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.

Yesterday was a full day, starting with my appearance at the office and making the rounds to say hello to all and distribute gifts (mostly Dutch cookies and chocolate). I paid my guesthouse bill and arranged for my return ticket to Dubai on the 20th.

I met briefly with my colleagues, two of them new, who are under some pressure to roll out the leadership program and produce the results that are warranted by the investments made. A little later we left for the ministry of health for what was called an alignment/consensus building meeting. The latter appears to be a popular name for a meeting and I wonder whether that is a literal translation or an imported term.

We convened at the institute for public health with the chiefs or delegates of various NGOs, mostly local. The Institute is the government structure that is assimilating and incorporating our the leadership program in its portfolio of training courses. This will ensure its sustainability.

Most of the training room was taken up by one gigantic boardroom type table of dark shiny wood with soft executive chairs from China around it that showed the familiar wear and tear of Chinese goods. The decorations were quite fantastic and consisted of elaborate draperies (a local specialty it appears; this included drapes over the projection screen. Along its center line, the table – Chinese also no doubt – had one long indentation that was filled with a colorful plastic flower arrangement.

The deliberations were mostly held in Dari and so I concentrated on watching; asking for periodic translations when I had an inkling that the meeting needed more focus. Focus will be the magic word for the next two weeks I think. We listened to two graduates from the program who showcased their transformation armed with line and bar charts. They had come out on top of a competition for best performer and their reward was a trip to Kabul (from Herat and Bamiyan) and a wallchart featuring Afghan teams in one corner. Applause.

The intent of the meeting was to get the NGOs more involved in rolling out the leadership program. Whether we succeeded remains to be seen but we think we planted some seeds and we expect several inquiries to explore things further. Questions will, no doubt, concern financial support and some of that can probably be provided as long as it shows up in a plan – another assignment for this week. The project is thinking about the post project period and needs to make sure its current technical and process contributions will be taken over by local actors after it closes its books.

In the afternoon I had my briefing with the Security Chief which I have described in one of my posts in March of this year. It was more or less the same – a three-way conversation with me not knowing whether to look at the Dari-speaking Chief or his interpreter. It is hard to concentrate when you speak with the person who is not addressing you. My eyes would sometimes drift to the TV that was on, in back of them. At one point I hoped I was seeing some coded information that informed our chief about action but it turned out to be a commercial. Later at dinner I learned from my colleagues that I had missed some action; an “armed’ UN truck was stolen from the airport – empty. People thought it was funny – apparently they don’t mind seeing the UN put in their place. There are rivalries among helpers here, as one could expect, and between helpers and locals. International emergency assistance is big business, and if it is not status and recognition, than it is money that catches people’s fancy.

Back home we found new platters of food waiting for us in the oven, in addition to the other 8 dishes already prepared over the last week and not yet finished, combining into a veritable buffet dinner. Steve likes the very old dishes; I picked something a little fresher, essentially what I had yesterday and Maureen had yet another combination. The deserts are also piling up: carrot cake, honey-nut bananas, yoghurt and the chocolate I brought along.

After dinner Jon gave me an elaborate briefing on BRAC’s school of public health. It is a relatively new program that Jon midwived with a few other committed souls. It is a fascinating story, yet another one, of BRAC establishing its own of anything that it needs to have in order to conduct its essential development work – so why not go into tertiary education. I have a better sense now of the characters I will meet.

Bedtime is not entirely a voluntary thing – I stay up until the generator is shut off, a little after midnight and I am woken up when it is turned on again and all the lights and noise wake me up at about 5:30 AM.

I had my last morning of leisure before the work started with a visit to the ministry of health in the afternoon. Government officials have Thursday afternoon and Friday off while our MSH colleagues have Friday and Saturday off. Dr. Ali picked me up at the guesthouse after Steve, Maureen and I went for a quick visit to Chicken Street which was off limits last time I was here. Steve took us to his carpet man Mr. Smiley who smiled indeed when he saw us come in, knowing that Steve cannot leave without buy adding something to his collection. I went there naively not planning to buy anything and then got seduced into getting a rug, a large shawl and some embroidered belts – which left me in debt to Steve and with just a little of the American cash that has to see me through my two week stay. But I suspected it might well be my only free time and I did not want to have any regrets.

I met my various counterparts and clients at the ministry. We came in through back door because the main entrance is now off limits after the Ministry of Culture was invaded by armed men with sinister plans, who wrecked much havoc some time ago. In 2006 the main entrance hall was newly painted and looked as nice as a cavernous entrance hall of a government building can look. The back entrance was not pretty and as a believer in pattern language, had all the wrong patterns: those that suck energy out of you when you enter rather than inspire one to do the difficult work that needs to be done.

Much of the conversations took place in Dari. As a result my interactions are sometimes like one big trust fall. I wished I spoke the language but I am never here long enough to engage in serious study. I know I miss a lot as a result and when I speak in English I also know that much is missed. But somehow, something gets across and we get on with the work.

That work consists of three events that have to produce lasting outcomes, measured as engagement and implementable plans to roll out the leadership program in ways that will maintain quality and an emphasis on measurable results such as safe deliveries, family planning, vaccinations, TB detections, etc.

The DG of Health Services sketched out the enormous task before him and the pressures he is under. He asked for help getting his team in gear to support him in pulling something off that seems rather impossible at the moment. He knows what he is up against. Over the last few years he crisscrossed the country and reported on the enormous gaps between policies made at the top and the daily realities way out in the countryside; the grocery store owner who only had a bag of 7 kilos of sugar which had been untouched for over half a year because no one could afford to buy; the empty orchards; the curative health professionals who looked down on anyone engaged in preventive public health, essentially an exercise in producing non-event; a hard sell in any part of the world, but especially here.

The city was busy by the time we left, with everyone else trying to get home. Our driver followed a convoy of VIPs which got us swiftly through a jam packed square until we told him that we preferred being stuck rather than being in the wake of a potential target. Once never knows here and so we melded back into the crowd of honking cars and undisciplined pedestrians. Despite the threats and the occasional real scares, life here goes on as it does in any other chaotic and conflict ridden place. People have to earn a living and buy their food. We remember that from Beirut.

After I ate too many stroopwafels, serving as early breakfast, I fell asleep again for the other part of the night that I missed and woke up at 11:00 AM. And then it was weekend. The house was empty, my housemates off to whatever they do on Friday mornings. This turned out to be running the tracks at the German school.

Steve came in a bit later with a large pack of ice cream that needed to be eaten or put in the freeze (he did both) after which we left for the Kabul museum to join my other housemates. It has been repainted and restored after much damage and looting which I read about in the Bactrian Gold exhibit that I saw in DC earlier this year. The museum, which used to be crowded with stuff, is now empty with mostly large items that, I suppose, weren’t easily carted off. One of the exhibits was a series of large photos of the covered bazaar in Khulm which I remember from my hippie-trail-tracking days with Axel. It no longer exists as it was destroyed during one or the other of Afghanistan’s many armed conflicts. Seeing the photos flooded me with memories of the trip some 30 years ago. Somewhere we have our own pictures of this extraordinary place, but I bought a set of poor quality small reprints that were made of the large photos.

Back home we all went to our various rooms to nap, read, work, email and facebook. I worked my way through a book about senior leadership teams that cemented my wish to do more on that level and figure out how. I hope to get a chance here with the DG for Health Services and his team of direct reports, a request that was added to my scope of work at the last minute, in addition to all the other stuff. It’s the task I am most keen about.

Before we had dinner I had a private tour of Steve’s quarters which are stuffed with Afghan goods like a bazaar: all the drawers, closets and even the closed in porch were piled high with rugs, carpets, old shields, pots, musical instruments, old dresses, embroidered cloth, you name it and he has it. With his purchases he keeps at least one merchant family in business and with food on the table. His wife, back in Wellesley, is trying to get rid of stuff accumulated over their years of globetrotting, but Steve keeps refilling the pipeline on this end.

For dinner we collected in the kitchen over numerous platters with leftover foods from the week and those the cook leaves us when he has his days off. We had a choice of limp and cold French fries, rice, beans, chicken curry, an eggplant dish, dried out lasagna and more. Everyone piled their selections on a plate and micro waved it. It was the company that made it all palatable. We discussed American politics for hours and then it was time to go to bed.

I stayed up in order to participate in an OBTS webinar that started at 2 PM at Drexel University in Philadelphia – which meant 11:30 PM for me. Connections are slow here and it took me about a third of the time of the one hour webinar to get everything downloaded. Then, just as I was getting into the subject matter (the scholarship of positive leadership by Kim Cameron) the generator was cut off and my connection lost, about 20 minutes before the end. Still, the 20 minutes I was online were great and it was exciting to be virtually present from such a distance.

I like my long evenings when I am on the road, sometimes going to bed as late as 2 AM. But here there is a full stop just after midnight, when the generator stops, and the room is suddenly pitch dark. You better have your teeth brushed and piyamas on unless you want to do that with a flashlight around your neck. I was prepared for that and ‘attended’ the webinar in my jammies, tucked under the 15 kilos of my Chinese blankets and with a hot water bottle by my toes. The temperature drops down to about 11 degrees (Celsius) at night and the warm water bottle I brought from home is especially nice.

I woke up at 4 AM. I played solitaire on my battery-operated computer while eating stroopwafels, until the power came on at about 5 AM.

Yesterday seems worlds away, the elections even further. In Dubai I had breakfast in the club lounge of the Renaissance Hotel. For some reason we MSH travelers are considered specially important and are lodged on the club floors, with complementary breakfast and free internet. Everyone calls me Miss Sylvia. The staff is personable, I suspect trained to be like that but I don’t particularly care for it, maybe because it is part of some customer service manual. My Afghan colleagues also call me Miss Sylvia, a literal translation of ghanem Sylvia, but there I don’t mind it because I actually have a real relationship with them. The waitresses say my name each time they do something that involves me, as if fearful that someone will tattle on them when they address me or serve me without mentioning my name. I pick the Arab breakfast: baba ganoush, olives, goat cheese – memories of a distant past.

I am treated like royalty for the simple reason that I (MSH, or make that the American taxpayer) can afford to stay in the several-hundred-dollars-a-night extravaganza. On my own dime I would never stay in a place like this. My Calvinistic upbringing has some difficulty with this ostentatious wealth and luxury that stand in stark contrast, not only to the place I am heading to but also most of the rest of the world.

An op-ed piece in the local newspaper congratulates the Arab countries on coming out of the financial crisis with flying colors, heralding a new era in which they, not those arrogant Europeans and Americans, set the terms of world affairs. The tone of the piece annoys me.

Dubai’s terminal 2 is where the UN flight to Kabul departs from. It has been under construction since 2006. I don’t see much improvement other than that everything is now in another place, smoking has been banned and the little snack bar has become a Mc Donalds. The bright and cold fluorescent lights are still there; the bare walls amplify the sounds that bounce around in the small space and hurt my ears. This includes the sounds coming from the snowy TV screens mounted in each corner; background noise that’s gotten to the foreground. No one else seems to be bothered.

I am standing in several queues with women covered in black. There is much nervous shouting and packing and unpacking of luggage as maximum limits have been reached. The women are stressed and squat down, their voices angry and shrill. They push and shove. I try to imagine what it would be like to be in a fearful crowd with them, when things go wrong, when people feel hurt, scared or panicked. Here, for some people, the stress of travel is enough already. I pick up these stressful vibes too easily. I am unsettled by them, I think.

Once I am in the plane I realize that all the unsettledness comes from my last experience on this same (UN) plane, on April 10 to be exact. I recognize the crew – the same pilot, the same flight attendants who dashed to the rear of the plane when we stalled. The uneasy feeling I have had since landing in Dubai and which I did not want to recognize has nothing mysterious about it, its source obvious.

All through the flight I am tense, my senses tuned to any change in sound, altitude. I get really tense when we are in the clouds and relieved when they clear and the Hindu Kush become visible. The path through the mountains to the airport is clear, but still, I am not as relaxed as I usually am, and them when we land, a deep sigh.

It takes a couple of hours to get from the tarmac to the guesthouse. We drop Mourid, the MSH expediter, off at a bus stop, he goes to class in the evening. The city is bustling; the weekend has started. Everything is covered with dust; the colors are muted because of it.

I am dropped off at guesthouse number zero, where I stayed the last time, but now I am in the building across the yard where the rooms have private bathrooms. Nice. I meet my housemates, two of them leaving tomorrow, one, Steve, residing here for the long haul and two more, like me, on temporary duty. I saw Jon last when we were both in Haiti in the summer. We all had dinner together. I offered Dutch cheese and chocolate for desert and discovered that what I really should have brought is coffee. The Nescafe-fed guests are starved for some real coffee. I am told it can be had, at a price.