Home / Archive by category "Afghanistan"

On this “suburban warzone”

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
No Comment

One of the oddities of living in Kabul is that the in’s and out’s of daily life often make international news.

When this incredibly snarky piece by Rod Nordland came out in the New York Times, for example, I realized that I personally knew every project, and most of the individuals involved, that he described and so quickly dismissed. In fact, I had even taken part in one of them, the fashion show organized by Young Women for Change.

While Rod’s “article” was an overly-simplified and misrepresentative portrayal of art and private initiatives - not, in most cases, aid, as he claims – another recently published piece gets life in Kabul beautifully right.

Despite its dramatic title, “Kabul: Survival in a Suburban Warzone”, Ben Farmer’s description of Kabul Jan and, specifically, of the neighborhood that we and so many other expats share, resonate deeply. These lines especially,

Crowds of children tear around kicking footballs or playing hide and seek as watchful fathers stand at the gate. Tradesmen and labourers walk the potholed dirt streets and alleys shouting their wares and looking for work. At the weekend – Friday in Afghanistan – the men wash their cars and pack in their families to go visiting. The call to prayer, ice cream salesmen and American Black Hawk helicopters flying low enough to rattle the windows provide the soundtrack. 

And after this morning’s four-hour long attack on Kabul International Airport, this section as well:

Each [attack] follows a similar pattern. A quiet morning is shattered by a blast and often gunfire, leaving everyone craning to see where smoke is rising. Phone networks often jam as people seek assurances their relatives are safe and then people check local radio, TV and even Twitter to see where the attack struck.

One aspect of Kabul life that I came to admire was how quickly the city got back to work after attacks. Daily life refused to be halted and often resumed minutes after the shooting had stopped and the blood was hosed away.

Initial security reports suggested that the attack had been a rocket attack in Quala e Fatulah, but it was not us, and life did go on and is going on. Outside, there is the loud whirring of machinery as they finally – but slowly – pave our dirt road. From next door, there is the clunk of bricks being laid for the monstrosity of a poppy palace the neighbors are building. A few times an hour, the melody of the ice cream carts drifts in through the open windows and, every few hours, the Black Hawks make their routine flight over the city.

This is the reality that Ben Farmer describes and, the longer I stay in Afghanistan, the more I appreciate his type of writing. 12 years in, it’s too easy to resort to the headline-catching cliches and stereotypes that paint vivid, if inaccurate, portraits of life in this “suburban warzone.”

Because Afghanistan is more than a headline; for millions – including, now, for me – this is reality and these are the in’s and out’s of my daily life.

Brand Recognition, Afghan Style

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
No Comment

The other day, I went appliance shopping for a friend’s new apartment. We visited about 5 or 6 stores in to get a sense of options and pricing, and found everything from stainless steel refrigerators, lightweight plastic washing machines, to appliances covered in flowers. “Those,” my friend said, “are clearly Pakistani. They love flowers.”

As curious as the stylized flowers were, I was most excited to find Haier, one of the most successful Chinese brands to compete on the global market.

Noticing my interest, one shopkeeper confidently pitched, “Haier is a German brand – very good quality.” Another later tried to convince us that Haier  was Korean.

So at least it’s got one half of the brand recognition equation right. Haier is recognized in Afghanistan as a dependable brand… even if no one seems to know that it’s from China. Is this a win or a lose for brands like Haier? I can’t decide.

 

Dubious Distinctions

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
2 Comments

Friends that have spent time in Africa have a catch-all phrase to describe the trials and tribulations of daily life in the continent: “This is Africa”, or simply “TIA”. At the end of an anecdote, a sentence, or even as an alternative to any words at all, “TIA”, they’ll say, with a big roll of the eyes, a sigh, a shrug, or a knowing smirk.

We don’t have a commonly used equivalent of “TIA” in Afghanistan – at least not one that is so pithily expressed in three letters – but the concept of accepting the absurd as normal exists here as well. From the way the windows rattle under the twice-daily flights of ISAF helicopters to the horrendous traffic jams where cars, humvees, push carts, and the occasional donkey all vie for space in the poorly planned streets, definitions of normal change in Kabul.

But lately, I’ve had some experiences that are, if possible, even more “This is Afghanistan” than typical. These include…

1) Falling into an open sewer

Kabul’s streets are notorious for being mostly unpaved, pockmarked even if paved, or both unpaved and pockmarked with giant ditches. Most of them also have open sewage ditches next to them that, unfortunately, do not lead to any sort of sewage system.

This sewage ditch is empty. The one I fell into was, alas, not.

And as I was walking through Pul-e-sur, a neighborhood on the Western side of the city , I stepped too close to a sewage ditch, slipped, and suddenly found myself up to my thighs in a noxious-smelling mixture of shit, run-off, and unidentifiable chemicals. I scrambled out as best as I could, but I could not rescue my shoes from the brown-grey slime, and so I stood, alone on the side of a busy road, shoeless and covered in excrement, as my friend and mardham (male companion) went off in search of some temporary footwear… 

Supposedly, this is common for Kabulis that must daily face the obstacle course that are the city streets. Even so, when I told my driver about this episode the next day, he laughed so hard that he had to pull over.

“Has this ever happened to you?” I asked. He shook his head, guffawing the whole time.

2) Getting caught in barbed wire

Concertina wire, here in front of the Queen’s Palace looking out to the King’s Palace.

Security measures abound in Afghanistan, from armed guards to police checkpoints to Jersey barriers to blast film, but perhaps nothing is quite as ubiquitous as concertina wire. Around wall perimeters to discourage robbers, sitting on roads to block off certain areas, and even – sometimes – in the middle of otherwise perfectly normal-looking courtyards.

And so it was today that, at a friend’s compound, I stepped too close to a chest-high set of coils and found my shirt  stubbornly wrapped around a blade of wire. Luckily, the shirt was baggy – and somehow, after careful extrication, in one piece.

3) Making an appearance on the Taliban’s official website

But perhaps none of these missteps – literal or otherwise – are as “This is Afghanistan” as being featured on Shahamat, the Taliban’s official website, and not for model Islamic behavior.

In a traditional design. More photos at http://buff.ly/16BxLKs

In February, I had the honor of opening a fashion show featuring both Afghan women’s designs, as well as (almost) all Afghan models. The show received a lot of press both internationally as well as in country. The articles, photos, and videos on BBC Persian and BBC Pashto, however, caused a number of problems for the show’s organizers and models, including unknown gunmen that followed us to the show’s location, accusations of prostitution by hardline Islamist Noorin TV, and outcry and threats on Shahamat…

I found out about my Shahamat feature from a close friend who himself made the Taliban blacklist for organizing the Afghan Ski Challenge. Over a cup of chai, we joked that, to make it harder for them, we should never appear in public together.

 

Dubious distinctions all and – with the last at least – potentially dangerous. But in Afghanistan, there is too much to worry about if you start and, besides taking more security precautions, what else can you do but accept, with a big roll of the eyes, a sigh, a shrug, or a knowing smirk, “This is Afghanistan”…?

 

This Old House

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
1 Comment

The light-filled stairway

Today, there is carpet. Yesterday, stair runners. And a few days before that, fully functioning bathrooms.

I walk through my new home – now painted, carpeted, and cleaned – and a deep delight bubbles out of the pit of my stomach until it bursts into an unshakable grin. It’s absurd just how content, how at home, and how natural I feel here, in the middle of this country at war – or so I’m told, for it depends on whom you ask – and this city where there was another suicide attack just this morning. 

It feels incredibly trivial for me to be so consumed by setting up this house – and writing about setting up this house. Wouldn’t my time be better spent trying to make sense of the myriad political parties, catching up on the latest in the peace talks with the Taliban, reading the report about civil society development a friend just sent, or – at the very least – working on one of my two intensive should-be-full-time-on-their-own jobs?

Or – if we wanted to keep it house-focused – there’s also plenty to concern me. I could still fume, as I did this afternoon at finding out that I had signed a lease in a language I did not read that committed me to paying 10% more than agreed upon each month, because I trusted my Afghan business partner, who forgot to double check what we were signing. I could be endlessly frustrated with the overall incompetence of most of my staff – other than the hala [auntie] that cleans even the objects that I forgot I had. 

A pillow corner, just missing a rug

On the day I moved in, for example, I went to the house with all of my things to find that the chawkidor [door guard] had decided to go home for the night and not tell me, taking with him my only key and then, when I decided to give him a second chance the next day, promptly lost the key and required me to let him in. Meanwhile my current one leaves me the hardest jobs – like climbing up oil drums and metal chests into the attic to put pots and pans to catch the roof’s leaks – while warming himself in front of my electric heater with hot chai and telling me, “Bohatarique da Afghanistan hastem [It is because we are in Afghanistan]“, whenever I am unhappy about his or the workers’ work.

Uf. But there will be time – and opportunity – enough for fuming and frustration tomorrow.

The shopkeeper packages MY cotton

Tonight, here I am, lying on this custom-stuffed toshak [mattress] for which I drove out to the cotton market, stuck my hand into several bags of thick white fluff to feel for optimal softness, chose 16.5 kg of the more reasonably priced (and only minimally less soft) type, haggled, left a shop, started the process anew, haggled some more, chose a toshak cover, and hired a man to stuff the chosen cover with the chosen 16.5 kg of well-priced but less soft cotton.

Here I am, admiring my moody purple ceiling and my much negotiated for kilim rug for which, I am proud to say, I paid local and not expat prices. Here I am, thinking about all of the furniture to be bought and pinning and pinning my home decor ideas like crazy. Here I am, proud of the visible progress that I have made since moving in three weeks ago. Here I am, confident that whatever absurdities sure to come my way tomorrow, I can take it because you know what? I already have.

Here I am.

 

Moments

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
No Comment

When I came to Afghanistan in October, I was irrationally and, perhaps, naively head-over-heels in love with every day and every experience here. Upon my return in January, however, I had a hard time readjusting. But thanks to moments – and people – like these, I gradually began to remember what it was about this country that I fell in love with in the first place… 

Afghan Stars

She has alabaster skin dotted by delicate freckles, big brown eyes, and a quick tongue that sends the girls into fits of laughter. She, along with her sister, adopt Fara and I almost as soon as we sit down in the then-empty soundstage. In the long hours of downtime before and between the shooting of the semi-final episode of Afghan Star, Afghanistan’s answer to American Idol, the pair of them keep us entertained.

Mostly with questions. Where am I from? How long have I been in Afghanistan? Am I married? Do I have a boyfriend? Why don’t I have a boyfriend? Who is my favorite Afghan star? What do I think of Afghan men? Do I want to meet their brother, who is a doctor?

“He’s different,” she promises, “smart and progressive and bishyar maqbul hast*. You will like him.” She pauses, “And besides, if you like Afghanistan so much, isn’t it good to marry an Afghan and stay forever?”

And later, “Can I invite you to my home?” she asks, excited but suddenly bashful. “You can meet my brother. You can meet all of my brothers.” She raises her eyebrows mischievously, and I laugh.

Charming, bold, and vivacious, she seems as much an Afghan star as the contestants on stage before us.

The Problem with Husbands

It is before a big family dinner, and the women are gathered by the bukhari**, comparing bolts of recently purchased cloth that tomorrow will be transformed into outfits. The three men present – the husbands and fathers – are on the far side of the room, lounging with their feet stretched out and their chai and snacks before them. The many children are playing a shrieking game of tag around us. But for all intensive purposes, we women are alone and talking openly. 

“It’s good that you do not have a husband yet,” one of the women tells me. “Men only bring problems.”

“And Afghan men are the worst!” Another chimes in.

They chatter in rapid-fire Dari, and I am made to understand, via their accompanying hand gestures, the smelliness, infidelity, and troubles of having a husband. I glance over at their men, and my friend, the host, catches my eye, shrugs, and grins indulgently. What can you do? He seems to ask.

Later, after dinner, we are lounging around in a food-induced coma. Talk turns to 2014 and everyone’s plans. “Eileen says she will stay in Afghanistan.” My friend informs everyone.

One of the men roars with mirth, “You stay in Afghanistan and I will go to the U.S. in your place.”

His wife quickly jumps in, “No, I will take her place and she can have mine – my life, my tazkeera, even my husband. How about it?”

Laughter all around – with the loudest coming from her husband.

Small Acts of Resistance

We are speeding through the night, six of us jammed into a small red sedan. Western pop music is blaring through the stereo, and as we approach a police checkpoint, Nabil taps on the breaks to the beat of the reggaeton song playing. One of the ANP*** shines his flashlight into the car, and seeing five women inside – four of us stuffed into the backseat and one, her headscarf defiantly down, in the front – he waves us on.

Nabil says something in Dari that I don’t catch but Benazir, who’s sitting half on me and half next to me, hits him playfully in response and the other women laugh.

A small gesture that would go unnoticed in any other context, but in conservative Afghanistan, where five unmarried young women and one unmarried young man should not be together period, it’s a small gesture of resistance.

The song changes and Shakira’s strong voice belts out,

“Cause I’m a gypsy, but are you coming with me? I might steal your clothes and wear them if they fit me.

I never made agreements, just like a gypsy. And I won’t back down, cause life’s already hurt me,

And I won’t cry. I’m too young to die. If you’re going to quit me. ’Cause I’m a gypsy…”

Benazir is the only one that knows all the words, but the rest of us sway along, connecting deeply to the lyrics. “This song is my favorite!” She says feelingly at its conclusion, and I wonder at their resilience. Who are these women, and how have they managed to maintain their free spirits and joie de vivre here?

And perhaps more importantly, how many more women like them are out there, resisting in their own small ways?

–

*Bishyar maqbul hast: He’s very handsome.

**Bukhari: an Afghan metal fireplace used to heat homes in the winter. They are typically filled with sawdust, coal, or wood, though the word “bukhari” has also come to refer to any heater, including electric heaters.

***ANP: Afghan National Police: 

A Wake-Up Call

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
3 Comments

It happened so quickly, as these things are wont to do.

One moment I was on the phone, trying to get the last leg of directions to a friend’s house, and then the next, three punches were colliding with my face.

The man grabbed my phone, but I held on. I must have screamed because the next thing I knew, he was running away. The group of young men – boys really – that stood, watching, on the opposite street corner ran after him. In my muddled state of mind, my immediate thought was that, as good Samaritans, they were in pursuit.

And then I stopped thinking, and I too ran.

–

The night before the failed mugging, I sat in N and M’s living room and we discussed the lack of petty crime in Kabul. An older couple, they had lived in Afghanistan for the past six years. N worked in Russia and Kosovo previously, and M joined him at some point from China.

“The currency changers stand in the streets all day with a thick wad of 1000Af bills in one hand and 500Af bills in the other, and no one touches them,” N said. “It’s because they’re part of the community.”

“And in the meantime,” I added, “You have a higher chance of getting shot in some neighborhoods of Chicago than you do here.”

It was a strange irony about life in Afghanistan’s capital city. Plenty of things were potential threats, from kidnapping to traffic accidents to harassment by the security forces to the occasional suicide bomb and large-scale attacks. But mugging? Not something that we worry about on a daily basis.

I would remember this conversation later, taking deep, shaky breaths after I had stopped running.

–

I can’t decide if the young men that attacked me were true criminals or teens that jumped on an easy target.

They were terrible at their attempted burglary. There were six or seven of them, and yet only one of them came for me. He punched me – two times to the left of my face and then once to the right – and grabbed the hand that held my phone, but when I didn’t immediately let go, he fled.

It could have been much, much worse.

He could have punched me again, or broken my wrist to get at the phone. He could have pulled out a knife. He could have had one of his companions, or all of them, join in the attack. The closest one was only ten feet away, and I would have been helpless then, 1 against 7 or even 1 against 2.

Instead, I yelled into the phone, “Oh my God, I’m being attacked!” and he ran.

I was in shock and not entirely sure what shocked me most:

  1. That this happened less than 100 meters from the NDS guards on 24/7 watch outside of Asaddullah Khalid’s guesthouse (where the NDS Chief was wounded last month.)
  2. Or that, somehow, I still had my phone in my hand. (And a good thing too – that I wasn’t completely alone was the only thing that kept me from going to pieces.)

–

There’s another thought that I’ve been turning over in my mind.

Maybe they were criminals and they targeted Afghan women. Maybe they thought that I would be another easy victim. Maybe they were surprised that I did not fall to the ground upon the first blow. I hate this thought, and I hate that they are still out there, but the more that I think about it, the more likely this seems. After all, there were some weird moments leading up to the attack.

Two boys walked past me as I was on the phone in front of what I thought was my friends’ house. (“You’ll know you’ve found our house when you go XXX past the the NDS jeep,” my friends had said, “you can’t miss it.”) The boys stopped not five feet to my left and, after a few moments of listening to my conversation – in English – they made a call themselves. I remember hearing one of them saying “Bya, hala bya,” to an invisible someone on the other end of the line, “Come, come now.”

At that moment, the parked jeep that I had mistaken for the NDS vehicle started up. It revved its engines and blinded me in its headlights, and then it sped away.

As if that was their cue, the two boys split up. One of them stayed behind me as I walked away, and the other walked a little ahead of me and to my left. It was around then, I think, that the attacker came up from behind and started hitting me.

He must have been the one that they called.

–

As I write this, it is the morning after and I’m back home, safe and sound with nothing but a throbbing jaw to show for the incident. Thankfully, there aren’t any bruises yet, though I suspect they might make an appearance later.

I am incredibly lucky that nothing else happened. I run through the scenarios in my head – if they had been smarter, or more prepared, or had more sinister intentions than the smartphone that I had in my hand…

This incident served as a much-needed wake-up call. I’ve been too lax about security, and though I still believe that Kabul is not an inherently dangerous city by mere virtue of being in Afghanistan, and that petty crime is uncommon here, I need to be more careful.

Descent

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
No Comment

Yesterday, I returned to Afghanistan after a month in China. This is what I was thinking as our plane began its descent into Kabul. 

For days, the anticipation builds.

You think of everything that you missed while away: the city’s first real snowfall, gatherings around warm bukharis, expat holiday parties featuring traditions from around the world. You imagine your return: the chowkidor’s warm welcome when he sees you through the gate, long conversations with friends reunited, and your confidence now that you’re not just a newbie expat…

And then you are in the airport.

Airports, more alike to each other than to the cities and countries that host them, have always been a constant in your life, and in them you feel at home. But it is always in the airport – at the boarding gate – on your way back to Afghanistan that the excitement begins to mix with doubt. There’s something about those boarding areas, with their crowd of beefy western security contractors in baggy cargo pants but tight t-shirts, and slim Afghan men in shalwar kameez and Chinese sandals that you find stifling, oppressive even.

Maybe it’s the sheer amount of testosterone in the air, but you feel out of place. If you were already in country, you would be nervously adjusting your headscarf around now, but because you are not, it is still stuffed in a ball in your carry-on. You wonder if you should put it on, and then your stomach knots at the thought of covering your hair again after it has been free for so long. And so it starts. Next you find yourself repeating the questions that you’ve been asked ad nauseam by relatives and strangers and friends back home – where ever home is or was for you.

“How can you stand it over there as a woman?” 

“Why do you keep going back?”

“What do you love so much about Afghanistan?”

And, (a favorite of my father’s): “If you want to work in a harsh environment, why not just find some village in ends-of-the-earth China?”

And then, two hours later, you are flying over the snow-covered Hindu Kush.

You marvel at the beauty of those mountain peaks and ponder their meaning and history. Though its etymology is debated, Hindu Kush translates literally as “Death of the Hindu” (referring to anyone from India, i.e. Hindustan). Flying over that rugged terrain that stands sentinel over Kabul, you are struck by how much the Kush has seen and how many secrets are guarded in its valleys. And suddenly, as your plane begins its descent, you remember.

You remember the country’s complexities that you studied in undergrad and tried to make sense of on your first trip. Try to know me, it taunts. Just try. You remember the quiet peacefulness of the pre-dawn and the dusk, as well as the hectic yearning and trying and hoping and pushing of days in a post-conflict nation. You remember your firsts: first film you saw about the country (Kandahar), first impressions as you drove out of the airport in that armored vehicle on your first trip (that it’s really not so different from rural China, other than the guns and uniformed men wielding them); the first time you heard the word Afghanistan pronounced the Afghan way (Off-hahn-ee-stahn); first time you managed to find your way without getting lost; the first time you saw a potential life for yourself here…

You remember also that you are the type to fall in love more with places than with people and that sometimes – or most times – love is illogical.

The plane touches tarmac and, by then, some clarity.

You realize that, like countless faranji before you and countless that will come after, a part of you now belongs here, to this country. The reverse may never be true, but you, dostem, you belong to her.

A Kabul Night

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
No Comment

When it is night in the Wazir Akbar Khan neighborhood of Kabul, you forget for a moment that you are still in Afghanistan – or at least, Afghanistan as it exists today.

The streets, paved and numbered – a rarity in Kabul – are empty. Here and there a security guard stands sentinel outside of a gated house and a lone dog pads silently towards a destination unknown, its tail low and feebly wagging. For the most part, however, the streetlights cast their pale glow over nothing but the Kabul standard of dust and haze.

It is quiet in these moments after dark. Sometimes you’ll hear a peal of laughter from behind the tall walls that protect its residents – and especially its women – from the gaze of the outside world. Other times you’ll feel even more than you’ll hear the shaking of the pick-up trucks, with their load of menacing armed men in the back, as they speed past you.

For the most part, however, Wazir at night belongs to the few of us pedestrians that want it. And I, for one, want it. I relish the relative peace and privacy and, above all, the sense of normalcy - hypernormalcy, even - that it provides.

I had one of those wonderfully normal nights earlier this week, when Una and I had dinner with two of the bandmates of District Unknown, Afghanistan’s first heavy metal band. Over Lebanese food and shisha, we had somehow gotten onto the topic of our totem animals.

“If you were an animal, what would you be?” One of the guys asked.

Thus started a long and lively discusion and, even after we left the restaurant for the Wazir night, we were joking, laughing, and loudly imitating the sounds of whale and marine mammals. As Pedram was pretending – with surprising accuracy – to be a dolphin, I saw the silhouette of a private security guard, who poked his head out from behind a door at the unexpected noise. I imagined him shaking his head and chuckling at our antics, and hoped that in his dolphin-imitating, Pedram had made his night as much as he had mine.

In that moment, we were just another group of irreverent friends in another tree-lined street in another residential, semi-urban neighborhood. It could have been anywhere in the world – but it was not. It was in Kabul, as the concertina wire curling over the walls on either side reminded us.

But even in Kabul, in that sleepy little neighborhood where a deadly suicide bomb had exploded days before, there was normalcy. And normalcy = hope.

Hope that these irreverent, carefree moments and that “alternative Afghanistan” are neither so fleeting – nor, for most Afghans – so far away.

To The Crew

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
No Comment

 

Thanksgiving in Kabul, and so much – and so many – to be thankful for. I finally feel like I am exactly where I am meant to be in life. Thank you – to new friends and old – for being a part of that. And a special thank you (bear with me for a long post – feel free to just control + f for your name):

To the colleagues that helped me get here - Toby, for having the controversial faith to give a 20 year old college student a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Agus (who I just saw after three years!), for making the introduction that brought me here; Tara, whose stories and experiences were what ultimately convinced me to jump on the opportunity; Ahmad, for being the facilitator that made this trip happen.

To my Twitter and other virtual buds (I do work in social media after all!) – some of whom I have yet to actually meet in person – Amandine, for trusting me to stay in your (amazingly warm and welcoming) home while you were away; Sajad, for making so many connections after numerous online interactions but just 1 in person meet-up; @_ndrw, for being a constant and supportive reader; Akhila for inspiring me with your writing; and Abed, Alex, and Mike for all of of the hours we spent working together on TEDxKabul communications.

To my family, friends, friendtors, and mentors back “home” – mom and dad for putting up with my impulsive decisions as well as the ensuing worry; Rajiv for the years of love and support – I will never forget them; Yamila, whose Egypt adventures gave me such wanderlust (and the push to create my own adventures); my old colleagues for still being so supportive (especially Will and Nathan for making me still feel part of the “team”, and AMC for the continued mentorship); Lulu (and Cadengo) for all of the pre-Afghanistan support and friendship; Lisa + Lulu collectively for reminding me of where I come from and that some things never change; Matt, for the encouragement to move forward when everyone else called me crazy; Cecilia for taking me in when I most needed it; Martin, for being the one man that’s stuck around the longest (8 years of friendship and counting!); the entire Global Shapers community for giving me a built-in and inspiring/encouraging community where ever I am; Justin for being such a great sounding board; Ted for inspiring; and Eugenia, for being the absolute best bestie a girl could ask for.

And to my new (and old) friends in Afghanistan - Farid and Zahrona for the years of friendship; Riz for making me feel so welcome during those critical first days; Gull, for helping me to feel at home for the first time in Afghanistan; Paddy for giving me a place to crash and regroup; Eliot for always making sure I was on the invite list; Melissa for being a wiser older sister and anthropology mentor; Ahmad (again) for the great conversations at FSC, Dari lessons, and shisha adventure (more to come?); Maria for being a kindred spirit in country; Pashtoon for an unforgettable experience in Kandahar; the entire Kabul rock scene (Trav, Warren, Pedram, et al) for converting me into a total, loyal groupie; and last – but definitely not least – to Hameed and Una.

Hameed, so thankful for your infinite patience and insight, for the good times we’ve already had, and all of the adventures to come. I can’t wait.

And finally to Una, for being a source of support, wisdom, and laughter since even before I arrived in country – thank you, thank you, thank you. My first two months in Afghanistan would look so different without you.

I know there’s so many people that I missed, but I think you know who you are. Thank you so much for being a part of my life. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours! Big hugs from Kabul,

xoxo Eileen

Do insurgents fly commercial?

standard
| by | Afghanistan |
No Comment

Packing for Kandahar. More at http://instagram.com/eileenguo

When flying from a less conservative to more conservative part of the world, there’s always that tricky question of when to don the culturally appropriate garb. Flying to Kabul isn’t too big of a deal, as the only clothing change is the addition of a headscarf. Since it’s an accessory, western women just pull it out of their purses and cover their heads before getting off the plane.

But what do you do when the attire in question is Afghan chadori, known in the west as the burqa?

You can’t whip it out of your carry-on and just throw it on with the same ease as a headscarf. The burqa requires quite a bit of adjusting for novices to get the small round skullcap to fit just right and the grids (for vision) to sit directly in front of your eyes. Even when it is on correctly, most women walk around holding the garment in place with one hand.

But let’s assume that putting on a burqa is as logistically simple as throwing on a headscarf.

There is still a more subtle cultural issue to consider. Seeing a woman sans chadori – whether niqab, hijab, or burqa – is an intimate sight usually reserved ony for husbands and close male relatives. But what if you first see a woman uncovered, and then you see her covered? Is the act of veiling itself an intimate sight? And if so, how culturally and morally taboo is it to put on a chadori under the very public gaze of passengers on a plane?

These were the questions that I was asking myself on Monday morning, as I stood in the waiting area of Kabul International Airport’s domestic terminal. The flight was delayed, with nary an announcement or explanation of any sort. I was surrounded by security contractors, scattered women – Afghan in head-to-toe black niqab and western in sweaters and headscarves – and a hundred Pashtun men in traditional salwar kameez, turbans and, in some cases, sporting long, thick beards. I was acutely aware of the number of eyes watching me (and each other); some impassively, others curiously, a small number hostilely. As I followed their eyes following me, I couldn’t help but wonder who these people were. What were they doing in Kabul, and in Kandahar? What were their stories? And, perhaps most importantly, what did they think of me?

Under those scrutinizing gazes, I almost wished that I was under the anonymizing cloak of my burqa, gifted from a friend’s wife that had no need of it in Kabul. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Kabul-Kandahar is just a one hour flight, with an additional (and inevitable, or so I’m told) two hours sitting on the tarmac. Even so, I did not relish the idea of being imprisoned beneath the blue cloth the entire time.

Besides, I reasoned, though I might have been anonymous, as a woman traveling alone in chadori, I would likely have drawn more attention, not less.

But that still leaves the question of when to go beneath the burqa. Would it be worse to veil myself before the gaze of a hundred Pashtun men on the flight, or to walk, naked without it, into a throng of a hundred more in the airport?

I suppose that the answer depended on who – or what – I thought I was protecting myself against. Insurgents? The Taleban? Taleban sympathizers? The over-curious? Leering men found the world over?

And that, in turn, led to the somewhat improbable and very silly question: do insurgents fly commercial?

 

I never came up with an answer but, in the end, I veiled as soon as we landed.