guys from Kabul is going to Herat on Thursday, and he will bring those things to me. So here I was with these bags, each weighing as much I as I weigh, a small bag stuffed to the gills with my computer and other electronics, my body armor and helmet, my work computer, and a cross-body bag that carried my iPad and everything else I couldn’t get into another place. How did this happen? Two boxes from Max and two from Emily, and I was over my limit!

I went upstairs to work, and talked for the last time to Esman and Hasat, trying not to cry yet again, and then we had a staff meeting at 10. But it was a party. The boys had gotten me a cake, and Jawad had brought some chocolate candy bars celebrating the birth of his new little girl on October 19. I was very surprised but also touched. I had asked Esman to bring some cookies, and he said he would bring a cake, but when I arrived in the office and saw no cake, I thought he had forgotten. When he told me that on the first day of Eid, one of his friends had died of stomach cancer, I wasn’t concerned that he forgot the cake, but understood why my moving on wasn’t the first thing on his mind. It turned out, though, that he hadn’t forgotten, and I felt wonderful.

At the meeting/party, I told them all how much I appreciated them and how much I had enjoyed each of them and hoped to stay in touch with them. Esman spoke for everyone and told me that they had enjoyed their time with me and were sad to see me go but wished me the best. He said that they felt as if in me, they had a friend. On the way back to the office, he told me that I was the first person who had worked there whom EVERYONE liked. I felt very special and very humbled.

And then it was time to go.

Ferocious came to the office a little before noon and asked if I was ready, and all the guys carried all the suitcases out. Because our camp is on gravel, the suitcase rollers did no good, and two guys had to carry one bag! It was pretty funny. I gave all of them a hug and told them to go back to work. I wasn’t really concerned about the propriety of hugging them; I just did it, and I don’t think any of them was shocked.

Now, if you haven’t been reading my story from the beginning, I will go back here to remind you about how I arrived in Herat two months ago:

We finally arrived at our destination, and to my surprise and delight, a friend from my first stop, Ron, was there to greet me, as were his security people, Huge and Ferocious. As I struggled to right my bags, which were treated well by the crew, Huge picked up one of the suitcases as if it were a box, and carted in the 50 feet to the armored vehicle in which I would be riding to my new home.

I started to ask if he didn’t want to roll it, but then stopped. Why ask? The bag was at the vehicle.

I had spent two hours on a plane, and so I had to find a bathroom. Right away. Many people in this area speak Italian, and darn the luck, all I could think of to ask was, “Donde es el bano?” which is Spanish for, “Where is the bathroom?” We wandered, Ferocious and I, through the graveled pathways, and we finally found a bar. There had to be a bathroom there, right? There was. It was either a man’s bathroom, or a unisex bathroom with two stalls. I didn’t care. Poor Ferocious. I don’t think he knew what to do.

His reaction was not unlike Max’s, when, after we were married and I don’t think he even then understood what he was in for, we were in Kansas City, maybe south of the Plaza or somewhere, and I had to go to the bathroom, and there were three women in line for the ladies’ room and no one in line for the men’s room (can you imagine, ladies?). I made Max scope out the men’s room for inhabitants, and then went inside for my purpose. Although not apoplectic, Max was speechless for a while. Then I asked him what he thought I should have done, and of course, he had no answer. From then on, he was my willing guard if I needed one.

I have to say that Ferocious did himself proud.

So today, Ferocious completed the circle and took me to the airport, where we arrived on time and waited an hour for the plane. When it finally got there, he carried each bag as if it were a little box from the truck to the plane and LIFTED it about five feet off the ground to the plane’s cargo hold. I stared in amazement. Those bags were heavy. And he did the same thing with my body armor, which by that time had to feel as heavy as a cereal box. He gave me a hug and told me that he was sorry to see me go, and asked me to stay in touch. And of course, I will. E-mail is so darn easy!

And while I am on the subject of Ferocious, I have a picture of him that I am trying to figure out how to post – and darn the luck, I forgot to ask Esman to help me. I actually sat down with Ferocious to ask him some questions, because I can’t fathom the kind of life he and Huge and Substitute Huge lead. They have all spent so much time away from home, and they plan to spend more years away. It’s something I just don’t understand. Most of the people I know have roots and want to keep them. These guys, on the other hand, don’t really have roots, nor do they seem interested in putting any down.

Ferocious joined the British Air Force when he was 19 and stayed in for four years. After that, he began working construction and couldn’t stand it. He heard from a friend about being in the security business, and he thought that sounded pretty good. He liked “soldiering,” and thought that security would be similar. And for him, it has been.

Men, and women, I suppose, who aspire to be in the security business, can take training seminars toward that end. The one Ferocious attended was about five or six weeks long, and enhanced his soldiering skills, by including instruction on being a bodyguard, which employs the same skills as the military, but in a different way. He said that a particular seminar in South Africa, which is highly desirable, includes a week in an ambulance ride-along, giving the participant hands-on experience in the possibilities of what can happen in the security business. At one point in his seminar, Ferocious took real fire, as in real bullets, as he passed what I would call a final readiness test. And that preparation has taken him now for about 10 years into war zones.

I asked him if he had ever been afraid, and he said he has, but he just keeps on going. He said that one time in Iraq, his buddy was killed as they stood next to each other. He said that was a sobering moment – but it wasn’t enough to keep him from doing what he likes.

I, of course, homebody as I am (as I am sure you recall), cannot imagine being so footloose and without a home base. He, however, enjoys that about this job. He says that the job provides him with a good salary and a great deal of freedom, and he never feels tied down. I asked him about his relationship with his family, and he told me that his father had died before he turned a year old, and that he and the rest of what is now his family had not been particularly close. I imagine that gives him a certain ability to allow himself to wander, although he does talk frequently with his two siblings.

His job is to keep me safe, to make sure that where I am going is safe, and to make sure I stay safe when I get there. The first time I rode with him in the truck with him as shooter, I watched him watch the road and traffic. He never took time to watch the herds of goats and sheep as I did. He watched the rearview mirror; watched traffic; watched the outside rearview mirror, making sure that we were not being followed, that we did not drive too closely to other vehicles or that other vehicles did not drive to closely to us - which could put us in a dangerous situation - and watched all the pedestrians who could have walked in front of us and have been hit. He is the leader of the team, and he hires and fires the drivers and sets the schedules of the other men who also make sure we are safe. He decides whether it is safe to go out of the camp on a particular day. And the one time someone fired shots outside the camp, he and Sub Huge came to get us, put us in a bunker, and stood watch outside the bunker until we heard the all clear. We were never in any danger, but I felt completely safe because they were there, and I knew they wouldn’t let anything happen to me.

At 33, he has benefited from his job in that he has what I would call a partnership with some friends back in England, and they own a lucrative franchise, and he owns real estate in three different countries. I asked him if he was attached, and he had been, but is no longer. It seems that the last young woman in whom he was interested was ready, as women are wont to do, move forward, and he was not. He said that he never had been really interested in marriage because he couldn’t imagine someone telling him what to do all the time. I assured him that I didn’t tell Max what to do all the time (okay, I kind of stretched the truth a little there), but even if I did, Max didn’t always do it, and we worked those things out. I have a feeling that someday, some woman is going to get really lucky.

And as we spent our hour together, he brought home the fact that these men, whose job it is to really put their lives on the line for someone like me, are really just people, doing a job in a faraway place, away from their friends and family. Last night, as a kind of farewell, Julie, Will, Sub Huge (who for now I will call Tim), Ferocious (who for now I will call Maurice), and I went out for a pizza. We hadn’t gone out very much, and this was a real treat. Tim was telling me about his parents’ retirement, and how he was going to visit them for Christmas, and how he was looking forward to their retirement and to their traveling and just enjoying life. And while we were on our way to the airport, Maurice gave me the news that Tim’s mother had been killed in a car accident, maybe while we were enjoying our pizza and he was looking forward to his trip home. He had put Tim on a plane at 10 that morning, after Tim awoke him at 3 to tell him the bad news. I listened as he talked to Tim on the phone, encouraging him to stay home as long as he wanted, that he, Maurice, would give Tim his leave so that he didn’t have to come back early – Maurice was supposed to leave day after tomorrow for the month of November, and was willing to give that up for his “mate.”

So tonight, I sit here in my slightly larger real room that is in a real building outside Kabul, instead of a connex outside Herat, feeling the pain that goes along with leaving someone or someones behind, and recognizing my absolute good fortune that in such a foreign and fearsome land, so far from home, I have managed to fall in with a number of stellar people, I have cared about them and they about me, some have worked with me and laughed with me and told me about their lives, and a couple have kept me safe. I am truly a lucky girl.

Almost TIme

On my next to last day in Herat, I worked like a crazy person editing a very long newsletter. It was interesting to read, but I couldn’t take my time as I would have liked to, because I had a deadline. Esman and Hasat will not be back until Monday, so I can get used to the idea of their not being around. I am still sad, but I think I am over the worst of it. Until I leave!

The hardest thing to do about packing a life is to put the life in a suitcase after using it – for instance, what am I going to do with my wet towel on Monday morning? It’s time to wash my sheets, so I think I will have to get the sheets to the laundry first thing on Monday morning so they will be clean and ready to go when I am. Then I can just shove them in my suitcase, and my bed in my new room will feel comforting.

I am leaving some Hershey’s Kisses here. Esman and Hasat had never seen them, and so I will give some to each of our staff to remember me – it will be their first kiss!!!

I didn’t go to sleep easily last night, so I am going to hit the hay early and try to make up for lost time. Worse, when I turned on my alarm, I didn’t turn it on all the way, and so it didn’t go off. How I woke up at 7, I will never know.

The moon is almost full and the camp looks almost peaceful in the evenings. Because all our Afghan staff is on holy day holiday, the camp sounds quiet, almost peaceful, during the day. The quiet is broken, however, by the sound of a ping-pong ball hitting the table again and again, back and forth, back and forth, because some soldiers don’t have much to do at that particular time. The cat, meowing softly and looking for a luckless bird, wanders back and forth on its little cat feet (Thank you, Carl Sandburg) across the “piazza” where the pizza oven stands, now unused. A lone soldier sits on a bench outside and murmurs on his cell phone, probably to someone back home. A Gurkha guards the rose garden, aided by a down jacket hanging from a tree and flapping in the wind, like some weird-looking scarecrow. On Monday, though, things will be back to normal and bustling – at least until some date between now and the end of 2014, when this camp will probably be silent. And maybe peaceful.

Preparing

It is Friday and my day off. I have been packing and getting ready to go on the next stop in my year-long experience. I will miss my little room, but I am looking forward to seeing my next little room, which is slightly larger than this one. I also am looking forward to having dinner on Monday with some of my friends from Washington and from Kabul.

I was going to shop at the bazaar today, but I forgot that Eid is being celebrated today, and so the camp is deserted, and the bazaar is not open. I will have to buy my backpack next week.

Ferocious brought me another present yesterday. I think he will miss me. Our team is going to one of the military bases tomorrow or the next day, and I am getting my interview with him so that I can tell you more about him. He never knew he would be famous!!!

I looked yesterday to see how many people are reading what I say, and I am overwhelmed and grateful for the audience – which, believe it or not, extends to Russia and South Korea. What in the world? How did that happen? I’m thrilled for the audience in Sedalia!

I started looking around today, and will try to take some pictures so that at some point, I will be able to show you where I live. For today, I have a couple that I think are interesting: roses among thorns. Seriously. It is hard for me to believe that in this place of dirt and dust and gravel, these beautiful flowers can thrive. I think they illustrate that old bromide: Bloom where you are planted. For some, obviously, it’s easier than for others. But these roses remind me that where seeds take hold, some good things can follow.

Yesterday, we had a little excitement. I was working at the computer, very diligently working, and something crossed my brain that sounded like something but it wasn’t loud enough or important enough to distract me from my task. A little while later, I heard Julie yelling, “What’s going on?” and so I thought I might want to find out what the problem was. I opened the door and looked out and saw the guy from Jefferson City walking past our building holding his AK-47 at the ready. I was getting the idea that I missed something, and Julie told me she thought the noise might have been a gunshot.

I have always wondered what I would do in a situation like that – when something unexpected and probably dangerous happened. I have always assumed that I would be logical and clear-headed and simply do what was necessary to handle the situation. Well, I was right except about one thing. The FIRST thing I did was act like my father, who, when the tornado siren went off, went outside and scanned the sky to see God knows what. So my unbelievable first reaction, after making fun of my father for years and years, was to take a step toward the open part of the building to see what was going on.

Then I followed with the logic and clear-headedness, and headed toward my little room, where I quickly put on my Kevlar and then got back to work. I did move from my desk to Esman’s, as his is away from the window and he had the day off for Eid. After all, what was I going to do about it? I don’t have a gun, and everyone thanks God for that, even if he or she doesn’t KNOW that thanking God is the correct response. All the security guys were out in force, doing their thing, finding out what happened and where the shot, if it was a shot, came from. I felt very safe, which is exactly what I would not have felt like if I had a gun.

When I shot a gun in training, my hands were really sweaty. I think it’s because I just had never held one before, and I certainly didn’t feel comfortable holding one – or firing one, for that matter. Something tells me, though, that if I had to fire one, I could do it. I have been able to do, during my entire life, whatever it takes to get me through whatever it is, and I think firing a gun would be exactly the same. Let’s just keep me where I don’t have to find out.

After a while, I took off the vest – it is blue, and I was wearing black, and my wearing the two together would distress Emily to no end. And it turned out that whatever happened was not a shot, and whatever it was occurred when one of our guys did something, so we were never in any danger. I never felt any danger anyway. I am telling you that the security force, all of them, looked fearsome. Their reaction was a good thing to see. When I leave on Monday, I will be thanking them for their protection during the time I have been here.

The kitchen is cooking out hamburgers tonight, and so I will be eating dinner. This day has been lovely, just like a September day in Missouri – the morning was crisp and a little chilly, and then the sun took off all the chill and was beautiful as I walked around. I know it will get chilly again when the sun goes down, but I expect that the evening will be invigorating. It will be perfect for a cookout. The moon is approaching full, and because we rarely see clouds, the night sky becomes luminous when the moon is up.

I will leave you now, as I must ready my next column for the Democrat. I know you will recognize it, and I hope you enjoy it.

Until tomorrow!

Post Publication: I can't figure out how to insert my pictures. I will have to wait for Esman to help me!

Cordialamente

News today. I will be leaving Herat next week for a new assignment in Kabul with Gender Justice, which is kind of like a division in the company that works on women’s rights. I think it will be a good fit.

But, oh! How I will miss my whole team – Julie and Will and my little guys and my one girl! I can barely think of the day that is coming when their bright smiles and welcoming attitudes will not be the first thing I encounter at work. I will miss our team’s eating breakfast together, laughing as I douse Hasat’s French toast with syrup because he thought syrup went only on pancakes. I will miss Abdul’s calling me “ma’am,” even though I thought it should have made me feel old. I will miss Sadiq’s calm demeanor and brilliant smile, although he doesn’t smile very often. As an aside, I asked Esman why none of them smiles for photos, and he said he thought it is probably because they are all so serious – and who wouldn’t be, as growing up in a war zone probably takes away most of the innocence and joy of youth.

I will miss them all, but of course, as I spend six hours a day with Esman and Hasat, I will miss them the most. They have made my days pleasant, even fun, and they have made my stay pretty close to wonderful. They are both kind and pleasant, capable and smart, friendly and caring, and hopeful. And they have taught me so much, as I believe I have shared much with them.

I will meet new people where I am going, and I will reconnect with those I met previously, but I tell you that a small hole will remain in my heart for some time as I get used to a day at work that does not start with their cheery “Good morning!”

They told me that they would stay in touch, and that they have wanted to stay in touch with many Americans they have worked with, but that they drift away – and of course, sometimes, that’s what life does. It interferes with the people we want to keep dear. Work becomes overwhelming, children demand, the house needs to be cleaned, there isn’t enough time in the day, and somehow a year has passed and we haven’t kept in touch as we would like. But in me, they will have a willing pen pal, and someone to count on if necessary.

These young men have been unexpected and extraordinary bright spots in my life when I really needed them, and knowing that I will leave them the next day I see them pretty much breaks my heart. I had a hard time leaving home, leaving Max, leaving Emily, leaving my friends and the rest of my family, but I refused to let myself break down and bawl, because I think I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop. Now, however, I am allowing myself some of those tears as I move on to whatever follows, knowing that I have already met people who have had an impact on my life, and knowing that I must leave them behind, hoping against hope that our lives will stay connected nonetheless.

Another Celebration

Thursday through Sunday are holidays for Islam. This is the end of the Hajj, when Muslim pilgrims journey to Mecca and Medina (and I need to check my spelling) to walk the path of Mohammad. Thursday is a day of fasting, for those who choose, to commemorate the frantic running of Hagar to find food for her and her son Ishmael after Abraham had turned her out. The story is that Hagar ran between two mountains, Marwah and Safa, trying to find food and water for her and Ishmael, and then on her seventh trip, she saw a spring of water appear where Ishmael sat and waited for her.

After the day of fasting comes Eid, which is a day of celebration. I got the idea, as Esman described it to me, that they celebrate this Eid as we do Easter. The people wear new clothes to prayers, and many more people than usual fill the mosques, and after prayers, families feast together and go to friends’ houses to share in their feasts. Additionally, this is a good time for children: they usually receive gifts, either of new clothing, or in wealthier families, money. When families visit each other during Eid, guests will bring money for the children in the house, and occasionally, the host family will give money to the visiting children.

As an aside, Muslims celebrate another Eid, which comes after Ramadan, which was this year in late July and August. During that 30-day period, Muslims forego food, water, cigarettes, and sexual encounters during the daylight hours, and break their daily fasts only at sunset. In the summer, these can be long days! The Eid that will be celebrated this week, though, is a celebration of renewal of faith.

Esman explained that a lamb (sheep) will be sacrificed, and that the meat is divided by families into thirds: one-third goes to the family for their meal; one-third goes to poor families who might not have enough money to purchase a lamb or to slaughter it; and one-third is offered to guests who will come to visit during the holiday. At the sacrifice, the people give thanks that they are able to sacrifice a lamb instead of sacrificing their children, as, according to the story, Abraham was asked by God to do. Of course, this idea of sacrifice disturbs me; just like I didn’t want to know about the Gurkas’ goat, I certainly don’t want to know about a lamb, which, as we all know because of Mary, is a cute little animal.

I also learned that this Eid is part of a marriage ritual here. Grooms-to-be are expected to bring gifts to their fiancée’s family, and to their fiancée. The gifts to the girl should be the new clothing to wear to prayers, as well as make-up, jewelry, and food, and the gifts to her family should be money – and lots of it. The bride-to-be’s family will spend some of the money buying a gift for the young man, but most of the money will be kept by the family or spent by the young woman’s parents.

This ritual is becoming difficult for many young men, who, without education or a good job, cannot fulfill their fiancée’s family’s expectations for gifts, and therefore postpone the marriage, sometimes for years. In fact, in the past, some of the uneducated and under-employed young men would go to Iran to work for years, saving enough money to provide not only appropriate gifts at Eid, but also appropriate gifts and food for the wedding. With the recent downturn in Iran’s economy, so that Iranian money is now almost useless (sanctions from somewhere we know well at work!) and the number of available jobs is tanking, young Afghan men cannot go there as before to find work that will pay for the expected loot. Esman says that this overwhelming tradition is becoming a topic at Friday prayers, so that the country will look at what the focus on funds is doing to its young people. After all, the thought goes, which is more important? Appropriate and large gifts? Or marriage and a family life?

A fascinating thing I learned about Hajj is that every Muslim should endeavor to make this trip during his or her lifetime, although someone who cannot afford the trip will be excused. Also, pilgrims wear white robes, and men shave their heads, so that all will look the same, as God sees no difference in his children. Women, however, cover their heads with a white scarf. On the 10th day of the lunar calendar, which is Friday this year, the pilgrims sacrifice a lamb as do those who have remained at home. Because they can't use the meat, the pilgrims donate it to the Saudi government, which distributes it to the poor. As I was reading about it, I found travel agents who deal exclusively with the pilgrimage, and most interesting, one of the ten most beautiful airports in the world, according to Time Magazine, is an airport open ONLY during Hajj in Saudi Arabia. I cannot fathom the number of people who must make this trek every year.

I continue to learn a great deal about a country and a religion about which I have known nothing. I am so fortunate to share office space with young men who welcome me and who do not mind discussing their religion with me and explaining it to me, and who accept that my religion is different from theirs, although we share many beliefs. I often have them fact-check my writing to make sure that I have either quoted them correctly or have re-told the stories correctly, and they are very helpful – and don’t complain!

I know they will have much to tell after this weekend, and I will be sure to let you know what that is!

Congratulations, Grad!

What a wonderful day! The students graduated this morning, and I loved every minute of being there. They were happy and appreciative – even of the chicken wings (more about that later) – and were very respectful. No airhorns!

The event began as they all started arriving in the conference room, which our staff had set up earlier, and they chatted as we waited for all the dignitaries to arrive. I took pictures of our staff and of the students, and they all enjoyed, I think, having the camera in their faces. I surprised one man by taking a picture of his shoes because I knew that Max would like them. The officer who strenuously voiced his concern over victims’ as opposed to suspects’ rights, smiled when I took his picture – he had been chosen by the class as their representative.

I had done the grading, and we did acknowledge the “valedictorian” of the class. He had answered 94 of 100 questions correctly, and I was glad that we recognized his achievement. I think he was kind of nonplussed about it, though. I told him that his having the highest score didn’t surprise me at all; his questions in class were clear and pointed and always probing. He was the student who wanted to understand the relationship of state law with federal law.

Eventually, everyone arrived, including (once more, Jim, I apologize) General “Buckley,” who was about 15 minutes late. All the other dignitaries were finally seated in big chairs on the front row, and we began. Our oldest staff member, who has taught before, was the coordinator, and began the solemn program.

First, we heard the national anthem, very majestic and melodically complex, but also very singable – except no one sang! Then, we listened to the invocation, which, as I heard at the Prosecutor’s meeting on my birthday, was intoned beautifully rather than spoken. I imagine not everyone enjoys sung prayer as I do; I just love the musical lift, especially when I have no idea what the words are. Esman explained that the Koran is read aloud with tone, or, to my ears, sung. The reason for this, he told me, is that the Koran is written in very high Arabic, so that it reads like literature, and that is part of it as God’s word – the beauty of the language (as an aside, I have always loved reading the King James Version of the Bible because of the beauty and lyricism of the language). The student giving the invocation was one of my favorites – he greeted me each time I was in class with a welcoming smile.

Then began the speeches. First, the teacher on our staff spoke. He thanked all the students for their hard work and the staff for their hard work. Then the general spoke. And spoke. And spoke. He talked about the obligation of police officers to work according to the law, and how classes such as the one the students had just completed added to their professionalism and understanding of the justice system. He said a lot more, but Esman said it was his thanks for the program, staff, and hard work of the students. Then another department head spoke. He thanked everyone for their hard work and told them to be professional in their jobs and to uphold the standards required for police officers. Our team leader spoke next, and she congratulated all of the students for their hard work and their attendance. The class representative was the last speaker, and he said that everyone was glad to have finished the class and that they had learned much.

Eventually, we came around to handing out the certificates. This was a sight to behold. Each of these men was very proud to accept a framed certificate showing that he had attended and had graduated from an eight-week class regarding the law of the land. The first person called up was the man who had pronounced – sung – the invocation. He stood, stiffly, and actually goosestepped up to the front, saluted the general, and said a few sentences that he had obviously memorized for the occasion. The general kissed him on the cheek (kind of like a New York air kiss), and then he turned around, held the certificate up in front of his face to show the others, and said, “For the people of Afghanistan!” Esman translated for me, and I was touched by the officer’s dignity.

Each student who followed did something similar: came to the front of the room, saluted, was kissed on the cheek, received his certificate, and made a pronouncement to the rest of the crowd. Each of us was honored to bestow at least two certificates to its rightful owner, and wouldn’t you know the officer to whom I presented his certificate was the one who had complained so vehemently about suspects’ rights! He was also the officer who had the courage to begin our discussion of the result of the film insulting Mohammad a few weeks ago. We smiled at each other and shook hands as I presented him with his certificate.

After all the students had their certificates, they gave each of us a certificate. At the beginning of the ceremony, Hasat had asked me if I wanted my name written in Persian or English. I chose Persian, although I had no idea why he wanted to know. So I have a certificate on which my name is beautifully penned by Esman in Persian. He made a cross-through of some letters and wrote something above that, and I guessed, and he said I was right, that the certificate said “Mr.” He crossed that out and wrote “Ms.” I think the certificate says something about “in appreciation of . . .”

And after all the festivities, what comes next? Right! Food!

The camp cooking staff had made a beautiful cake and prepared a picnic-type lunch, with fresh fruit, a fresh veggie mix, homemade rolls, chicken-on-a-stick (I don’t care what anyone says – these things were NOT kabobs!), and, you guessed it, fried chicken wings, which I will not eat not matter what. Our thirteen or so students and five or so dignitaries fell on the table of food like ducks on June bugs, or like locusts, whichever mental picture you prefer. And what they didn’t eat, as soon as they were gone, our staff snarfed up as if lunch were not waiting 50 yards away. The only thing I could see, though, were piles of chicken wing bones. So regardless of what I think of wings, the kitchen knew its audience and prepared food that was mostly gone by the end of the party.

Throughout the whole thing, I watched the young men about whom I have been writing, Esman and Hasat, and all the other national staff who work in the office, and I saw that the ceremony and the party were in very good hands. All these men are young, under 30, I think, and they had the details down to a science. When one of the guest speakers began, we couldn’t hear him in the back of the room, and Esman quickly went to the front and manipulated the microphone so that the speaker’s words became audible. When it was time for the national anthem, Esman was right there with a thumb drive; he poked it in, and the music began on schedule. When each of the guests arrived, Hasat greeted him and showed him to his seat, chatting amiably with everyone, and looking pleasant and as if he knew exactly what was going on. As one speaker kept his spot at the microphone, Hasat leaned over and whispered, “He likes to talk.” And of course, it was my job to keep from laughing.

Sadiq, who is an excellent translator, stood behind me and translated in real time as the general was presenting me with my certificate and I told him that I gave all his officers a chance to argue with a judge. Sadiq said that the general said that he was exhorting (my word) the officers to follow the law so that judges like me wouldn’t throw out their cases.

All the others did their jobs so that the morning’s activities flowed smoothly. It was the first time in a long time that I was at that kind of event and wasn’t in charge. Hey, you know what? It felt pretty good to just watch – especially when the people in charge were doing everything well.

Not only did they do a great job, the guys also looked great. Each of them had on his best clothes. Esman was wearing a black velvet suit – it’s the good, heavy kind of black velvet and not what Elvis is usually painted on. Abdul had on a shiny gray sharkskin-type fabric suit; Hasat had on a brown suit and tie; our teacher had on a black suit; Sadiq had on what he calls his “winter suit,” which is a brown very fine corduroy; and our brand new daddy (his baby girl was just born, but he wanted to attend today) had on a very nice sport coat.

The only problems during the ceremony had to do with talking: first, cell phones kept going off. I had heard that from another person in the company; he had told me that he was surprised to be in meetings with heads of offices or departments, and their phones would ring – and they would answer! That happened today, too. The phone of one of the speakers went off as he was speaking, and he kept talking, reached over, took it out of his pocket, looked at it, presumably to see who was calling, and never missed a beat or a word. Additionally, when one of the speakers sat down, he began a chatty conversation with the person sitting next to him. Our staff member, the teacher, was next, and he kept waiting for the chatting to stop. Hasat whispered to me that he should go ahead, and I told him that a natural teacher just looks at the chatterers, and eventually they stop – as they did.

Other than that, though, I thoroughly enjoyed every bit of the morning. I felt as if I were at some ending ceremony at home – except that I shouldn’t have been able to understand a word that was being said. Oh, but I did.

Teaching/Learning

I found out today that our newspaper started publishing my monthly columns! I am excited about that. Those of you who have been reading from the start of my adventure will recognize portions of the column from my first blog post, but what is in the paper is around 1,000 words. The original was over 1,700! I have received some suggestions about my next few columns, and Emily Jarrett from the Democrat has suggested a couple more; however, I was intrigued that three people suggested the same day’s post, although I am not going to tell you here what it is. You will undoubtedly know when you read it.

Today was a very good day at work, but that means I have very little to tell you about. I enjoy work when I have specific tasks that keep me busy and interested, and that happened today. One of the things I got to do was explain the process for re-sizing pictures for newsletters. This is funny for one reason: I learned how to do that from my students, who know way more about playing with Word than I do. I taught them how to do newsletters, but they had to teach me how to put the things in that make the newsletter appealing to a wide audience. That’s the best thing about teaching: learning from both sides.

Part of the work I did today reported on the teaching that is going on all over this country regarding the law and how to make it effective for all citizens. Although I don’t get to travel out much, at least not right now, what I am reading from all parts of the country tells me that the lessons are falling on fertile ground. As we are told when we are about to be parents, children like structure and like to know what they can count on. I think that is true for society, too. We like structure, and we like knowing what we can count on. In America, we can generally count on the justice system and the courts to work for us. That’s not always true, I know, but for the most part, people who need the court system can access it. Lots of people work long and hard to try to level the playing field so that everyone has a good shot at justice. It’s good to be working toward that same type system in this country, so people who need justice through the courts can get it.

Just as I teach my students and learn from them, I am both teaching and learning here. So far, it’s worked out well.

Thursday

I think Wednesday is my favorite day of the week because the next day is Thursday, my heavy work day, and then, as you know, comes Friday!

Today really was a heavy day at work, which I just love - moving from one project to the next, and at the end of the day, I was ready to relax. I did my yoga, taking more time than usual, and I played some great music on my iPod. Does anyone remember Jeffrey Osbourne? If you haven't heard of him, he did a great album in either the late 1980s or early 1990s. I listened to it today for the first time in a long time, and I still knew all the words to the songs, so I sang along. But I haven't sung in so long that my voice is kind of wobbly! I told Russ that I would play for the early service on November 18, but now I'm wondering if I will be able to sing. I hope so. Maybe we can turn me down.

We are preparing for graduation next week, and I am excited about attending so that I can congratulate each student on hard work well done. This class started a day or so before I arrived here, so I feel as if I know each student, even though I have met with them only a few times. I will miss seeing them. I recorded their grades on the last test today, and the class average was 99%. I think that speaks well for them.

My guys are working toward taking the TOEFL test (I'm not sure what the entire acronym stands for, but it is a test for non-native English speakers). They want me to take a look on my lunch hour at what they have written for the test - I guess part of it is a written exam, both extemporaneous and pre-written. I enjoy reading about their lives. Each of them has worked hard and accomplished much - and they are all so young. I know they will have rich, productive lives, and their country will be better for it. I have a hard time thinking that only a few weeks ago, I didn't know any of them, and now, they add a great deal to my daily life. They are a great group.

The days have become shorter and shorter, and the air colder and colder, so I know that winter approaches. When we have to turn off Daylight Savings Time in the US, I just cringe because of the lack of sunlight; I mark the winter solstice on the calendar, soothing myself with the knowledge that after that day, the days will begin growing longer, if only infinitesimally, and that I know I will be able to make it until Daylight Savings time begins again.

One last thing before I turn in: My first article for the Sedalia Democrat went in today. I am going to do one per month, and I would like for you to help me choose topics. I plan to build the columns from my blog posts, so if you can, and would, I would like to know which post you think would be good for a wider audience - letting more people know what life is like here, and what it is like for me to have left the comfort of my home to come where I don't even get NBC News on television or have a chair to sit in at night. The columns will have to be, for the most part, shorter than my posts, so I will probably have to edit and re-build, but I am interested in the topics that you found enlightening.

And that is all for tonight. I am looking forward to a good day tomorrow.

Girl Talk

More girl talk today – actually women’s rights, but more precisely, civil rights.

We were talking today about a case where a man asked his wife to go get a key from his other wife. The second wife didn’t want to give up the key to the room, because the room was where she and her son sleep, and the guest using the key had been there before smoking hashish so that she and her son could not sleep. The man got mad at both his wives for fighting about the key, and he slapped them. One of them complained to the police, and the husband was arrested. The defense lawyer has at his disposal a law that gives a victim of spousal abuse the right to withdraw her (I use “her” because usually the victim is a “her”) complaint at any time during the proceedings.

I told Esman and Hasat that the decision to stop the pursuit of a complaint was, in the United States, the prerogative of the prosecutor only, and that a woman who is a victim of spousal abuse cannot walk into a courtroom and tell a judge to stop prosecuting her husband. If a woman wants to withdraw her complaint, she must talk to the prosecutor, and then the prosecutor decides whether to continue with the case. The prosecutor makes that decision based on many factors, including whether the case can proceed to “beyond a reasonable doubt” if the woman doesn’t testify. I also know about some cities where the prosecutors instruct police officers to get as much good evidence as possible regarding the abuse so that if the woman does not testify, the evidence is there to convict the abuser regardless.

I explained that women in the United States often are abused, leave their husbands or boyfriends, and then they go back, even though the man has beaten them, sometimes viciously, many times before. They asked why women would do that, and I explained that sometimes, women have no place to go, or no job, or a job that will not support her and her children. I also told them that I have represented many women who will finally have the courage to leave and ask for a divorce, but that the women have little money. When the amount of required child support is disclosed, the men are horrified by the amount they are going to have to pay, and so they exert their power in another way: they threaten to ask for custody of the children unless the mother takes less in child support than she and the children are owed. The woman rarely has enough money to fight a child support battle, and so she gives in, taking much less in child support so that she doesn’t have to fight the court system for her children.

Before anyone jumps down my throat, I recognize that I am speaking in generalities here, and that many men pay a very reasonable amount of child support, pay it willingly, and are good fathers to their children regardless of the fact that they are separated from them. I know there are women out there who take the child support and spend it on themselves, and fight often and hard about the father’s seeing his children. These things all happen. But my experience, especially when spousal abuse is involved, concerns those women who cannot leave for whatever reason. Some of those women continue to say, “But I LOVE him.” That is something even I don’t understand.

Esman and Hasat were somewhat surprised, because that is what happens here in Afghanistan, only more pointedly. They told me that most women here do not have jobs that pay them well enough to take care of themselves or their children. The law says that children can stay with the mother only until they are seven years old. After that, the children will go with their father if the family is divorced. Women whose husbands go to jail for spousal abuse find themselves unable to provide for their own or their children’s needs, and so if they go to the court and withdraw their original complaint, the husband can be released and begin work again, and begin supporting the family again. Additionally, a woman who divorces her husband because of abuse will not be married again. She is doomed in this society to be alone and to have to provide for herself, even if she has no education or job.

What a bleak outlook! However, much is the same in both countries. We both live in societies where some men believe it is their privilege or even their right to control or strike the women in their lives. Although I can’t remember it right now, the number of women in the United States who are injured or killed by their “significant others” is staggering. And often, though the court system may attempt to protect the women who are in impossible situations, the men who use their power to hurt women suffer few consequences. Additionally, though the court offers some support, women often have little other support to make a break for their safety. In this country, men also may strike their wives subject to the law, but the same situation holds. Esman and Hasat say that the women have little power to maintain their lives and their children’s lives in society, and so they find themselves dependent on the men who treat them badly and who suffer few, if any consequences for their hurtful actions.

In the United States, we have come a long way, providing shelters for women so they can take their children and escape brutality in their homes, helping them get an education and a job, and giving them support while they put their lives back to rights. Even then, it generally takes a woman more than one time to leave an abusive situation. In Afghanistan, shelters are a new idea, and only a few exist in the entire country. I imagine it will take a while for them to catch on, especially if the law remains static regarding placement of children and the culture remains static regarding a woman’s place in life. But it is a start. And soon, women will realize that they are able to find the strength to break away and stay safe.

When I read these cases and think about my experiences over the years as I practiced law and handled divorces, I just wish that we all recognized that in any country, hitting is not the answer to anything, and that no one, and I mean no one, has a right to brutalize another. If we can assimilate that and teach it to our children, we are on the way to having societies that will encourage humane treatment for all.

And I remember this story along those lines: I had not been practicing long, when a woman came to me for a divorce. Her husband was abusive, but he had finally crossed the line. He had come after her with a baseball bat and had yanked the phone from the wall when she called 911. She was saved, and they were divorced. About four years later, I had an appointment with a woman whose name sounded familiar, but somehow, it was the wrong name. I wasn’t sure why I was remembering it, but I knew I had heard the name before. This woman was married to an abusive husband, but he had finally crossed the line. She began telling me about how he came after her with a baseball bat and yanked the phone out of the wall. Then I remembered. I asked her if she was married to the ex-husband of the other woman. She was not. She was married to his brother.

My mouth dropped open. She said that I hadn’t heard anything yet. Where did they learn this behavior? When they were little, their father took a baseball bat to their mother. I still was speechless. Eventually I could speak and asked what had happened to the parents. She shrugged. Mom had told Dad that she would leave if he didn’t straighten up, and so he started going to church and found Jesus. He was now a born-again Christian and a delight to be around. Though the boys learned one lesson well, the other one had not translated at all.

We all, it seems, have a long way to go.

Office Work

It is the end of my day, and I reflect on all the happenings today. Most special was the e-mail I received from one of the Afghan employees from Kabul (an NLA – National Legal Adviser). I am helping him improve his English language in his writing. “My dear teacher,” he began. I have to tell you that was a first. None of my students has EVER called me a dear teacher. Most of them, I’m sure, call me names, but “dear” cannot be one of the adjectives used with those names. I think I probably looked like that cartoon of Snoopy when he’s happy and jumping in the air, his ears flapping with joy. I think I helped Farmaz with his sentence construction, and I gave him a three-sentence lecture regarding the use of semi-colons, which David Wuellner says is the smartest punctuation mark. I agree.

I also devised a set of instructions for all the heads of the regional teams to help them insert photos into the weekly reports they must write (and I must edit and correct). I was very careful to follow the instructions I give my tech writing students each semester: 1) every instruction begins with a verb; 2) each instruction should be one step only; 3) all notes should clarify or tell the audience what to expect to see or hear at the end of a step; 4) each instruction should be numbered; 5) all instructions should be divided and sub-divided for clarity; 6) instructions should include visual aids. I didn’t do the last one. The funny part of this task is that it is the time of the semester when I begin the instructions chapter – the eighth and ninth weeks. AND I have told people to use visual aids for instructions, but the truth is that I have never inserted a photo myself – until today! I found out how to do it, I did it, and I instructed other people how to do it. I was just proud of myself. I think I never have had the time to sit down and play with the bells and whistles of Word. If only I could send you pictures now! Unfortunately, I simply can’t do that. At least one of the team leaders responded to the instructions telling me that I was a good spokesperson for the Show-Me state.

Then Esman and Hasat and I talked about the differences in criminal law in the United States and Afghanistan. I was able to access the Missouri statutes and tell them about the differences in first and second degree murder, including felony murder. Their system is so much different from ours. I think I will get to go to a trial sometime soon. If the security situation here gets and remains stable, I should be able to take a trip downtown before I leave for home. That will be quite an experience. Hasat told me today about a couple of cases he saw. Both cases were to be punished with lashes. Hitting. Lashes.

One was a case of two young people who had run away and had spent a month together. They were charged with adultery and were to be judged and punished in a manner that is reflected in the religion – the had. This type punishment is outside the penal code but is mentioned in the Constitution. The judge, according to Hasat, asked the girl if she had indulged in sexual relations with the young man. She acknowledged that she had – at least three times during the month. Then the judge asked the young man, and he denied it! So instead of being lashed, which the defense had asked for, they were both thrown in jail, and the sentence for adultery is up to seven years. I asked why the judge didn’t just marry them. The reason was that she didn’t have an identification number that would have been required for them to get a marriage license. Esman and Hasat tell me that during the time the case goes to the Appellate court, the young woman could get an ID, and then they could get the marriage license, with the thought that the Appellate Court would release them on their intent to marry.

I still have a hard time understanding the criminalization of sex, but it is normal here.

The other case was of public drunkenness. The hapless group of four men, who had maybe been to a party, or who maybe were celebrating some team's latest victory, or who maybe met after work to have a few, were walking, not driving, down a street, when police suspected they might have been drinking. Now, I don't know about you, but I have never found it too difficult to determine when a group of guys has been drinking, especially if they have been drinking enough to make the police look at them. They were all arrested, and all appeared in court, where they were convicted of being drunk in public. Each was sentenced to 80 lashes, and the judge administered those lashes. Hasat and Esman assure me that the lashing is not for pain, but is for shaming purposes only. The idea, however, gives me chills, especially when I think about putting a lash in my hand to mete out punishment on the defendants in the courtroom where I am judge. I think that some of my regular defendants would cringe to see that, too! I think our system of assessing fines or jail or prison time works just fine.

Finally, Esman and I teased Hasat about the time he needs to spend with his new baby boy. The little thing woke up a couple of times last night, and I asked Hasat if he had gotten up to calm him. He laughed and said that he couldn’t calm him because the child was hungry, and only the baby’s mother could feed him. I chastised him and told him he should get up and pick up his son and comfort him, and then take his son to his wife for feeding. He told me that would take too long. At that point, Esman chimed in saying that Hasat should get up when his baby cries. We gave him a pretty hard time. I think it will be a long time before he complains about the baby’s waking up in the middle of the night! But I plan to press my point.

Another day here has closed, and that brings me one day closer to coming home for a visit, and one day closer to accomplishing what I hope to – which is achieving understanding and respect among people who live in different parts of the world with different cultures and laws and ways of looking at life. But we all share this life – the one where we live and die, we love, we hurt, we experience joy and sadness, we laugh and cry, we pray and sing, and we wake up in the middle of the night to feed and love our children.

Conflict

Today, because we were talking about danger in this area, I asked Esman if he were not a little frightened about traveling to work. After all, he or any of the others working for us could be in danger for working with foreigners. He said that he stopped worrying about that a couple of years ago. If something happens, it happens. I told him that I thought that was a pretty fatalistic way of looking at things, and he said that generally, people here believe that God will take care of everything.

Of course, that’s what I think, too, but something in me stops me from believing that God is really excited about a group of people trying to do harm to others because those others do not appear to be following the faith properly. But then, I guess, many wars have taken place because of someone’s religious faith – or lack of the appropriate one. Somehow, I just don’t think that is what our Creator had in mind.

Esman continued talking about his short history – he is not 30 – and he has never seen peace in his country. Every phase of his life has been marred by conflict of some sort – whether civil war, the invasion of the Russians, the Taliban, or now the Americans’ fight here. He remembers that his family one time sought refuge in Pakistan, and he remembers hiding from gunmen when he was five or six. I cannot imagine how one comes to terms with that kind of fear, how one carries on with anything resembling a normal life, when at a young age, he or she hides from soldiers, or when his or her family must flee for their safety. I believe that those kinds of things would affect a person’s life forever, and yet, he seems to be such a normal young man, albeit, as I have noted before, older than most American men his age. No wonder.

He then gave me a truncated history of this country, and how the county has stayed unsettled for decades. I saw pictures of Afghanistan in the 1950s and 1960s, and though most of the pictures were taken in the city, they reflected a country that looked Western. One picture was of people getting on a city bus. The women were wearing headscarves: not hajib, but scarves like the ones Audrey Hepburn used to wear. They were also wearing short, full skirts, like Debbie Reynolds used to wear in Tammy Tell Me True. Some pictures showed men and women in a university classroom, studying together, and in a lab, all in white lab coats, women with no head covering. These pictures were taken, Esman said, either at the time of the last king of Afghanistan, or during the administration of the first president of the country, who, along with his family, was killed by a Russian-backed Communist coup in 1978. That president believed that the future of the country was in progress toward the 20th century, and sealed his fate when he told Communist leader Leonid Brezhnev that Afghanistan would determine its own destiny when Brezhnev told him to remove American advisers from Northern Afghanistan.

What a difference 40 or 50 years can make!

Since those pictures were taken, the country has been in upheaval, thanks to land division by treaty, and to greedy people who want land and power. Truly, the country has many problems, many of which have to do with lack of infrastructure and lack of industry. The country is rich with copper and other minerals, but no one here has the capital to construct a mine, and companies in other countries will not enter into such an endeavor for lack of security. The country is poor – a good salary here in Herat is $1,000/month. That amount may feed, house, and clothe up to five people in one home – or maybe more.

And yet, it is the country of a people, people who love their home as we do in America.

Regardless, some people are trying to kill others in their own country because one group does not pay respect to the religion as the other group thinks it should. The religion controls, but only a certain type of religion, or a certain type of worship, and people, including those in the government, who do not adhere to that religious standard are targeted. Watching this conflict is further evidence that separation of church and state is a must. Whose religion rules? Whose religion’s rules?

Ours was a sobering and enlightening discussion. I hope that Afghanistan can continue to foster a reliance on the law for justice so that the people can depend on justice. And I hope, hope, hope, that Esman and all our little guys (and one girl) stay safe in a place that has, in their lifetimes, never known safety.

Today is Sunday

The past few days have been relatively quiet around here. I enjoyed my Friday off, watching Rio Bravo, that Emily was thoughtful enough to have sent. Angie Dickinson is so cute in that movie. It had to be one of her first. I got my room clean, and then settled down to read for a while. I also did both sets of Cindy’s yoga and an extra mile on the treadmill AND lifted some weights. I felt very virtuous.

Saturday is a work day, which still seems weird, but it is a busy one for me – kind of like Monday would be in the United States. The only difference is that I don’t have enough time off to get into “lazy” mode, so I am ready to go on Saturday, except for that 6:30 a.m. thing.

I decided today to float the idea of having a valedictorian for our classes. Each class is eight weeks long, and during those eight weeks, the students study 11 topics. Prior to each topic, they take a test to see what they know about it, and after they complete the topic, they take a post-test, to measure how much they have learned. I think we should reward the person with the highest post-test scores (all 11 together) and also the person who has shown the most improvement over all the topics. Then we could mention each at the graduation ceremony. Let’s see what happens with that idea.

The big event today was that the boys came to my room to help me fix the windows. I have two little windows that look out over the gravel yard and the bomb shelter. Between the shelter and my windows is a little path that sometimes people (and since few women are at this camp, they are probably men) walk down. Before I got here, someone hung a teeny tiny tapestry of sorts over each window, securing the tapestries to the window frame with push pins. After I got here, I added another curtain – a fitted sheet that partially blocked the windows as well. Those things kind of worked, but Max sent me some plastic window covering that fuzzes up the view so that no one would be able to look in at inopportune times (as if anyone would) and see anything. The problem is that my desk is in front of the windows, and I can’t reach the tops of the windows to take down the tapestries nor put them back up. The logistics of the matter, however, became trivial when one of the tapestries fell down, exposing who-knows-what to the outside world.

So today, I asked Esman and Sadiq if they would mind helping me move the desk, apply the plastic, and replace the tapestries. They were more than happy to oblige. After the desk was moved, Sadiq took down the other tapestry and I cleaned the windows as the plastic covering instructions directed. That was when I saw that the outside of the windows was so dirty that no one would have been able to see in anyway. But we plugged away, trying to follow the instructions, and finally making up our own instructions, so that at the end of the task, the plastic was covering the dirty windows, the tapestries were covering the plastic, and the lovely sheet returned home to the screws that stick out of the wall on either side of the windows. It doesn’t look any different, but I feel better.

I went to church tonight, thanks to Skype and Russ Schupp. It feels so good to hear Alex speaking, and it was quite funny, but this week, I had thought of the verse that was on the lectionary today – the one about how it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get to heaven. For some reason, I was happy not to be rich.

I think the chefs (cooks) have changed at the kitchen, because all of a sudden, dinner isn’t as good as it has been. So I was grateful that Emily sent me peanut butter crackers. I had three of those and a cookie from last night for dinner, along with my water and a sprinkling of Jameson. And speaking of Emily, she is at the Chiefs game in Tampa Bay. I hope things turn out well, for her, but I think she will just be frustrated.

Good night to all, and have a wonderful week ahead. October is half over. That means I am one month from home! I think that’s great news!

Things Are Looking Up!

Well, I didn’t go to the gym, but it wasn’t because I was feeling bad. It was because I was feeling good! A couple of guys from Texas or Oklahoma or somewhere like that cooked out tonight, and as soon as I walked past, they grabbed me and put a Cornish game hen on my plate. About the same time, I got a package from Emily and one from Max. Emily, thoughtful girl that she is, sent me those 90 calorie brownies and some peanut butter crackers. She also sent one of my favorite movies – Rio Bravo, with John Wayne, Dean Martin, Angie Dickinson, Ricky Nelson, and Walter Brennan. Guess what I’m going to be doing tomorrow (AFTER I go to the gym!)?

Emily also sent me three magazines and two of them are cooking magazines! I opened the first one and saw a brown sugar, pear, and pistachio cake. Guess what’s for dinner on Thanksgiving? I might fix a turkey and I might not.

The guys did my laundry today and I have clean sheets and clean washcloths and towels. That seems like such a little thing, but when pleasures are few and far between, clean sheets are just great!

And, finally, Ferocious went to the base today and brought me back a present. It is red and not white. I just don’t see how this day could get much better. What a difference 36 hours make!

Tomorrow is my day off, of course, and I will do the necessary things, but I think I will head over to the bazaar to see what the salesmen have to offer. When I was first in Kabul, at the bazaar there I bought a small rug to use outside my door so I could wipe off my feet before going inside. I couldn’t take it to Herat with me on the plane, so I left it with one of my training friends. Since then, he has been to another location and is now back in Kabul. He said he brought the rug, so when I head back to Kabul on my way home, I will stop and see that rug. I think it would be nice to have one here, so maybe the bazaar people will be willing to bargain for one. I have a little one, but it is barely large enough to hold a pair of my shoes – and I take them off immediately when I come inside; otherwise, the dust would collect so quickly that my room would be dirty all the time. I will appreciate a vacuum when I get home.

That’s really all I have to say tonight, other than I appreciate those of you who took the time to try to lift me from my doldrums the other day. It certainly helped, and I was humbled by the number of people who told me hello and that things would be better. And today, they are.

A Better Day

I got to teach class again today. The topic was interview and interrogation. Until the Rule of Law program established itself here, an overwhelming number of criminal cases were solved because the defendant would confess – sometimes quite unwillingly, and sometimes wrongfully. The Afghan Constitution gives defendants here, just as in the United States, the right to remain silent and the right to a lawyer. Sometimes, however, defendants were not notified of that right, and the police officers went about making sure that they got a statement. This culture is difficult to overcome, but the program is trying to go about doing that.

I arrived at the class, and the room was alive with robust discussion – almost every officer in the class was participating. Esman kept me informed as to their input, and some of it had to do with not being able to see one case through to its end. At some point, the officers turn the cases over to their superiors, and sometimes, the cases just disappear. They are frustrated with that, as I would be. They also talked about how certain people, such as police officers and officers of the court, are required to report a crime that they have knowledge of within 24 hours; however a regular person is not required by law to report any crime except a crime against internal or external security. So what happens when a person wants to turn informant for a price, but the police don’t have the money? All the problems they discussed were practical problems, and I could tell that they were all conscientious officers wanting to do a good job.

One of the questions they asked me had to do with telling the defendant he/she has a right to remain silent. “What about the rights of the victim?,” one officer, one of the older officers, wanted to know. I told him that almost every police officer I know in the United States has the same question. I tried to convince him, and the rest of them, that most defendants who get to a trial in court, with a jury (though Afghanistan doesn’t have juries), are convicted and they usually don’t say a word. I was trying to convince them that evidence other than a confession is valuable, and that good, solid police work gathers and preserves evidence so that there is no room for reasonable doubt when an accused person is guilty. I also told them that being a voice for the victim is an honor that I could see they all took seriously. I could tell, though, that my answer had not mollified everyone in the room – but I think they will have to think about it.

After we talked for a while, I asked if I could ask them a question. They assented, so I told them that I had written about them several times in my blog and how I enjoyed coming to talk to them and to answer their questions. I told them that one of my readers had asked whether I cover my head when I come to their class, and I realized that I had not. I wanted to know if that offended them, and that if it did, I was very sorry, because I did not want to offend them. They chuckled and one of them said that he hadn’t even noticed that my head wasn’t covered, that what I wore wasn’t important to them. What I say is important.

I wish I had known that before I packed to come here. I would have brought more of my favorite clothes instead of trying to bring things that I thought would be appropriate.

The day ended with a visit from some people from the Consulate. We meet once a week and discuss the progress of each of our programs and projects. I so enjoy those meetings and hearing about what is happening on the other side of the city.

Busier days are better. I felt better at the end of this day, but my mood has been so that I haven’t forced myself to go to the gym. So that stops today. Tomorrow, I start back in, forgetting these two days off, and don’t let myself fall into the trap of feeling bad and allowing myself to cheat on the necessities of life – exercise (yuck). Nina, if you read this, I don’t want to hear any self-righteous chuckling.

Until tomorrow.

A Day in the Life

We have had a couple of days here that are easily forgotten in the trail of life – these days needing breadcrumbs a la Hansel and Gretel so that they are not totally lost. That means that we have done our work, what is required of us, and we have succeeded in getting done all that has to be done, but none of that is spectacular to talk about or to tell about. These won’t go down in the blog as days that you all are awed by or even really interested in. They have been just days that will not, at the end of all days, be memorable. But they are, nevertheless, days of my life – and I am not trying to be overly dramatic!

The weather here is just as it is, I’m sure, at home. The mornings are crisp and clear, and the nights are chilly with a little dampness; the sun warms the afternoons, and it is difficult to adjust the thermostat to a temperate number (especially since one worker in the little room continues to suffer from hot flashes when the sun comes in her window, heating her body well beyond comfortable – what an education for Hasat and Esman!). The fall here feels like the fall at home, and for some reason, the season that I love inexplicably brings on a feeling of melancholy, lifted only by a fire in the fireplace – and I won’t be having any of those for a while. This year’s melancholy makes me promise myself that I will not forget being away from home during the fall, and that next fall, I will remember to pay attention to each day as it happens, and really enjoy the fire in the fireplace.

Max left Emily in Savannah yesterday, and as it was for me last year when he moved her down there while I was beginning a new semester, I felt left out and removed. They went to Sapphire Grill to eat dinner, where Emily has wrapped the bartender around her little finger so that when he had only one ginger beer left, he gave it to her. They also went to Local 11 10, which is a “locovore” restaurant, meaning that all the food comes from local sources - organic farmers and fishermen (fisherpeople?). And they went to Cha Bella, another locovore restaurant that looks like a Tuscan villa – or what I think one must look like, because I don’t know. I’ve never been to Tuscany.

I truly miss her, and Max does, too. It was hard for him to get on the plane. In fact, he described the scene yesterday at the airport in about the same way I described the same kind of scene when I left in August: He couldn’t turn around and look at her as he walked toward the gate, just as I could not when I walked toward a year of the unknown. I hope that we are not just being helicopter parents (you know – hovering); we truly enjoy being around Emily, and somehow, our days are diminished when we must leave her so far away.

I talked with Esman and Hasat today about being a parent; after all, each is a father to a very young child: Esman’s son will be three in January, and Hasat’s son is two months old. I began the conversation because Hasat looked kind of tired and crabby; I asked him if he was unhappy. It turns out that he hasn’t had a vacation in some time, and his little boy woke up four times during the night. I remembered those days, although Miss Em slept well through the night – but refused to take naps, eventually teasing me by settling into 15-minute “naplets” a couple of times a day. Esman teased Hasat, saying that Hasat didn’t like babies. I recalled having the same thoughts about not liking babies, except that I was very much in love with my own. Hasat said that even though he had been tired from waking so often, his son smiled and laughed this morning, and that made it all right.

Hasat agreed that he needed a vacation, but he couldn’t really make plans to go anywhere. I encouraged him to stay home and play with and love his son. I told him that Emily had just spent four days with her father, that they both treasured their relationship, and that it had begun when she was an infant and I stayed home with her for her first year. I laughed as I recalled waiting at the door for Max to come home in the evenings so that I could finally take a rest from parenthood. I told both men that Max was excited to see Emily, that he would play with her while I fixed dinner, that he would give her a bath while I drank a glass of wine and watched a sitcom on television, and that we would both tuck her in at night and read her a story, even when she was a teeny-tiny baby.

I was surprised at how long ago those things had taken place.

We continued talking about being parents, and I found out that here, where, as I’m sure you recall my telling you, people drive like bats out of hell, no car seats are required for children. I am sending two as soon as I get home.

That’s it for today. You can tell that I’m feeling a little down and very lonesome. It both hurts and helps to think about the things I’m missing and the things that have come to pass in my lifetime. Here’s how bad it is: I pledged that I wouldn’t criticize the Post Office. Here, I cannot mail anything. I don’t have mailing privileges. Mail takes from two to three weeks to get here, and if I have to send something home, such as an ABSENTEE BALLOT, I have to find someone with mailing privileges who can put it wherever it needs to go to get it to the addressee. I swore that I would never again rail against the Post Office or the price of stamps. All I have to do is put the requisite number of stamps on the letter or package, take it to the Post Office, throw it in the slot or give it to Carla Halane or Jan, and it is on its way (Max told me he thought I was being a little generous; he mailed something to me on October 1; on October 4, he checked to see how far it had gone and got a message saying that the package was in Sedalia – but when he called to complain, he found out that it was NOT in Sedalia: it had gone, in those three days, to Columbia). Anyway, even that sounds good today.

If you have time, drop me a line. If you don’t have time, drop me a thought. And regardless, if you are reading this, thank you very much for caring about what I have to say. See you in about five weeks.

Life's Moments

Today was a fun day. First, Esman was in a good mood because his wife and son returned from visiting relatives, and he was no longer lonesome for them.

And then, a couple of days ago, he made a comment on Facebook that was kind of funny. He said that he was watching a cricket match, eating almonds and raisins, and celebrating the moments of his life. Here is the story behind that comment: I cannot drink coffee; however, I found that I like lattes and General Foods International Coffees. When Max and I go anywhere, I always bring along my little can of Suisse Mocha or French Vanilla Café, and he teases me that I, as the General Foods International Coffees commercial says, “celebrate the moments of my life.” When I got my package from Max, the one that contained my lifesaving Swiffers and statins (probably more literal than the Swiffers), I found not one, not two, but six containers of French Vanilla Café! And I told Esman about how I was going to celebrate the moments of my life. He thought that was hilarious! And so every day now, as I sip on my wonderful hot taste of home, Esman says something about celebrating the moments. And of course he was teasing me via Facebook, for heaven’s sake!

After he made the comment, I called him on it in my own post, and then goaded him to bring some almonds and raisins to the office so we could all celebrate some moments. So today, he brought in a bag of almonds and a bag of raisins. I have never had almonds such as these, nor raisins. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it is true.

When I saw the almonds, I asked Esman if he had also brought a nutcracker, because the nuts were in their shells. He told me he had not, and I wondered how I was going to get at the nuts – after all, almonds have a very hard shell. But not these! They are called “paper almonds” because their shells are paper-thin and the nuts can be peeled almost like a banana. The raisins were not like the Sun-Maid raisins we get in a box that are sticky and stuck together in a mass. These raisins, golden raisins, were truly like dried fruit. Each was a separate piece of dried, sweet, chewy fruit. They were delicious! I have no idea how many I ate, but I ate enough.

Then I took a trip downtown to meet with an Appellate judge. He is a young man, earnest, serious, and I think dedicated to doing the right thing. I appreciated his taking the time to meet with us to hear about the training we are doing in the next few months. The thing is that in this country, while the legislature/parliament has passed and enacted codified legislation, it seems that there is not a way to make sure that the laws are applied justly to everyone in the country who, one way or another, avails himself or herself of the judicial system. That is what the Rule of Law programs try to do – bring a sense of legal fairness and justice to a post-conflict country. Obviously, all officers of the court do not see a particular law in the same light in the same circumstance, but if people believe the law is on their side, they will come to trust it and rely on it, and act as if they do. They can trust the law to do the right thing, and they can trust the law to find them if they do not do the right thing. That is what our training is all about: making sure that the police, lawyers, and judges understand each other’s roles in the system and work together to make the system stronger.

Once again, I looked at the landscape as it passed us – the brown dirt that is everywhere, the trash in the brown dirt fields, the areas of mercantilism decorated with endless stacks of old tires, the children out of school and looking every bit like American kids as soon as the bell rings - running down the sidewalks, teasing each other, yelling, riding bicycles in crazy eight patterns in the middle of the street. Once more I reveled in the decorations on the little motorcycle trucks – zaranjes – as they rolled down the street like big, colorful cartoon trucks. I saw buildings I had not seen before, beautiful in their designs, covered with brown dust. Esman pointed out the girls’ dormitory that houses female students at the University of Herat, where 7,000 – 10,000 students are educated; the dorm is not even close to the campus, so a bus takes the students to their classes.

I felt exhilarated to be out, to see this city, to talk to a man whose words I could not understand but whose resolve I thought I could read, and to be in a place so unlike my own home – although my experience here is limited to what is safe to see and do. I wonder what it would be like to walk through the streets and go into stores? I don’t think I will find out – at least not this trip. I think I will have to be satisfied with looking at life here through the windshield of our armored vehicle with a shooter on my left and one on my right and a driver who makes sure we don’t loiter behind vehicles for too long.

So though my vision of here is somewhat compromised, I thank Huge and Ferocious for keeping me safe, for the driver for doing a good job of getting us there and back, for Abdul, who is the Afghan seated to my left, and for Esman, who makes sure that I understand what is said and makes sure that what I say is said in the best way so as not to offend.

Almonds, raisins, meeting a judge: Celebrating the moments of my life. It was a good day.

Emily and Max are in Savannah, and I am in Herat

Today is Saturday. While you all are enjoying a weekend, I am working! It is so weird to have Friday off and work Saturday and Sunday, but I guess I will get used to it.

The spandex soldiers are gone now. There’s not a crowd at the coffee stand at breakfast, and I don’t hear the music of their language anymore. Almost no one was in the gym tonight. It’s sad to see them go, but I am glad they are safe and leaving this area.

I broke one of my promises to myself tonight. I tried the fish. The little cook was so proud of himself for preparing salmon packaged in foil, covered with diced tomatoes and onions, so I had to tell him I would try it. Let’s just say that I am sure it could have been better had it been cooked about 10 minutes less. It wasn’t even pink. I took a couple of bites, but thankfully, he was still cooking on the outside grill when I left and pushed almost all of it into the trash bin.

Today was my heavy writing day. I really enjoy editing the weekly reports because the writers are much more receptive and kinder than my students. In fact, they almost all said thanks to me for correcting their errors! Wow! A couple of the authors are Afghans, and they print out the red-line drafts so they can learn from their mistakes. So does a guy in Kunduz – and he’s American. He wants to know the writing rules so that he can, as he says, do better the next time. Today, I had mini-lessons on writing numbers and using acronyms. Tomorrow, I will be writing instructions as to how to size a photograph in Word. I hope I can first figure it out and then write it coherently. Last week’s lesson was writing active voice sentences instead of passive voice (for those of you who don’t remember that lesson, here it is: ACTIVE - I threw the ball. PASSIVE – The ball was thrown by me. See how much better the active voice sounds and looks? There you have it).

The days are getting shorter, but the afternoons are still lovely. I think that since I have been here, we have had three days without sun, and one of those was right after I first arrived in Kabul when I remember that it rained cats and dogs. Here, though, the sunless days are really just kind of hazy – not even really cloudy. Esman says, though, that this pleasantness will come to an end pretty soon. When I go home for Thanksgiving, I will wear my heavy coat back, and will bring gloves and boots as well.

Julie is on leave now, and the man who was on leave when I arrived here is now back. He’s a very laid back guy; he used to be a prosecutor in Illinois, and while Julie is gone, he is feeding the camp cat – actually the camp kitten. There is a cat, as well, and it tries to attack the kitten often - I assume it’s a jealousy thing. I told Julie that I would help feed the kitten, and so far, I have remembered twice. The little thing is lucky that Will is now around.

My shopping trip to the American base was successful – except that they carried no Puffs Plus. I will have to make do with Kleenex until my care package arrives from Max. I couldn’t find any boots, either, so I will have to order some and hope that they get here pretty soon. I did find, though, a pair of shoes. I know you are not surprised. They are not really cool shoes, though; they are Asics, and they are a half size too large, but I think they will be all right. They were ON SALE, which means that I can wear them out on the river rock and it won’t be that big a deal.

That’s about all that’s happening here right now – oh, except that I got first approval for my Sedalia Democrat column from the company. Now it goes to the State Department for final approval, and then I will send it to the Democrat for the editor’s approval. I am sending my first blog entry, so that people who are not reading the blog will find out how I got here. You might not recognize it, though. It was 1752 words, and I cut over 700 in order to get the size close to the Democrat’s 700-word limit. I hope they will go with the longer column just this once. I will let you know what the State Department says as soon as I know.

Thanks for listening. Tomorrow I go visit a department head. I will try to take some kind of picture to show you, but I don’t know what will be allowed. Until then.