Sylvia's Journal

Yesterday I introduced Owen Harrison’s Open Space Methodology as a suggestion for how to handle unknown refresher training needs in the workshop that starts today. My counterpart Ali jumped on it – there was some skepticism among the others (but what if they pick a topic and there is no expert in the room?) but they are all willing to give it a try. We had more team meetings, both at the project office and at the ministry to help people digest this newfangled design I am proposing. The nice thing about the design it that it requires very little, if any, facilitator preparation; instead, facilitators give mostly instructions and model what we want participants to do. After that they become participants along with the other 70 people who are, supposedly, coming in today. I think the design is tight enough that it will essentially facilitate itself.

All will be done in Dari so I get to watch whether the process is working the way it is supposed to – it needs few words on my part and the participants will be active creators of their own learning. At the ministry I was able to get two young female trainers invited to our workshop so that the official facilitation team is not entirely male (they only agreed to observe). They are doctors (I learned today that there are no nurses employed at the ministry of health). It pains me to see young doctors like that doing essentially secretarial work, tasks for which they were not trained, while they ought to be in the field engaging with mothers about proper health habits, vaccinations and other preventive health for which there are simple solutions that even very young and experienced doctors can learn to do (and non doctors as well, but that is another battle).

On our way out of the ministry we met a ‘gender specialist’ who works for the UN. Those sorts of jobs are usually given to a woman. The cynical part of me thinks that this is because they tend to be low status and not much of a risk (of women taking over!). But this was a man (a doctor no less). I asked him why his organization had not recruited a woman and he replied that men know about gender too. That sounds great in the abstract but I can’t help but think that a woman in that position would handle issues about gender balance somewhat differently – and having a gender unit that cannot staff itself in a gender-balanced way makes it a bit of a joke. At moments like this I feel ashamed to be part of this enormous development and humanitarian aid industry because it is very good at making work for itself, rewarding itself nicely and paying lip service to the real work that needs to be done. I can only hope that, on balance, the work of most people employed in this industry does make a difference. Cynicism is not good for the soul.

Working here is an emotional roller coaster ride, highs and moments of great pride and hope suddenly make way for a sense of hopelessness and deep sadness. I assume that for each heart breaking story I hear there are thousands I don’t hear. On our way out of the ministry of health we met a young doctor who, Ali told me, spent three and a half month in jail under the Taliban because a (Taliban) child under his care died. His jail time left him diminished as Ali explained. The man walks around with his resume under his arm – unemployed – in this country where women and children die by the hundreds of thousands for want of medical care – mind you, what is needed is not medical specialists, but people who can deliver simple live saving primary health care. This is what this doctor could (and did) deliver in the rural areas.

The sad stories are juxtaposed by joyful images such as my neighbor – a grown up – who was enjoying an after-work kite flying diversion standing on his rooftop when I got home. He was in deep concentration when the kite plunged down and grinning ear to ear when it was soaring. It is a good image for my experience here in Kabul.

I am now officially registered with the ministry of interior – it is a new rule imposed on foreigners, supposedly for our safety. It requires two passport pictures and a trip to the ministry of the interior, filling in forms, handing over a passport, then walking up to an upstairs office where a higher up official stamps a form and a card which we keep till we leave. The process was amazingly streamlined – about 15 minutes – and kept about 4 people busy writing and stamping. The most time consuming part was the one hour drive to take us there and back.

Jon is leaving today. We celebrated our last dinner with him last night, eating once more from the 8 leftover dishes, some now over a week old. I was about to throw the spaghetti out but Steve wouldn’t hear of it and had some more. Maureen joined us just in time for storytelling, one of the favorite parts of my days here, after dinner when no one wants to go up to their room to work. Somehow, after stories about the early HIV days in Haiti and New York the conversation degenerated into in competing stories about sludge, fecal matter, shit eating pigs and memorable latrine adventures from all over the world. This is what I love about being here – the sitting around the table and the telling of (public health) stories – you only get those when you travel or live together.