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.