Sylvia's Journal

The slightly out of sync calls to morning prayer of the many mosques around our hotel stand in sharp contrast with the very synchronized call to war as depicted in a museum entirely dedicated to the Jihad against the infidel Russians. Its center piece is a diorama populated by quarter sized puppets, tanks and planes in holy combat.

The provincial health director had arranged a private, behind the scenes, visit to the jihad museum that is not open to the public yet. The painters and model makers where still at work when we showed up after dark. But to me it looked ready for the public.

The entrance hall consists of display cases full of guns (Russian), more guns (British), landmines, grenades, etc. It so turned me off that it took much mental energy to follow the group as it stopped at every case. All the men (once again I was the only female) were fascinated with all the toys and were busy snapping pictures in spite of the signs forbidding this.

We were taken through a long hallway with bigger than life-sized portraits of all the commanders who had died at the hands of the Russians. They looked attractive, with soft features, but I know none of them were angels, especially if they decided you were their enemy, whatever the color of your uniform.

Suddenly a sound box was activated with the loud and grating sounds of bombing and fighting; it got louder as we emerged in an enormous domed space with a walkway at the bottom and a staircase to the top where you had a 360 degree view of the onslaught of war, its perpetrators and its victims.

As we walked up the spiraling stair case 30 or so near life size figures of all the commanders crouched above us, led by Ismail Khan, the commander/warlord from here in whose office I sat earlier in the day. With an arm pointed forward he reminded me images I had seen as a child of Moses, leading his people to a better future that remains elusive.

All the men were having pictures taken off themselves in front of the havoc and destruction while I noticed how quickly I got de-sensitized to the battle field and battle noises around me. With my white veil-like scarf I looked rather incongruous in this testosterone-loaded environment, like an angel of some sort.

On another floor glas cases showed us postcards, military snapshots and official photos, even family snapshots, and pictures (sometimes Polaroid photos), dramatically arranged, of fighters in hospital beds with bandages or missing limbs.

A side door took us into the museum’s resource center that was turned into a dining room with platters heaped with fruit (oranges, grapes, bananas, appled, figs) on the tables and dainty English style tea cups filled with green tea. All of this was arranged for us by the local shura, a traditional deliberative and decision making body.

By now my head was spinning with all the Dari I had been immersed in all day and my body was tired from everything. Still, the day was not over. After we said our thank yous and goodbyes we boarded our SUVs and drove up a dirt road that took us to the Thousand and One Night restaurant overlooking the brightly lit city of Herat. Another offering of friendship and support, although this one was paid for by us I suspect.

Raised platforms with carpets were lined up outside (too chilly) and inside; I was glad most of my companions decided to sit on chairs around a large table (my poor knees), although some preferred the traditional seating. Once more we were served a huge meal with much meat, rice and yoghurt; and once more everyone rattled along in Dari but now I gave up learning as I was too tired.

By the time we returned to the hotel it was nearly bedtime but there was more work to be done; USAID had asked us to translated the speeches from the governor, the minister and the health director which had all been given in Dari. I was called in to fix the English of the translators.

All of these impressions balled together into a vivid dream in which a man was ready to die until he had a reason to live again. In my dream I had something to do with his transformation. My calling here?

Hundreds of people had been and continued to be mobilized for the official opening of the Provincial Health Learning Center in Herat: to lay carpets, clean windows, set up tables and chairs, feed us, protect us, and follow the script. That everything went off without a hitch and within schedule is a wonder considering what it takes to get the US ambassador, the minister of health, and the governor altogether in one place for exactly 60 minutes, not shorter and not longer.

Everything had been scripted into the smallest details – a manifestation of America’s position on one of Geert Hofstede’s dimensions of cultural differences (Uncertainty Avoidance ) which happens to be on the opposite end of where Afghanistan sits. Pulling the event off with the most senior people from both governments, simultaneously, and without having to revert to a plan B or C was a feat beyond a feat.

Our first stop in the morning was the basement where the echo chamber of yesterday was transformed into a pleasant carpeted hall with round tables and comfortable chairs and large fruit platters as center pieces. We were all given our badges which meant we were ‘screened.’ I was given two: Mrs. Salivia and Dr. Salivia. I wore the Mrs. badge which I handed in at the end of the day and kept the Dr. one.

My boss and the provincial health director went to the airport to receive the guests and I joined them at the Governor’s palace. We were let into an enormous room that could house several African villages, including livestock. The governor sat at one side of the enormous room, Tara, representing our funder, and I were seated on another side and some of the provincial health directors across from us. This was, I assumed, the same place where one of the more famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Afghan warlords held court until he was promoted to his current government post of minister.

Under the sharp and trigger-ready eye of at least five truckfulls of soldiers, we raced at high speed along cleared road towards a dusty open space at the edge of town with more soldiers than I could shake a stick at; all standing with their backs to their high level protégés and scanning the perimeter for undesirable elements. I managed to stay outside the guarded circle as that seemed safer to me (but then, what do I know). It felt all very sweet and friendly if you could mentally remove the soldiers from view.

From there we raced back to the health office where the minister was received in the training room and given a briefing about the things that will happen in the learning center. There were more speeches, all in Dari, and a certificate ceremony, rewarding the office staff for the learning center that, as far as I know, is still only a concept.

Then we drove off again to have lunch at the Municipal Five Star Hotel that cleverly included the hotel rating system in its name. It is a fancy place where everyone and his brother (and a handful of sisters as well) showed up to have lunch with us (I am sure we will pay the bill), including tons of soldiers and police when suddenly the minister and the governor showed up, to our surprise. The governor had not been invited to the US ambassador’s lunch at the PRT. Although the minister was invited there, he could hardly leave the governor to lunch at his own place with all these notables in town, and so he took him along to our lunch place in the Five Star Hotel. And when the minister and governor show up you have automatically five pick-up trucks with machine guns and armed soldiers.

It was (is) all such a perfect example of the Y-chromosome out of control, all these guys with fast SUVs , guns and walkie-talkies, sunglasses and uniforms; a little boy’s dream come true – many little boys’ dreams come true.

After lunch we raced back again to be at our stations at 1:30 exact, according to the script. Everyone stayed on script. On cue the ambassador and governor and minister appeared all in their separate and highly armed SUVs followed by men with sunglasses and wires coming out of their ears. All of them were welcomed by the cutest little girls in bright costumes singing something about peace that brought all the old warhorses to tears.

Inside the speechifying started on time and ended on time even though several of the people went beyond their 5 minutes. The American ambassador was last and started his speech in Dari which got him a big applause. My colleague was annoyed about the translation of the rest of his (English) speech into Dari, saying it was atrocious but only he seemed to mind.

A quick mini tour, a ribbons cutting that was ingenuous in that 3 people got to cut before the ribbon fell to the ground and then the Americans left in a hurry; their plane has to be back on the ground in Kabul before dark; then the governor left and finally the minister, leaving us with an enormous mess of a traffic jam.

After we high-fived each other I was whisked off to the maternity to see the handy work of my Afghan leadership developers, impressive indeed. I would have liked to stay a little longer and meet some of the women on the wards with their newborns but the bazaar would close and that too was on the program, a whirlwind tour and a stop at a few dusty stores with even more dusty treasures.

Then it hit me that I am living here now and Axel is coming and we can come back here again. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure it is true. Contrary to public opinion in the US, I consider myself very lucky indeed to have landed this job here. I love it.