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.

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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!