In Afghanistan, Let's Keep It Simple

September 8, 2009   This piece from the September 6, 2009 Washington Post makes great sense to me. 

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In Afghanistan, Let's Keep It Simple

By Ahmed Rashid

Sunday, September 6, 2009

For much of the 20th century before the Soviet invasion in 1979, Afghanistan was a peaceful country living in harmony with its neighbors.

There was a king and a real government, which I witnessed in the 1970s when I frequently traveled there. Afghanistan had what I'll call a minimalist state, compared with the vast governmental apparatuses that colonialists left behind in British India and Soviet Central Asia.

This bare-bones structure worked well for a poor country with a small population, few natural resources and a mix of ethnic groups and tribes that were poorly connected with one another because of the rugged terrain. The center was strong enough to maintain law and order, but it was never strong enough to undermine the autonomy of the tribes.

Afghanistan was not aiming to be a modern country or a regional superpower. The economy was subsistence-level, but nobody starved. Everyone had a job, though farm labor was intermittent. There was a tiny urban middle class, but the gap between rich and poor was not that big. There was no such thing as Islamic extremism or a narco-state.

In 2002, I spent a great deal of time in Washington trying to urge the Bush administration to focus on rebuilding Afghanistan's minimalist state, which had been utterly destroyed by 30 years of war.

At that time a bunch of experts in Washington, some now closely associated with Richard Holbrooke, the U.S. special representative to Afghanistan and Pakistan, estimated that it would cost the international community about $5 billion a year for 10 years to re-create a basic Afghan state that could counter any threat that al-Qaeda or the Taliban might pose.

The keys were investment in agriculture, because that is where jobs lie; rebuilding the roads that used to link the major cities and border towns, so the economy could take off; and investing in an Afghan army and police force. In addition, the country needed a workable government model, modern and inclusive education and health programs, and a functioning justice system.

We all know what happened. The Bush administration left Afghanistan underresourced, underfunded and in the hands of the CIA and the warlords, and went off to fight in Iraq.

When al-Qaeda and the Taliban saw that George W. Bush was not serious about Afghanistan, they found it easy to return. The insurgency began in the summer of 2003, as the Taliban reoccupied large chunks of the country, used drug money to arm its men, and improved their firepower and tactics so much that the Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman, Adm. Mike Mullen, recently said the situation is "serious" and "deteriorating."

Now any operation to patch together a minimalist Afghan state would cost between $10 billion and $15 billion a year and require tens of thousands more Western troops, which nobody is willing to provide. The U.S. commander in Afghanistan, Gen. Stanley A. McChrystal, is widely expected to request additional forces, but he's not going to get that many.

Today Washington is bickering over what constitutes success in Afghanistan, whether the Obama plan will work, how long American public opinion will hold up, how many more troops and dollars are needed and how to stop its alleged NATO allies from slipping out through the back door. Asked what success would look like, Holbrooke even quipped: "We'll know it when we see it."

Many dissenters in Washington, such as columnist George Will, insist that the Afghans are incapable of learning and unwilling to build a modern state. Others, including former British diplomatRory Stewart, argue that Afghan society should be left alone. But the dissenters do not sufficiently acknowledge the past failures of the Bush administration that led us to this impasse. What's worse, they offer no solutions.

So what needs to be done? First, the American and European people need to be told the truth: Their governments have failed them in Afghanistan over the past eight years, and not a single aspect of rebuilding the minimalist state was undertaken until it was too late. The capital, Kabul, for example, got regular electricity only this year, despite billions of dollars in international aid. Millions of dollars for agriculture has been wasted in cockamamie schemes to grow strawberries and raise cashmere goats.

Governments also need to explain that the terrorist threat has grown and that al-Qaeda has spread its tentacles throughout Africa and Europe. And the West must admit that the Taliban has become a brand name that resonates deep into Pakistan and Central Asia and could extend into India and China.

Second, the minimalist state must be rebuilt at breakneck speed. President Obama understands this. His plan for the first time emphasizes agriculture, job creation and justice; on paper, at least, it's an incisive and productive blueprint. But will he be given the time to carry it out?

The Democrats want to give him just until next year's congressional elections and then start bringing the troops home. For the first time, more than 51 percent of Americans want their men and women back from Afghanistan. The Republicans are looking for slipups, such as the apparent fraud in the presidential election last month, so they can pounce.

However, the Obama administration needs two or three years before it has any chance of success. So the president's first task is to create public and congressional support to give the plan sufficient time.

Third, the insurgency can never be defeated as long as the rebels enjoy a haven. The retreating Afghan Taliban was welcomed in Pakistan in 2001 and is still tolerated there because of a certain logic put forward by the Pakistan army that mainly involves containing India's growing power in the region and in Afghanistan in particular.

Bush never really pushed this issue, choosing to treat then-Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf with kid gloves. Today the Islamabad government is divided between civilians and the military, and as the civilians show themselves more inept, the army's power is once again ascendant.

In recent months the army has seemed more determined to take on the Pakistani Taliban -- since April it has lost 312 soldiers and killed some 2,000 Taliban members. Yet there is no strategic shift to take on the Afghan Taliban and al-Qaeda in the tribal areas that border Afghanistan.

Despite Holbrooke's attempts to pursue a regional strategy, there is still no breakthrough with Pakistan. And India continues to act tough with Islamabad, offering the Americans little room to maneuver. There is no easy way out of this quandary except time and more international aid to Pakistan.

Last, there have to be Afghan partners on the ground to help build a minimalist state. Unfortunately, Bush ignored that too. The corruption, the growth of the drug trade and the failure to build representative institutions after partially successful elections in 2004 and 2005 were all glossed over, as Bush feted President Hamid Karzai and did not ask hard questions.

The apparent rigging of the Aug. 20 elections has plunged Afghanistan into a political and constitutional crisis for which neither America nor the United Nations has any answer. (In another sign of turmoil, the deputy intelligence chief was blown up by a suicide bomber last week, and the Taliban claimed responsibility.) But the electoral fraud was assured months ago when Karzai began to ally himself with regional warlords, drug traffickers and top officials in the provinces who were terrified of losing their jobs and their lucrative sinecures if Karzai lost. It seemed obvious to everyone except those who mattered in the West.

To emerge from this mess with even moderately credible Afghan partners will be difficult, but it has to be done. (The Americans could start by forcing Karzai to create a government that includes all leading opposition figures.) Without a partner, the United States becomes nothing but an occupying force that Afghans will resist and NATO will not want to support. Holbrooke's skills as a power broker will be sorely tested, with his past successes in the Balkans a cakewalk compared with this perilous path.

The Obama administration can come out of this quagmire if it aims low, targets the bad guys, builds a regional consensus, keeps the American public on its side and gives the Afghans what they really want -- just the chance to have a better life.

There is no alternative but for the United States to remain committed to rebuilding a minimalist state in Afghanistan. Nothing less will stop the Taliban and al-Qaeda from again using Afghanistan and now Pakistan to wreak havoc in the region and around the world.

Ahmed Rashid, a Pakistani journalist who has covered Afghanistan for 30 years, is the author of "Taliban" and "Descent into Chaos: The U.S. and the Disaster in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Central Asia."

Home and Home

July 29, 2009 After 5 months in Kabul, I returned home to Washington, DC in May. I am back in the fold of family and friends, starting up newspaper subscriptions, going to my Sunday Farmer’s Market, and sorting out next steps. I miss Afghanistan. I miss bumping down Street #3 in Ansari Watt to get to my office on Street #6 in Taimani. I miss Habib’s scrambled eggs with onions, Ali’s fried chicken, and Mantoo and Ashak at the Safi Landmark Hotel. I miss struggling to speak Dari with Qader and Sayed Mohammed, my drivers. I miss the gleeful feeling of understanding something they have said to me in Dari. I miss Mirwais, Rashid, and Zaher, my beloved bodyguards, fighters from Panjshir province. I miss choclets in glass dishes, Nan at every meal, carrots the size of a Louisville Slugger. I miss café latte and tuna melts at the Cabul Coffee House. I miss the smell of baking bread floating up and down the street. I miss it all.

Afghanistan became home for me, and, indeed, it felt like home from the moment the armored car that claimed me at the Kabul Airport on January 1 drove out onto the main road leading to the city. Looped barbed wire on top of concrete walls. Wedding halls as big as a city block festooned with neon palm trees and brides and grooms. Roadside stalls, donkey carts, Humvees. Adobe houses and ruins of adobe houses. And dust. Lots of dust. I took it all in and with my first breath, Kabul felt like home.

There is home and there is home. In May, I came home to my beautiful daughter who met me at the airport early on that May morning. I had not seen her for 5 months. I can’t begin to describe the feelings that overcame me when I spotted her on the other side of Customs. Tears and more tears and then a fierce hug. This is home to me: my children.

Two days later, my daughter and my aunt and I drove north to my son’s graduation from Wesleyan University. We were joined there by my brother and one of my best friends from high school – my son’s godmother – and her daughter – my goddaughter, and a dear friend from high school and her partner. More home. Marking my son’s huge accomplishment was a thrill, a passage into a new cycle of life.

With a wonderful Commencement behind us, I set off for California to visit family and friends. My niece, Sophia, charmed me with her soulful manner. My nephew, John, left me in the dust, a bundle of boyish energy. Time with high school friends – sisters to me – was precious. We have been together, first as boarding school classmates and since then as friends, for almost 50 years. And we always pick up where we left off. Was Mrs. H. really having an affair with Mr. H? Why did Mrs. Berry insist on calling the Filipino staff “The Boys” when not one of them was a day under 50? Why, when four of us were caught smoking 6 weeks before graduation, did Mrs. Bill ask us, “Whatever possessed you to smoke on May Day?”

On to Napa Valley and a dreamy party in a dear friend’s backyard. This is a friend with whom I share a birthday and so much more. Decades of sharing, caring, and laughing. Many cherished friends came to that dinner. I sat in a circle of loved ones and talked about Afghanistan. My friend, Faith, the photographer, arranged the burka I brought from Afghanistan as if it was lounging on a hammock and declared it a “burka-lounger!”

Now I am back in DC looking ahead to next steps, reconnecting with family and friends, settling in at home. Not a day passes that I don’t think of Afghanistan and long to return. In my pocket, I carry the tasbeh (prayer beads) given to me by Qader. I puzzle the agate surface of the ring I bought in Afghanistan with my thumb. I look at the framed photo of my friends Ali, Tamim, Mojib, Sayed Mohammed, Rashid. Zuhal, Kamila, Modera, Meena, and Parwana. I miss them.

Home is a corner of my heart where I tuck memories and images. The days my children were born. Their birthdays. School graduations. Athletic events. School plays. Notes they have written me. Funny things they have said. Holidays together. Home is wherever my children are. I am home now and I am happy. And, yet, my other home beckons. I long to see the mountains ringing Kabul, to bump along those rutted streets, to visit Abdul Qadeer’s carpet shop on Chicken Street. I miss Afghanistan. I miss my kind, generous Afghan friends. I long for the smell of Nan baking in a streetside oven.

I am drawn again and again to James Michener’s Caravans, published in 1964, the story of a young diplomat assigned to rescue an American girl who has disappeared in Afghanistan. Michener writes:

I’ve been told that diplomats and military men remember with nostalgia the first alien lands in which they served, and I suppose this is inevitable; but in my case I look back upon Afghanistan with special affection because it was, in those days, the wildest, weirdest land on earth and to be a young man in Kabul was the essence of adventure.

The city of Kabul, perched at the intersection of caravan trails that had functioned for more than three thousand years, was hemmed in on the west by the Koh-i-Baba range of mountains, nearly seventeen thousand feet high, and on the north by the even greater Hindu Kush, one of the major mountain massifs of Asia. In the winter these powerful ranges were covered with snow, so that one could never forget that he was caught in a kind of bowl whose rim was composed of ice and granite.

I will be back, Afghanistan.

Happy Mother's Day from Kabul!

May 10, 2009 This morning as the car rounded the corner on Street #6, Taimani Watt, Kabul, Afghanistan, the balloon seller was making his way down the road, stopping to let neighborhood children admire his bouquet. I couldn’t help but smile and feel lucky to have this Mother’s Day in Kabul!

Happy Mother’s Day to one and all, near and far, especially to the two who call me Mom!

"I'll have two, please!"

Pure joy!

The balloon seller's bouquet.

Upside Down

May 8, 2009 This week, the world turned upside down for my son and his friends and classmates at Wesleyan University. A beautiful, bright, young girl, filled with promise – a junior at Wesleyan – was murdered as she worked at her job in the campus bookstore. A senseless, devastating act has caused unimaginable pain and grief to a family and a community.

Living in Kabul, I am almost half a day ahead of East Coast time, so it was not until I woke up Wednesday morning to 108 email messages that I learned of this tragedy. The subject line on many of the emails read “shooting on campus?” From there, I searched first for a message from my son and then for a message from the university administration. My son’s message sought first to reassure me that he and his roommates were safe. Safe but sad. The university’s message was also reassuring, although it informed parents that the killer was at large. The campus was immediately locked down, students instructed to remain inside their dorms and houses.

I called my son and heard the grief in his voice. He lost a friend to a car accident when they were in high school. I remember then looking at the boys in suits following their friend’s coffin up the center aisle of the church at the memorial service and thinking “boys to men.” Overnight. Boys to men. Such grief seems untimely.

I remember, too, the expressions of pain on the faces of the mother and father and sister who lost their son five years ago. And I thought of the unbearable grief thrust upon the family of this beautiful young Wesleyan student. I thought of the family receiving that phone call. I thought of Michael Roth, the President of Wesleyan University, making that phone call.

For the past two days, parents in the Wesleyan community have reached out to one another through an email list, grieving, comforting, questioning. Being held in the comfort of this community of Wesleyan parents makes me think that there is a lot more love in the world than there is hate. While none of us can claim to understand one family’s grief and loss, we all mourn for this dear girl. We all want to reach out and hold her family and our children close.

There are no easy answers. What could cause such torment in a person’s spirit that he could take a life so easily? What must his family be feeling? Why?

When things go upside down, how long does it take to put them right again?

Leeda's Speech

May 2, 2009 Imagine living in a country where a woman risks her life simply by going to school, getting an education, and getting a job. Imagine a society so dominated by religious extremism that women are not allowed to look another person in the eye, let alone laugh. Imagine a young woman coming of age in Afghanistan.

At the age of 20, fourth year Afghan law student Leeda has lived through civil unrest, oppression, and Taliban rule. She was forced to flee her home to continue her education. She was told she was a second class citizen. Hers was the best revenge: she refused to abandon her dreams.

On March 11, I had the privilege of hearing Leeda address an audience of her law school colleagues and professors. Her words capture the anguish of life for Afghan women under the Taliban and the hope for renewal that beats in the heart of every Afghan woman. Leeda points the way into the future for thousands of young Afghan women who dare to dream.

Leeda’s speech
March 11, 2009

Pretend that you woke up in the morning and found yourself crying, bound by time and change. You can’t walk or talk or even breathe easy. That’s the story of every Afghan woman.

There are three kinds of women.

One woman doesn’t feel the change anymore.

One has accepted the change as her reality, who says this is how my life should be, who accepts it the way it is.

The third is the one who struggles for freedom, who wants change on her terms.

I am the third kind.

I was born into a family where I learned that there wasn’t any difference between me and my brothers. That I could do anything. That I had the same abilities as a boy.

I was a running champion at school. No boy could outrun me. I ran fast and I was very confident. I did everything a boy did.

Then schools were closed and I had to sit at home because of the Taliban. For basic education, my family had to leave everything behind. We had to leave our country for Pakistan so I could study.

As I grew up, I realized that I was treated differently from my brothers. I was treated differently from my classmates. I was treated differently from my playmates, the boys. I was treated as a second sex.

When I walked, someone would tell me, ‘Walk like this.’ When I talked, someone would tell me, ‘Talk like this.’ I could not smile or laugh because it was not appropriate for a girl. I could not look into people’s eyes. As a girl, you should never look into people’s eyes, especially a man.

I changed from a smiling girl, a happy girl, into someone who would not look into people’s eyes, who would not try to get out of the house, who hated people, especially men, because they had all the opportunities. I looked at men and I looked at boys and they were free. They walked about freely and I could not, so I hated them.

Then I read an article by Simone de Beauvoir. She said “A woman is not born a woman, a woman is made a woman.”

That sentence made me buy her book, The Second Sex, and read it. That book changed my life. It taught me that I was not the only woman in the world that feels like I do. That I am not alone anymore. That there have been and there are women in the world who feel like me, who are like me.

I don’t feel alone anymore. The Second Sex changed my life.

And now I stand here in front of you looking into your eyes and saying that a woman is not the second sex. I am not the second sex.

Leaving Kabul

April 24, 2009 Living in Kabul is hard. Leaving Kabul will be just as hard. I am accustomed in four swift months to the smell of Nan baking on an open fire on any city street, to the bumps and jostles on Street #3 as our armored car plows along to work, to the little altar of ironed laundry that greets me when I return to the Guest House after work. The muzzein’s call to prayer awakens me every morning, shakes me to awareness at noon, and ushers in the evening. I have friends here.

Some days the sensory overload knocks me out. Body odor, sewage, garbage, goats, meat, even the soot smells. I hold my breath and then I exhale. I don’t want to be one of those silly people who blanch at the slightest discomfort. I practice mindfulness. There is dust everywhere in Kabul. You can measure the passage of time in the layers of dust.

Much of the time, something here doesn’t work. Satellite TV flickers in and out. Channels switch, so what was once the BBC Lifestyle Channel is now the Peace Channel. Bollywood rules on the air waves. The generator flips on and off like clockwork every day at 4:00 PM. One stop light in Kabul City works from time to time, if you define “working” as maintaining a steady red or green light for 24 hours straight. Showerheads, made in China, work for a time and then they inexplicably explode, hurtling projectile parts in the direction of the bather.

The contrasts stack up: the Safi Landmark Hotel stands resplendent in the Shar-i-Naw district of Kabul, a glass and steel monument to 21st century form and function. The mud houses scaling the hillsides surrounding Kabul tenaciously cling to their dirt foundations. How do the owners get the building materials up those precipices, I wonder every time I look out my window?

Donkey carts cut in front of busses offering “Special for Tourists.” Cars dare each other to the brink, honk, and get on with it. School girls in clusters of a dozen or more, dressed identically in black suits and white chador, walk together giggling and holding hands. The children of Street #6 line up at the well to pump water to bring home. I wonder if they know that they live in the Afghanistan we hear about in U.S. media.

Three months is chump change in Afghanistan. Just enough time to pull back the veil and catch a glimpse of the antiquity that seeps into every corner of Afghan culture and holds this country hostage to a past century. Women in pale, dusty blue burkas shuffle through the streets, heads bowed low. Men in turbans, pakols, karakols (Karzai caps), plaid scarves, salwar kamiz. But then, just when you think you’re stuck in the last century, there are young women in tight jeans, sandals showcasing painted toenails, leather jackets, and head scarves, giving the lie to the burka. Men in Armani suits and Rolex watches straight off the cover of GQ.

Kabul’s bridal shops feature Anglo mannequins that stare off into the far horizon as if mortified to be caught in the 1950s style bridesmaid dresses they are hawking. In the Fancy Wedding Store, they are decked out in heavy satin floor length gowns in dark colors with intricate beading. Most of the mannequins lack complete arms, stopping at the elbows.

I have sunk roots here, but I have gotten tired. I have so much more than I need, while my Afghan friends struggle against such hardship, whether poverty, oppression, or violence. I am not courageous, nor brave compared to the Afghan women who put their lives on the line two weeks ago to protest a law that diminishes women. My simple acts of activism pale in comparison to young Afghan women who stood shoulder to shoulder to reject the notion that women should have to seek permission from their husbands when they want to leave the house, that women should have to “preen” at the whim of their husbands, that women should have to submit to sex on demand by their husbands. These young women stood up to the stones thrown at them and to the chants of “whores” issued by men and women alike who turned out in huge numbers to put the protestors on notice that they had better go home and submit in silence.

How am I going to leave my Afghan home? Who will tell me every morning that “you have beautiful eyes, Mum?” Who will put a dish of sweets outside my office before I arrive? Bring me hot tea? Serve me rice and Nan and fresh fruit at lunch? And who, when I thank them for all this abundance, will respond, “Why not, Miss?” which I figure is the first English phrase most of my Afghan colleagues have learned in the English course they are offered at our office. “Why not?”

These days, I dream of hugging my children. We have never been apart for this long. My beautiful Louisa who cares for her charges as a kind hearted, brilliant social worker, and on top of that worries that I am not safe, especially after hearing on the Today Show that Kabul is ‘the most dangerous city in the world today,’ who always makes sure her Ma and her brother are safe and sound. My handsome Alex whose creative passion is bursting into bloom, who quietly but surely cultivates extraordinary ideas from seed to film, who unfailingly loves his sister and his mother, who worries in his own way. I ache to hug them.

But it will be hard to leave Kabul. In some small ways – and this will sound grandiose, but I don’t know how else to say it – I see myself as a surrogate for my country. I was here the day Barack Obama was sworn in as President. That was the day my Afghan friends asked me if Barack Obama would help Afghanistan, and listed all that needs doing: security, poverty, infrastructure, employment, education, women’s rights. “Yes,” I told them, just short of a promise, “Barack Obama wants to help Afghanistan.” And I believe he does. But I also see that the proposition is enormous. I have toiled in these fields for too short a time.

A Child's Smile

April 6, 2009 This morning as the car pulled up to our office on Street #6, three children stood outside the compound watching the car ease forward. I asked them if I could take their photo, and the older girl quietly took the other two in tow.

The past week has taken a bite out of my hope for change in Afghanistan. Afghan television stations broadcast a news clip showing the public beating in Pakistan of a 17-year old widow for the "crime" of walking with a man in public. One man held her down while another flogged her, with a crowd of cheering men looking on. Then came the news that President Karzai had signed the bill I described in a previous post which demeans and objectifies Afghan women. Life should not be so hard. Women should not have to justify their place in the culture. Men should not enjoy such dominion.

The smile on the older girls' face in this photo seems to me to hold the mystery of life as an Afghan woman, handed down through the generations.

'Worse than the Taliban'

April 2, 2009 I have been in Afghanistan for three months. I have become accustomed to the sights, sounds, and smells of Kabul. I know my way to Shar-i-Naw Park, Chicken Street, and Parliament. I know a few stock phrases in Dari. ("chi gap as?" ""What's up?" "U ketab e kis?" "Whose book is this?" "manda nabAshen!" "May you not be tired!" "zenda bAshen!" "May you live long!") I have a novice's eye and ear for the culture. I understand that a woman must not ask a man the name of his wife. I know that only men pray in mosques, and on the rare occasions when women do enter a mosque, they sit in a separate room. I know that Shiite Personal Law Article 91 states that "Man can marry with four women." And Article 132 requires that "Wife is obliged to obey man if he wanted her for sexual matters."

Afghan women struggle to emerge from the long shadow cast by decades of Soviet occupation and Taliban repression. They chafe at the restraints of a culture that dictates their behavior and relegates them to second-class status. Many brave Afghan women have taken up the fight on behalf of their Afghan sisters. Theirs is a Sisyphean battle, doomed to repeat itself down the generations. The optimist in me says Afghan women can prevail. The skeptic in me says not without blood, sweat, and tears. The cynic in me says the obstacles are too great. My money is on the skeptic.

The news story below deals a vicious blow to the hope of equal rights for Afghan women. I understand that particulars of the law signed by President Karzai are especially galling in their detail and implications for the future of Afghan women.

The Guardian ~~ London ~~ Tuesday March 31, 2009
'Worse than the Taliban' - new law rolls back rights for Afghan women
Jon Boone in Kabul

Hamid Karzai has been accused of trying to win votes in Afghanistan's presidential election by backing a law the UN says legalises rape within marriage and bans wives from stepping outside their homes without their husbands' permission. The Afghan president signed the law earlier this month, despite condemnation by human rights activists and some MPs that it flouts the constitution's equal rights provisions.

The final document has not been published, but the law is believed to contain articles that rule women cannot leave the house without their husbands' permission, that they can only seek work, education or visit the doctor with their husbands' permission, and that they cannot refuse their husband sex. A briefing document prepared by the United Nations Development Fund for Women also warns that the law grants custody of children to fathers and grandfathers only.

Senator Humaira Namati, a member of the upper house of the Afghan parliament, said the law was "worse than during the Taliban". "Anyone who spoke out was accused of being against Islam," she said.The Afghan constitution allows for Shias, who are thought to represent about 10% of the population, to have a separate family law based on traditional Shia jurisprudence. But the constitution and various international treaties signed by Afghanistan guarantee equal rights for women. Shinkai Zahine Karokhail, like other female parliamentarians, complained that after an initial deal the law was passed with unprecedented speed and limited debate. "They wanted to pass it almost like a secret negotiation," she said. "There were lots of things that we wanted to change, but they didn't want to discuss it because Karzai wants to please the Shia before the election."

Although the ministry of justice confirmed the bill was signed by Karzai at some point this month, there is confusion about the full contents of the final law, which human rights activists have struggled to obtain a copy of. The justice ministry said the law would not be published until various "technical problems" had been ironed out.

After seven years leading Afghanistan, Karzai is increasingly unpopular at home and abroad and the presidential election in August is expected to be extremely closely fought. A western diplomat said the law represented a "big tick in the box" for the powerful council of Shia clerics.

Leaders of the Hazara minority, which is regarded as the most important bloc of swing voters in the election, also demanded the new law. Ustad Mohammad Akbari, an MP and the leader of a Hazara political party, said the president had supported the law in order to curry favour among the Hazaras. But he said the law actually protected women's rights."Men and women have equal rights under Islam but there are differences in the way men and women are created. Men are stronger and women are a little bit weaker; even in the west you do not see women working as firefighters."Akbari said the law gave a woman the right to refuse sexual intercourse with her husband if she was unwell or had another reasonable "excuse". And he said a woman would not be obliged to remain in her house if an emergency forced her to leave without permission.

The international community has so far shied away from publicly questioning such a politically sensitive issue. "It is going to be tricky to change because it gets us into territory of being accused of not respecting Afghan culture, which is always difficult," a western diplomat in Kabul admitted. Soraya Sobhrang, the head of women's affairs at the Afghanistan Independent Human Rights Commission, said western silence had been "disastrous for women's rights in Afghanistan"."What the international community has done is really shameful. If they had got more involved in the process when it was discussed in parliament we could have stopped it. Because of the election I am not sure we can change it now. It's too late for that."But another senior western diplomat said foreign embassies would intervene when the law is finally published.

Some female politicians have taken a more pragmatic stance, saying their fight in parliament's lower house succeeded in improving the law, including raising the original proposed marriage age of girls from nine to 16 and removing completely provisions for temporary marriages."It's not really 100% perfect, but compared to the earlier drafts it's a huge improvement," said Shukria Barakzai, an MP. "Before this was passed family issues were decided by customary law, so this is a big improvement."

Karzai's spokesman declined to comment on the new law.

The Boys Who Live on Street #6

March 23, 2009 The boys in this photo live on Street #6 near my office. I see them rough-housing and tumbling in the street in the morning when I come to work. One day, I couldn't resist. I got out of the car and asked them if I might take their photograph. The tallest boy smiled willingly; his playmates were reticent. Soon three old men gathered on the sidelines to orchestrate the moment. It was not clear if the old men were related to the boys, but regardless of bloodlines, they wielded authority over the children as they clucked and hissed and snapped their fingers to get the boys to pose.

Some who have seen this photo have remarked on the sad expressions on the faces of the boys. That surprised me. I think the serious expressions were affected in deference to the formal nature of the portrait. Most mornings when I see these boys playing, they are smiling and laughing and hugging each other.

Greetings from Kabul

March 9, 2009 I am a Templeton woman. My grandfather, John Wesley Templeton, was one of seven children – six boys and one girl – who grew up in a rough-and-tumble household in Palo Alto, California with strict parents who kept a bottle of whiskey in the home “for medicinal purposes” only.

My mother was the only child of John and Lorraine Templeton. My great-uncle, Dink Templeton, a 1920 Olympics gold medalist with the U.S. rugby team, and his wife, Cathy, had two daughters: Jean and Robin (Binnie). Between them, Jean and Binnie have 8 children. Those 8 children, including Robin and Marti, Jean’s daughters, are my second cousins.

It has only been later in life that Robin and Marti and I have discovered each other as cousins and as friends, and I count myself lucky to have these two amazing women in my life. Both are artists. Robin’s medium is the written word. She is a novelist and a poet and a teacher. Marti paints extraordinary canvasses, filled with vibrant worldly images, both material and ethereal.

Last week, Robin was selected to read an original poem at the 27th annual Santa Cruz [California] Celebration of the Muse. I asked her if I could share the poem she wrote and she agreed. Her writing reminds me of the power of words to move and inspire.

With love and thanks, Robin, I share your poem here.

(for Ann and her Afghan Sisters- tashakor!)

Greetings from Kabul!

I AM FINE! my cousin Ann writes.

She is working in Afghanistan,
trying to bring some order to the country.
I write progress reports, she says.

Shuttered in a pink guest house,
built by a drug lord, with Persian rugs,
marble floors, she’s grateful for the Afghan cook
who prepares American cuisine,
for the private bathroom with a hot shower.

I can’t go outside on foot, at all.
Every Friday, I go to town
in an armored truck
with a driver and bodyguard.

Children sell gum in the streets.
Donkey carts mix with taxis.
Women in burkas beg on the corners,
mingle with prostitutes, also in burkas,
their fingernails colored-coded.

I express my fears reluctantly.
She knows what I’m thinking:
Rocket attacks, kidnap, rape, beheadings.

I’m not afraid.
Wherever you live,
circumstances quickly
become the norm.

She and I share a matriarchal bloodline
have sought the edge most of our lives.
Lately, mine blunts as hers sharpens,
a bone-handled paradigm.

She asks for photographs of my three grandsons,
to hang in office, to remind her of home.
I imagine their faces adorning her wall,
worry what passersby will think of these fair, All-American boys.

She insists we only hear the bad news.
I’m trying to raise money
for my friend Humaira Haqmal.
who drives the Taliban-controlled district
to Kabul every day to teach at the law school.
Humaira works with the Afghan Sisters Movement.

I stumble on spelling Afghan.
The “h” unsettles me.
Is this the first time I’ve written the word?

I am going to raise money for Humaira, my cousin vows.
I am going to write about these Afghan women.

Humaira, Humaira, of an arranged marriage,
who is raising six children,
has registered 600 women
for the August election.

August election? Where have I been?

My cousin is keen
on the incoming 17,000 American troops.
I remember her as a pacifist,

imagine the juxtaposition
of her carefully placed head scarf
and the carefully placed body guard.

I love the Afghan people.
I love the city of Kabul.

Soft rain taps the roof.
I email Ann at midnight
from my warm bed,
my husband snoring softly beside me.
I think of her friend Humaira,
stopped at a roadblock,
wonder what she is wearing,
how she speaks to the soldiers.

Tashakor
Thank you

--Robin Somers March 7, 2009

Kabul, the most remote of capitals

March 4, 2009 From James Michener's Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Caravans.

We stayed there in the snowy moonlight for some time, alone on the edge of an ancient city with the Hindu Kush rising to our left and the immensity of Asia all about us: to the east the Khyber Pass, to the north the Oxus River and the plains of Samarkand, to the south the bazaars of Kandahar and the limitless deserts of Baluchistan, and to the west the strange lake that vanishes in air, and the minarets of Shiraz and Isfahan. It was a moment of immensity in which I sensed the hugeness of Central Asia, that semi-world with a chaderi over its face.... It was the smell of frozen fields, biting on the nostril, the aroma of the bazaar, great and filthy even in the night, and the clean, sweet smell of pine trees that hid behind garden walls. Those were moments I shall never forget, when the vastness of Asia... was borne in upon me and I wondered how I had been lucky enough to draw an assignment in Kabul, the most remote of capitals.

Humaira Haqmal and the Afghan Sisters Movement

February 27, 2009 One of my greatest pleasures since I have been in Kabul has been getting to know a group of women law professors who have been in Kabul since January polishing their English language skills. One of my colleagues asked me if I would be willing to spend a few mornings a week with them speaking in English. I was delighted. (Left to right in the photo: Humaira Haqmal, Nadia Noorzi, Anargul Mansouri, Noor Jahan Xousfuzai, and Nadia Alkan.

Over the weeks, a deep bond of friendship has formed between us. They have told me what it was like to live under the Taliban when women were not allowed out of their homes. One of them said the best thing about the Taliban was that women had more babies because they could not leave home! They have explained the benefits of arranged marriages. With one exception, all believe this system works. And, indeed, “arranged” does not mean that their parents round up a stranger. It means they likely marry the son of family friends, someone they have known at a distance. They have told me that they are paid the same as their male law professor counterparts. They love their work and they love their families.

At one of our morning gatherings, Humaira Haqmal, a Professor at Kabul University’s Faculty of Law and Political Science, wife and mother of 6 children, and President of the Afghan Sisters Movement, mentioned in a quiet voice that she would be traveling to Washington, DC in March to receive the Jeane Kirkpatrick Award from the International Republican Institute for her work to support and restore the rights of Afghan women. (Humaira Haqmal is on the left in the photo; Nadia Noorzi is on the right.)

The Afghan Sisters Movement is a nonprofit organization which encourages Afghan women to find their political voices, to participate in political activities, and to vote. Humaira is a tireless and fearless advocate for women’s rights and human rights. To date, she has registered over 600 women to vote in the August 2009 presidential election. She is one of many Afghan women who grew up under Soviet occupation and then under the Taliban regime and is committed to ensuring that Afghan women play a vital role in Afghan society.

Coming so soon after my experience in the Obama campaign, I have been fascinated to learn more about Humaira’s work. This is what I will carry away with me when I return home: the courage and determination of Afghan women to claim their place in society. It’s a tall order in a culture where custom and tradition still label women as second-class citizens. My money is on Humaira and the Afghan Sisters Movement.

Food in Kabul

February 27, 2009 I have not had a bad meal since I arrived in Kabul. Ali, the 23-year old Afghan cook at the Guest House is a whiz at preparing anything. Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding. Fried Chicken. Chili. Mu Shu Pork. Tiramisu. Cannoli. Even a King Cake for Mardi Gras. And everywhere I go in Kabul, food is in sight, whether it's the freshly slaughtered lamb haunches hanging from a rack on Butcher Street, the street vendor carts that offer a deep fried turnover called bowlane (phonetically: baloney) filled with leeks and potatoes, or a shop steaming with the fragrance of newly fried jelAbe, a waffle like sweet made of sugar, honey, and flour. On the Khair Khana Road leading into Kabul is an open air market that stretches for at least a mile, its produce stands featuring artfully arranged cauliflower, radishes, leeks, onions, oranges, lemons, and potatoes. There you can also find fish nailed to boards, ready to sell, as well as cooking oil, Nan, and Snickers bars. And everywhere food is found, there are children eager to have their photos taken.

Vendor preparing jelabe. My friend and driver, Sayed Mohammed, took me to this shop in the Khair Khana neighborhood.

.

Open air market on Khair Khana Road.

Afghan child selling chicken pieces at the open air market.










Fish on a stick!

















This little piggy went to market!

Driving in Kabul

February 27, 2009 Cars. SUVs. Bicycles. Donkey carts. Goats. Police vehicles. Busses. Taxis. Transports. Trucks. Green license plates (INGOs). Blue license plates (United Nations). White license plates(resident of Kabul). No license plates. All share the city streets of Kabul in a rhythmic traffic dance that miraculously seems to work.

Driving in Kabul is a test of will. It is a good thing that alcohol is not sold or consumed in this Muslim country so driving under the influence does not come into play. Since I am only driven and do not drive myself in Kabul, I can only imagine what it must be like to be in the driver’s seat. The word “intrepid” applies. Split-second timing and instant reflexes are a must.

Kabul has no stop lights. Well, that’s not exactly the truth. It has ONE stop light and it either runs red or green for 24 hours at a stretch. There are stop signs on the side streets that lead into the main arteries, but they are more decoration than deterrent.

There are traffic circles scattered throughout Kabul, each with a diminutive rotary in the middle that looks like the children’s merry-go-rounds found in the public parks of the 1950s. At every rotary, a policeman swings a cautionary Stop sign the size of a ping pong paddle at merging traffic. Herding cats, for the most part. The policeman with the ping pong paddle is merely street furniture. No one pays much attention.

The rules of engagement are simple: a driver approaching a main artery from a side street must pull out at least halfway into the jet stream of oncoming traffic no matter what is heading his way. Vehicles on the main arteries build up considerable speed because there are no traffic lights, but this does not stop the average Afghan driver desiring to enter traffic from the side. A proud driver cedes no ground, but rather steps on it as a speeding vehicle approaches, plunging his (gender-inclusiveness does not apply here; most Afghan drivers are male) vehicle into the flow of traffic.

When a driver has established ground, the game is on. Two cars are now vying for one space. And as I learned from my 12th grade Physics teacher, Admiral Orville Gregor, two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. This is physically impossible.

But maybe not in Kabul!

At the moment of near-engagement, there is a subtle exchange of eye signals between drivers. The oncoming driver stops within inches of the side street encroacher. Looks go back and forth. The encroacher sends a signal to the oncomer that somehow salvages the oncomer’s pride and allows the encroacher to proceed into traffic. The term “road rage” has no equivalent in Dari or Pashto!

Once launched on a main street, a more sophisticated skill set is required. Driving on Kabul’s main streets is a game of Thread the Needle as vehicles, pedestrians, and animals vie for space on a two-lane two-way street with all of the above in play: donkey carts, children and women in burkas begging in the street, SUVs, taxis, bicycles, rickshaws, transports, and trucks. Surprisingly, a car horn is a weapon of last resort.

Driving in Kabul is simple. Proceed at all speed, never mind direction. Stake your claim. Keep going. You will encounter vehicles hastily parked curbside, pedestrians darting in front of your path, the occasional herd of goats making their way through the city. Accelerate, don’t negotiate.

I have never seen one of my drivers lose ground. Never. In the two months I have been in Kabul, I have seen only two automobile accidents in the city streets. This is improbable, to say the least. Every trip by car is a thrill ride. Bumper cars. Chicken. I Double Dare Ya!

It seems to work. When I complimented my driver, Sayed Mohammed, on his masterful driving skills, he said, “It is easy. I was a tank driver in the Afghan National Army. Driving this car is like driving a bicycle.”

Crude Independence

February 12, 2009 As a proud mother of two incredibly accomplished children, I can't help but beam when something wonderful happens. Here is one of those somethings. Earlier this week, my son Alex called to tell me that Crude Independence, a documentary film about the oil boom in North Dakota which he co-edited last summer won the award for Best Documentary Feature at the 2009 Oxford, Mississippi Film Festival! I am very proud of the whole film crew, especially of my son. Way to go, Big Al!

Head Scarves

February 12, 2009 All of the Afghan women I know cover their heads with scarves. Homemakers, professional women, young and old. Heads covered. This is Islamic tradition and Afghan women follow it without fail, even in their own homes.

I brought five scarves with me to Kabul and I have acquired another 5 since I have been here. I, too, wear my head covered but without the grace and dignity of my Afghan friends.

My scarf will not stay put. It slips and slides. I fuss with it endlessly, fiddling with my conspicuously fair hair every few minutes as it flies free from my scarf. Meanwhile, my Afghan friends sit with their hands folded on their laps, fully engaged in conversation. I am in the conversation, too, but my head is swimming with negative messages. "What is wrong with you that you can't keep this scarf in place?" "They must think I am hopeless."

My friends Nadia Noorzi, Noor Jahan Xousufuzai, Anargul Mansouri, Nadia Alkan, and Shekba ask me frequently about my scarves. How many do I have? Which is my best scarf? Their scarves run the gamut from the chic Marilyn Monroe look -- square silk scarf knotted under the chin -- to long chiffon with bling to yards of silk with mink tassels. In the mornings before I meet with my friends, I take extra care with my scarf.

So it was this morning that I decided to pull out my "good" scarf, the lavender silk scarf I bought to wear to the Inaugural Ball at the U.S. Embassy in Kabul. I swirled the silk scarf around my neck and then decided to cover my head with a second scarf -- second best, at that.

When I arrived at the Safi Landmark Hotel in Kabul for my get together with my friends , they admired the lavender silk scarf. "Very pretty, like your eyes," Nadia complimented me.

And then, halfway through our time together, Anargul, seated across from me, tilted her head slightly and smiled at me. "Why do you wear two scarves?" she asked. Clutching the back-up scarf, I said, "I don't know. Shall I take it off?"

They all chuckled and nodded their heads. Under their watchful eyes, I swiped the scarf off my head, folded it, and tucked it in my purse.

"Now," Noor Jahan said, "cover the lavender scarf over your head."

And so I did, to a chorus of "Oooohs."

I smiled broadly, and then Sekba said something in Dari to the group. Anargul translated: "Now you have good personality," she said, smiling right back at me.

I had to come all the way to Kabul to finally make a fashion statement!

Trouble the Water Nominated for Academy Award

February 8, 2009 If you have not already seen the extraordinary documentary film, Trouble the Water, I hope you will. This is the film my son, Alex, worked on two summers ago. We learned recently that it has been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary. Read on...

TROUBLE THE WATER

Tia Lessin and Carl Deal

ACADEMY AWARDS HISTORY

These are the first Academy Award nominations for Tia Lessin and Carl Deal.

FILM SYNOPSIS

As the drama of Hurricane Katrina unfolded, New Orleans resident Kimberly Roberts recorded the chaos and devastation of her own experience on videotape. Her footage forms the heart of this portrait of Roberts's long journey with her husband, from the early days of the storm to their subsequent evacuation, resettlement in Memphis, and eventual return to the decimated city.

February 6, 2006 Dari proverb:
khArpushtak chUchE khuda mEga: "bakhmalI bachEm."
A porcupine speaking to its baby says: "O my child of velvet."

Afghanistan: Guns or Butter?

February 6, 2009 Troops or infrastructure? Bullets or ballots? These questions are making the rounds in Washington and Kabul as President Obama drafts his Afghanistan policy. According to recent news reports, President Obama has decided to send 30,000 more US troops to Afghanistan and to outsource the rebuilding of the country – infrastructure, human services – to European nations. Guns or butter? How to decide?

Insecurity is the dark cloud hanging over Afghanistan, and until some semblance of security is achieved, it seems unlikely that the other pieces such as paved streets, reliable electricity, clean water, new schools, and meaningful employment that pays a living wage will fall into place.

In the time I have been in Afghanistan, I have heard Afghan bodyguards, co-workers, drivers, judges, lawyers, and law professors speak about the state of Afghanistan. There is universal agreement that Afghanistan needs help. But what is needed to restore the basics of life, not to mention human rights and the rule of law? Who can help Afghanistan? Who will help Afghanistan? Is Afghanistan a failed state?

Every Afghan I have spoken with has expressed high hopes for the presidency of Barack Obama. They believe as I do that he is an agent of hope and renewal who can fix what has broken so badly through the past decades of Soviet occupation, Taliban rule, and civil strife. But where to start?

I have had this conversation with many of my Afghan friends. Invariably, they lead with a statement on insecurity. Afghanistan is a dangerous country. Even ordinary Afghans – never mind ex-pats and foreign workers – dare not walk on the streets of Kabul for fear of kidnapping. The cost of living is high and so is unemployment. Municipal services are unreliable: roads remain unpaved, Kabul does not have dependable electricity. Girls go uneducated in provinces outside of Kabul.

The discussion on insecurity leads to a question: “What do you think of President Karzai?” Here follows an informal referendum on President Hamid Karzai: he is weak, he favors his Pashtun tribe, his brother is a drug dealer, he has allowed corruption at the highest levels of his government. Many Afghans hope that a new president will be elected in this August's election and that a new administration will turn things around. But no one seems to know who the new president might be.

The cycle is clear: insecurity breeds corruption, corruption fosters poverty, poverty robs infrastructure, depleted infrastructure deprives Afghans, deprivation breeds insecurity.

One has only to drive through the upscale neighborhoods where houses the size of cruise ships bear witness to the greed and graft that Afghans claim have robbed them of a decent quality of life. Adorned with elaborate mosaic tile designs and painted in pastel pinks, greens, and yellows, many of these houses were acquired at bargain basement prices.

A January 2, 2009 New York Times article, “Bribes Corrode Afghans’ Trust in Government,” describes these upscale, oversize houses as “poppy houses,” suggesting that they are paid for by drug trafficking. “Nowhere is the scent of corruption so strong as in the Kabul neighborhood of Sherpur,” the article states. “Before 2001, [Sherpur] was a vacant patch of hillside that overlooked the stately neighborhood of Wazir Akbar Khan. Today it is the wealthiest enclave in the country, with gaudy, grandiose mansions….” The article goes on to say that “…the plots of land on which the mansions of Sherpur stand were doled out early in the Karzai administration for prices that were a tiny fraction of what they were worth.”

“Inexplicable Wealth of Afghan Elite Sows Bitterness,” a January 12, 2009 Washington Post article, describes “Children with pinched faces beg[ging] near the mansions of a tiny elite enriched by foreign aid and official corruption.” The article continues: “It is difficult to prove, but universally believed here, that much of this new wealth is ill-gotten. There are endless tales of official corruption, illegal drug trafficking, cargo smuggling and personal pocketing of international aid funds that have created boom industries in construction, luxury imports, security and high tech communications.”

Against these odds, every day Afghans pray for an answer to their country’s huge needs. What to do?

Former U.S. Senator George McGovern proposed in a January 22, 2009 Washington Post op-ed piece that rather than “try[ing]to put Afghanistan aright with the U.S. military…” President Obama instead call a “five-year time-out on war….” McGovern suggests that “during that interval, we could work with the U.N. World Food Program, plus the overseas arms of the churches, synagogues, mosques and other volunteer agencies to provide a nutritious lunch every day for every school-age child in Afghanistan and other poor countries.”

Guns or butter? Senator McGovern chooses butter -- "food in the stomachs of hungry kids.” My Quaker faith tugs at me. I can imagine what a nutritious lunch would mean to a hungry Afghan child. And there are too many hungry children on the streets of Kabul. But then I return to the insecurity issue, and I wonder what difference a full stomach makes if you can’t walk on the streets of Kabul?

The Best Things About Kabul

February 6, 2009 Living in Kabul has been rich beyond imagination. I often have trouble putting words to paper because so many sights, sounds, and tastes compete for air. Of the many things I love about this city, I offer the following which I will carry with me.

The greeting that meets me every morning when Shah Mahmood drives me to work: Roz-e khush, “have a good day.” Literally, “have a rosy day.”

Moroyhar kanar, or chAklEtA, hard butterscotch candies which the kitchen staff set out in small glass bowls every morning and place in each office in the compound where I work. The hard shell of the candy melts and gives way to a creamy caramel.

Abdul Qadeer “Istalfi” Carpet and Handcraft Store on Chicken Street, my favorite shop in Kabul. Abdul Qadeer sells carpets, chapan (also known as the “Karzai coat,” a mid-calf length purple and green silk jacket worn as a cape with the sleeves hanging free), pakol (a round, flat wool hat worn by men), gorgeous painted furniture made by Afghan refugees in Pakistan, silk and cotton tapestries. The shop is a maze of separate rooms; as soon as you think you have seen the last offering, there is another small room behind the next decorative curtain. Today I went to Abdul Qadeer’s shop with my friend, Tom. Abdul was willing to bargain with Tom because Tom came with mAdar, or “Mother.” (That's me!) I enjoy an elevated status in Afghanistan due to my tender age!

Nan, the best bread I have ever eaten. A loaf of Nan, a two foot long flat bread, can be bought at one of the dozens of street bakeries that dot Kabul’s commercial and residential neighborhoods. Indeed, Nan bakeries may be the Starbuck’s of Kabul, that is how close together they are found. Nan is baked on a blazing charcoal grill and sold hot. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, I never get tired of it.

The BGs as our bodyguards are known affectionately watch over all of us who live in the Guest House and work on the Rule of Law Project 24/7. There are 8 BGs, all young Afghan men dressed in natty royal blue blazers and packing heat! My friend and BG, Farid, is a born leader. Within days of my meeting him, Farid was offered a job as a security supervisor and left us. The BGs ride in the car with us to and from work and home and wherever we go on our day off, always sitting in the front passenger seat. All those years that my children competed for the front seat of the car by seeing who could shout “Shotgun” first, and now I know why. The BGs are no older than my two children. It is their job to get out of the car first, assess the setting, and then give us the nod to get out. The mAdar in me wants to take care of them. It hardly seems right that they should put themselves at risk when they are so young and have their long lives ahead of them.

The calico cat lives at our office. I heard her before I met her, basking in the sun on the terrace of the office, mewing at the top of her lungs as the lunch hour approached. No fool, this Afghan peshak, she has worked her charms on me and all but a handful of my colleagues as she makes her way from office to office to lounge on a comfortable chair, announce her hunger, or nuzzle up against a friendly ankle. I wish I could bring her home with me.

Meena, Salima, Modera, Kamila, Modera, and Razia, my young Afghan colleagues. Salima translates legal publications from Dari to English. She learned English as a child and in her free time teaches young Afghan girls English and math because, as she told me, she was lucky to have a family that encouraged her to get an education and many Afghan girls are not so lucky. Razia has her law degree and also works as a translator. Parwana (her name means “butterfly” in English), Kamila, and Modera are Cleaners at my office. Meena is a Human Resources Clerk. Not a day passes that I am not asked, “How is your daughter? How is your son?” Meena often greets me with “Hello, Mum, how are you? Your eyes are beautiful today.” Salima and I share an office. When I come in on a morning, she asks “How was your evening?” When we part at 4:30 PM, I say, “Have a nice evening,” to which she responds, “I wish you the same.”

I have become friends with a group of women law professors who are in Kabul studying Legal English in hopes of becoming sufficiently fluent to earn fellowships to study in the United States. Three times a week, I go to Kabul’s Safi Landmark Hotel where Anargul Mansouri, Nadia Noorzi, Noor Jahan Xousufuzai, Sekba, Fairida Qadiri, and Nadia Alkan are staying and we speak in English. I have learned from them what it was like to live under the Taliban when they were young girls. They were not allowed to attend school, and could not leave their homes. Nadia Alkan described those lost years as a time when her mind lay fallow but the seeds for her career in law germinated. Today she teaches on both the Law and Sharia Faculties at Kabul University. Three of these women are married to husbands selected by their parents. Until they married, they lived at home with parents, grandparents, in-laws, nieces, and nephews. As they became comfortable with me, Anargul asked with a twinkle in her eye, “Can we ask you personal question?” “Of course,” I said. “Did you have boyfriends before you married?” I owned up to one or two boyfriends and explained that it is our custom in the United States. They explained that boyfriends and dating are not a possibility in Afghan culture, and that is fine with them.

Dovecotes dot the rooftops of many homes in Kabul. On my first morning here, I awoke early to the call for prayer which sings across the city five times a day, starting at sunrise. Listening carefully, I discerned a competing sound. Cooing. I got out of bed and opened the curtains to see where the noise came from. There they were at eye level, cooing to their hearts’ content, a flock of doves issuing their own call to worship from their lofty temples atop the house next door.

Chicken Street

January 23, 2009 I woke up this morning to blue skies and sunshine. Kabul looked glorious out of my second floor window. Today is my day off and I welcomed the break from work which has kept me busy and has stretched me in good ways. First thing when I woke up, I had a Skype call with my brothers, my sister-in-law, and my Dad who live in Southern California. It was so good to see their faces on the screen and to catch up with them for the first time since I came to Kabul. I think my Dad was a little taken aback to see me full screen! It sure was good to see all of them.

My morning emails brought a card from Louisa from “The Office,” a television show we share a passion for. The card is a photo of Phyllis (aka Mrs. Bob Vance of Bob Vance Refrigeration) on her wedding day. That made me smile. I miss my children. The next email from Alex was brimming with good cheer about his senior thesis film and the Nietzch Factor, his Wesleyan Ultimate Frisbee team. A third email shared the great news that “Trouble the Water,” the extraordinary documentary film about Hurricane Katrina that Alex worked on as an intern two summers ago is nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary Film. Big shout-out to Tia Lessin and Carl Deal from Kabul!

After brunch – Fridays we have brunch at 10 AM in the Guest House – of sausage and the most amazing soufflé-like pancake, I went off to Chicken Street with my friend, Belquis.

I had heard about Chicken Street before I came to Kabul. Carpets, furniture, tapestries, hookas, Karzai hats, chapans (vibrant colored Karzai knee-length jackets), lapis lazuli. You name it, Chicken Street has it.

Today was a lark for several reasons, the most exciting of which is that my friend and I were out together in Kabul without a bodyguard. (Shhhhhh!) We were in a safe area and we were in and out of shops. And we had a phalanx of 7-and 8-year old boys tagging along behind and in front of us, beseeching us to buy chewing gum, offering to carry our packages, and finally determining that they were our bodyguards. At one point, my friend noticed that we were the only women on the street.

We made our way in and out of the most extraordinary shops, each one a warren of small rooms offering feasts for the eyes. Carpets stacked floor to ceiling. Tapestries, silks and wool. Kilim saddlebags for camels. Karzai hats made of lambs wool. Karzai jackets --- chapans – of elegant green and purple fabric. (To be worn, I have it on good authority, with arms in sleeves for informal occasions and draped over the shoulders for formal occasions.) Carved walnut chairs, divans, tables, bed frames. (My friend, Belquis, is trying out one of the beautiful carved chairs in the photograph above.) Lapis lazuli carvings, rings, bracelets, and necklaces. Handblown glass in the most exquisite pale aqua.

All this and the small boys were still escorting us, waiting patiently as we entered yet another store, hoping against hope that we would acknowledge their patience with some form of material reward! We relented and purchased chocolate bars. The boys accepted them with smiles and continued to tag along after us.
Every shop keeper in every shop we visited offered us tea and sweets and led us up stairs to upper levels where carpets and saddlebags and chairs and tables and wall hangings are kept. We are invited to select items and pay now or pay next time we come back. Afghans give new meaning to the word “hospitality” by their words and deeds.

The colors, textures, carvings, finishes, threads, and patterns dazzle the eye. After the second carpet shop, the carpets and tapestries became a blur of reds, blues, golds, and creams. Silk and wool. Blankets made of camel hair and beads of lapis lazuli. My heart was set on two tiny tables, one red and one blue, with intricate folk designs painted on them. A multicolored bedspread embroidered in cotton. A woven wall hanging, a painted box, blue glass beads. For this, I paid the sum of $90 US.

The sun was still high in the sky at 2:00 PM when we returned to the Guest House. I was still feeling the freedom of walking down Chicken Street with my friend, not a care in the world other than a growing pack of young boys eager to please, hoping for baksheesh.

Tonight, I went to the Gandamack for dinner with my new friend, Liz, a beautiful Australian woman who has been here for several months and will be leaving on Monday to return to her home in Spain. This is the third restaurant I have been to since I’ve been in Kabul, and the drill is the same with each one. The restaurants we are allowed to go to are the “double door” restaurants. One enters from an institutional grilled and locked door streetside and crosses a dirt courtyard into a set of double doors. The first door is metal and it is locked. Liz has been there before so she knows to knock. We are viewed through a peephole and we pass muster. We are allowed into a tiny holding stall while we are either viewed again – or in the case of other restaurants, searched for firearms – and then the second door opens and we cross another courtyard and enter what is one of the most beautiful restaurants I have ever seen. White linen tablecloths, sterling flatware, bone china. Candlelight and wine glasses! Boo-yah! The menu offers Boston Climb Chowder and Trout Squeegey Style. (Don’t ask; I didn’t!) Liz has grilled chicken breast and I have Spinach Lasagna. The dinner is delicious and the conversation is wonderful. What a great day!

Every day I wish my children were here with me. I make mental notes to tell them about something I saw, heard, ate, even imagined. How to telegraph the colors, sounds, sights, smells, and tastes? This is too much experience for one person.