Sylvia's Journal

My antivirus software is spotting Trojan horses nearly everyday. Not only is Afghanistan risky for life and limbs, it is also risky computerwise, especially if you interact with a government that does not provide its staff with the kind of anti-virus software that needs to be paid for periodically. It is like Africa in that way, where government officials, even the highest levels, use yahoo email addresses because the government doesn’t pay its internet provider’s bills (or its electricity and water bills for that matter).

Steve and I were placed on standby to write the pieces for the minister to bring along to the US. Since I never got a good answer to the audience question I made one up: congressional staffers. I wrote in ‘I’ voice as if I was an Afghan, expressing sorrow for the young American men and women who have died in Afghanistan, their family’s sacrifice and the debt that Afghanistan owes them.

I also wrote about what has happened with all those American tax dollars, the miracles that have been produced with those. I did not say anything directly about corruption and mismanagement – everyone knows it is there – but it is not good to highlight it when you come to ask for more money.

We are given assignments like ‘a two hundred words piece,’ a two-pager and a 5-to-6 pager. The 200-word piece was completed last night and this morning I turned the 2-pager into a 4-pager, leaving others to do the cutting. I left Steve to deal with the 5-to-6 pager that is so far ill-described.

In the afternoon I listened to rehearsal presentations from three of our provincial health advisors, one from Faryab province in the north, one from Khost province which borders the Waziristans where all the bad people hang out and Kabul province, a late bloomer in our team but catching up fast.

The men are presenting their accomplishments in building management and leadership capacity at USAID on Thursday. I am afraid I will not be able to attend but I know they will do a great job.

Instead of the frantic last day at work it was actually a very good day, after I had sent in my writing pieces and I was able to do my handover note to the person who will be acting in my stead.

And now I am sitting with Ankie van Holland (the TB Ankie we call her as that is the work she is doing here) on the terrace drinking our pretend beer and waiting for Axel to come home. The suitcases are waiting to be packed and my vacation has started. And so, when both Steve and I were called to the minister’s office, when I was already home and in vacation mode, I respectfully declined. Axel thought it was very unpolitic to decline a minister’s request to come to her office. But Steve has to do the writing now and so I was rational, with the risk of being disrespectful.

President Karzai is going to Washington. He will be accompanied by some of his ministers, among them the Acting Minister of Public Health. In the afternoon I attended a meeting with her Excellency, some of her best and brightest staff and people representing the US government. It was an interesting meeting with the Afghans getting a dose of reality from the Americans about what the speeches should say: the American tax dollars are (well) used to bring about a more stable Afghanistan.

At first, when the Afghans were told that the people they will meet in DC don’t care about whether life is better now for an Afghan woman or small girl, I could see their startled look. I was a little embarrassed because it presented America’s generous giving in Afghanistan in a rather stark and ugly light: pure self interest.

The prepared pieces that have to serve as input to various speeches, by the President and the Minister, prepared during long evenings by her Excellency’s staff were shredded to pieces. I felt sorry until I was volunteered to re-write them, after hours and in my spare time but also during my last day here before leaving for Holland. There went all my good plans to empty my mail box, write handover notes and get my desk in order for a week’s absence. Steve was also volunteered and taken off the flight to Bamiyan tomorrow; he will be very disappointed as opportunities to go places outside Kabul are rare.

If the afternoon was characterized by politics and speeches that will pry loose more money for Afghanistan’s development, my morning was characterized by hope and warm and fuzzy feelings. I attended the opening of the 6th Annual Congress of the Afghan Midwifery Association. For once the men were outnumbered by the women.

Several hundred young midwives from nearly all of the provinces (none from Helmand) had come to Kabul to upgrade their skills, encourage each other, feel the strength of numbers and show the men why they are a critical part of Afghanistan’s attempt to reach the Millennium Development Goals number 4 and 5 (child and maternal health).

During the opening ceremony a group of students dressed in traditional Afghan outfits from various parts of the country sung the Afghan midwives’ song, alternating Dari and Pashto couplets. The midwives in the audience held hands high above their heads and swayed back and forth while singing along. Knowing neither the words nor being able raise my arm (the angle was exactly wrong for me), I swayed along with my arms by my side while watching the hopeful faces with pain in my heart, so much goodwill in an environment of so much badwill.

I quickly spotted the Dutch women (most tall and blond) in the audience (the Dutch organization CORDAID is one of the sponsors of the Association). I recognized Mariette who I first met here in Kabul in 2002 when the previous MSH project presented its data from a massive health survey that is still being used as baseline for the post-Taliban government, revealing what was at the time the world’s most dismal health situation.

Mariette is also the daughter of friends of my parents (now all deceased), whose little brother Joost was my very first date ever at my parent’s wedding anniversary ball. I think we were both in our early teens. It was a very innocent date. I think we may have danced, me in my first long skirt, sewn by my aunt the seamstress: glow-in-the-dark-green with hot pink flowers, Joost in a jacket with tie, possibly his first.

I was very inspired by the young midwives and their energy. If there is hope for Afghanistan it lies with them. But I am also worried about their role models, the older midwives, my age, who are true pioneers, fighting an uphill battle for recognition, rights and support for what they are doing. I think these women are burning out and our only hope is this next phalange of women who are ready in the wings.

Later, back at the ministry, I spoke to one of the few men who had been at the opening. He congratulated the midwives on their excellent organization and inspiring opening program. I told him that this was just one taste of what could happen in Afghanistan if the men would let the women run the place for a while: organization, discipline, energy and inspiration. He nodded; he is one of those men who agrees on this; there just not enough of them in high places.

Axel came along this morning to the physical therapy place at the 400-bed hospital, aka the military hospital, built in pompous cement style that the Russians like so much. There are no Russians anymore but the hospital will last till the Judgment Day if the weeds in the extensive and once beautiful garden don’t overrun the place before that.

Axel final met my physical therapist, Fahima, as well as Leslie the US Navy PT who is stationed in Kabul for a few more months and building the capacity of physical therapists like Fahima. Lesllier is always accompanied by a doctor who serves as his translators. Sometimes that is the only job doctors can find; they earn more as translators to American than as a doctor in government employ.

Leslie reviewed with Axel his exercise regimen. Where would you have a PT session with an armed military? Only in Kabul. After Axel’s turn was over Leslie checked out the strength in my right arm (nil) and gave me a new set of exercises to build up strength.

I gave him my Beirut MRI report with a request for translation into plain English. I learned (no news really) that the large supra-spinatus tear that was only partially repaired will remain that way. I will probably forever have a hard time putting baggage in the overhead bin in the plane – that is exactly the kind of movement I cannot make.

After Physical Therapy we drove to an industrial park, a short ride out of town, where Tarsian & Blinkley has its factory. It is the company from which Sita bought a gift certificate, back at Christmas time. T&B used to have a small boutique in Shar-e-nao which we visited once in a while. I had waited for exactly the right piece of clothing when all of a sudden I found the small boutique gone. T&B is a wholesale only company now as the boutique approach was no longer viable. The company is now also producing military uniforms, probably a much better business than the one-of-kind hand-embroidered clothing it became famous for here.

It took me a long time to try out just about all the clothes that were my size, in the middle of an office with an ever increasing number of women. I think word had gotten around that a foreigner woman was trying on clothes in the director’s office, while I dressed and undressed in front of Axel and all these women, all scarved and veiled. I think the women were gasping. They finally asked me, is he your husband? Of course, I said, would you think I try on clothes in front of someone not my husband (they all nodded, but I don’t think they’d do what I was doing, even in front of their husbands). There was much giggling.

By the time I had made my selection we were too hungry to take the factory tour and we had asked for earlier and so we promised to be back. It was lunch time anyways and we would have seen all the four hundred women employed theire eating their beans and rice rather than at their sewing machines.

I took Axel for lunch to the Istanbul restaurant that is near the ministry and the enormous American compound. It is one of the few restaurants we go to that isn’t exclusively catering to foreigners. Thus, it has not barricades, armed guards, blast walls and razor wire. It is a regular restaurant that looks out on the street and anyone can walk in without searches or requests to leave arms in lockers. The place looks like a Mediterranean restaurant, with Turkish TV on (no sound) and the owner sitting in the middle of the restaurant behind a table with a cashbox on it. Everyone else is working but he just sits there, cashing in, ka-ching! The menu of the place is in Turkish English and brought back memories of my many visits to Turkey and the language I was once learning (and that is helping me with my Dari now).

At 3 PM we reported to our Dari teachers. I am trying to get to the end of the 300-page book so that I can move to the next challenge of reading and writing.

After Dari class we asked the guard and driver to take us to the shopping street near our house, looking for an S-cable, that connects the overhead projector to our TV. This was a challenge and a half because we had to explain what we needed in Dari (shopkeepers in our neighbourhood don’t speak English). After four shops we gave up. Too bad because we borrowed the overhead projector and the S-cable would have allowed us to watch the pirated copy of Avatar that we got in Beirut on a big screen. We are holding out for an S-cable and will forego our planned movie night tonight.