Sylvia's Journal

Aside from the possibility of a change that the elections brought, there is also change in the air. We are acutely aware that it is fall. We know about the fall weather back home because of the many facebook postings. But here fall has also arrived.

The grape leaves on the arbors at work and at home are curling brown and yellow, the remaining grapes have shriveled up. The fruit trees are full of apples and pears (our pears, sweet and crispy have all disappeared but the sour green apples are not in demand, and so these trees are bending heavily under their weight).

The market is flooded with pears and apples and carts full of pomegranates are appearing on the streets. We have not yet had enough of the famous Afghan kharbuza, the white, green or yellow melons that are the best in the world.

It is no longer light when I get up. At the end of my Dari class today we had to turn the lights on. Soon it will be fully dark which means that I have to either change from a female to a male teacher or change my class hours because it is considered dangerous for Afghan women to travel in the dark to and from their homes.

It is also getting cold in the evening, during the night and in the early morning. I can now remove the fan that I used to tilt towards the elliptical workout machine to run at full blast to cool me while exercising. I wore socks for the first time; soon I will also need a coat. As the day unfolds the temperatures first rise and then fall again. It’s weather that requires layering.

I am starting to eat oatmeal for breakfast and have taken out my knitting. Winter is coming alright!

This morning there were two kinds of Afghans, those with an inked finger and those with a clean one. Those with inked fingers proudly showed them. It was like a badge of honor. The clean-fingered ones were a little embarrassed and gave me all sorts of reasons why they had not voted. Ali Ghulam, our housekeeper, proudly posed his inked finger for Axel’s camera.

People were pleased with how Election Day had had come and gone. Apparently spokespeople for various ministries had made declarations at the end of the day that had impressed many. There was a sense of hope and the possibility of change. Still, I couldn’t help thinking about all the people who are dead now because of the elections.

At work we resumed our work that had been interrupted by Ramadan, then Eid and then the election run-up. We are back to normal, if work here could ever be called normal.

We had requested a late afternoon home visit from my Friday massage ladies. This was the only way that Axel could get a massage from one or the other as the spa itself is off limits for men. And since coming to a house is only worth their while if they can do two massages, I, without any reluctance, had another one, side by side with Axel. Needless to say, it was a fabulous way to end the first day of the week.

A 6.3 earthquake, several hundred kilometers northeast of Kabul, surprised us, ever so gently, as we were watching the news just minutes after midnight. I was thinking about the irony of an earthquake, not the Taliban, disrupting the elections.

The first movement of the window against which Axel was leaning made us think it was the explosion that we had been expecting for the last few days. But then the rattling continued and we got out of the house and saw the grape arbor that covers our terrace slightly swaying. We got out on the grass in the yard and I could feel the earth rippling beneath my bare feet. It is a weird and very unsettling sensation, when the one thing you assume stable is not.

We had come back late from a wonderful dinner at Razia jan where we met, as is always the case at her dinner parties, some very interesting people. All but one were Afghan Americans with impressive records of higher learning and degrees from European and American universities. Some of them had returned back more or less permanently. Others commute between the US and Afghanistan. Two women had left their husbands and kids in Fremont, CA, to investigate business opportunities here.

They recounted the endless frustrations of dealing with a government that provides no help at all to the Afghan diaspora that is ready and willing to pitch in. There is a deep mistrust in the government of the private sector and because of that, a series of lost opportunities to engage those whose are educated and can bridge the gap between the stone-age elements in this society and the modern world.

The stories over dinner about the olden days in Kabul were full of sadness and deep frustrations about those elements who have hijacked this society back to the Stone Ages and total chaos, corruption and unpunished criminal acts. “But,” said one very senior government official, “we have to be positive, we have to have hope that things can change.” Everyone nodded. When I asked whether anyone was going to vote (Afghan-Americans can if they have registered) only one admitted to be registered, none were going to vote.

On election morning we woke up to a beautiful day. We watched the election coverage on various local TV channels, surfing from one to the other. Although we still can’t understand much of what is being said, we do recognize words such as ‘quiet, peaceful, good, hope,’ and the like. We saw lines of men and women patiently waiting for their turn to enter the polling places, an act of courage given the many threats and actual killings perpetrated by the Taliban over the last few weeks of those who are ‘cooperating with the evil forces of the foreigners and the Afghan government.’ Would I vote under these circumstances?

Our movements for this last day before the elections were a little restricted. We were told to stay at home between 11 and 3, the hours of Friday mosque activity. Mosques are one of the favorite places for provocateurs and if anyone wanted to derail things for the elections, our security staff decided, we’d better stay home during those hours. And so I changed my 11 o’clock massage appointment to 9.

My Philippine masseuse is also a medicine woman. When I mentioned that I had painful knees and woke up with both my arms asleep this morning she summoned her Afghan trainee and proposed an hour and a half massage that include ‘medicine’ work on my knees and arms. Having four hands work my body was truly a double happiness experience, especially when she threw in a facial at the end for free. I emerged from my ‘treatment’ feeling rejuvenated, no pain, all oily and fragrant from the various lotions and creams they rubbed on and in me.

While Axel slept, recovering from endless exercises to relieve the residual pain in his body caused by the long trip from Manchester to Kabul and our oversized luggage I played in the kitchen. First I turned 3 kilos of local tomatoes into 3 liters of fresh tomato juice, for Bloody Maries and then used up the dried figs in an Afghan version of homemade fig newtons.

We took the cookies to Ted and his School for Leadership, Afghanistan (SOLA) where Axel has been teaching since last winter. A new crop of extraordinary young Afghans had gathered around his large living room table for an orientation and a, rather informal, application process. Ted was explaining that this after school program is not about grades or numbers and that he only wants good Afghans and good Moslems.

How would he be able to tell, someone asked. “I want young Afghans who have a sense of country,” he replied, who want to lift their country up, “and I have a good intuition for spotting people like that,” he added. Ted is looking for young Afghans, boys and girls, who are committed to use their education for the betterment of their country, and so, will return to Afghanistan rather than skip to Canada. He then proceeded telling us one story after another of amazing leadership by very young ladies. I was very moved.

Sitting around the table with these young eager people reminded me how much I have missed teaching. I do hardly any of that now, as all of the leadership teaching in our project is done in Dari or Pashto, something I cannot do. But in SOLA the teaching is in English, to prepare the kids for study in the USA. I made a commitment to teach at least one hour a week, and if I can handle it, more than that, after work hours. Currently there are no female teachers for the girls and Ted, in his usual loose manner, counts on things falling into place, including the teachers, of which he has only Axel right now. I was one more piece of that puzzle that found its place today.

Today I got a glimpse of the labor market here and how desperate it is. While our IT people tried to figure out why my mail program did not work (potentially a disaster of major proportions as it is our link with each other, far and near, for work and for family and friends) I leafed through the thick binder that our HR manager had deposited on my desk. It contained some 40 applications to a position for a leadership development manager I had posted. As it turned out the position is withdrawn but I was curious to see who had applied.

Of the 40 CVs two were misfiled and were for another position, one appeared much more appropriate for a position we are about to announce in our pharmaceutical unit, two or three were of people I knew and who are indeed potential, though not obvious, candidates. A few I marked as ‘potential’ though less so and I would want to check references first. All the rest where miles off base. I had asked for a leadership development manager but I got accountants, financial managers, IT managers, computer programmers, cardiologists, hygiene teachers, assistant orthopedic surgeons, military interpreters and professional experiences even further afield.

It felt as if some people automatically applied to any position they saw advertised that promised an interesting employer (we are), a reasonable salary (we pay OK) and potential for further development (sometimes). May be some were attracted by status (and international organization) or they had worked for our organization in its predecessor project (and thus knew all the above from personal experience). Sometimes the name of the position was typed in a blank spot in a form letter that had a different font and typeface. Some had no cover letter at all. Very few mentioned in their cover letter why their particular experience was relevant for the job. They mentioned it was relevant and he (all but one were men) was just what I was looking for, but not why.

The language in the cover letters was sometimes hyperbole, sometimes touching, sometimes full of clichés, I imagined copied from others or out of how-to books that were written in the previous century. I was looking for an organized person, a good English writer, yet several of the CVs were full of spelling mistakes and rather jarring in their presentation with a jumble of fonts, underlines, italics and font sizes.

I think I have spotted a business opportunity for entrepreneurial English majors: ‘We help you get a job: resume writing skills, interviewing skills, English writing skills.’ A well written resume, a good presentation and a confident interview will increase one’s chances a hundred-fold.

Axel found himself this morning running into one of many holy book-burning demonstrations that have attracted crowds in various parts of the country. It was a little unexpected, since we thought that the fire behind the protest had died down now that it is a non event. It was a bit unsettling, he emailed me later, to have been this close to such organized anger. The driver turned around and everything ended OK. Later things turned a little ugly and people (Afghans) got hurt because of an overzealous police force.

This morning I met with all my direct reports to find out which of the activities on my handover notes were completed, which were not, where things had stalled and what was new. I got an earful about the custom clearance obstacles for the pharmaceuticals which the friendly and generous people of the United States are donating to this country.

Much of the hassle is simply petty corruption, with various government workers delaying things until permits expire. This then creates new opportunities for getting some extra pocket money. The number of pieces of papers required to clear everything is dazzling. This is the small fry stuff that cannot be solved until people earn living wages. It’s not what makes the news headlines but it can create major headaches for people trying to follow the rules.

With hundreds of thousands of dollars in pharmaceutical products at stake, and by extension the health of the people for whom the products are destined, the job of freeing the drugs before they get too hot or too cold is tough. That we get everything cleared at all is a miracle. The cost is much shoe leather burned and interrupted days and nights when things need to be loaded on trucks or off trucks at a moment’s notice. I learn that, in the end, it is the relationships with the honest people in the various departments that save the day.

Back home after work I watched how the people of Afghanistan are being educated about the parliamentary elections. All the stops have been pulled out: elaborate skits, funny and serious, simulated election procedures, lectures for by men for men, by women for women, celebrities and kids pleading to do the right thing, even God is invoked to make these elections a success. In between the educational messages candidates pitch last minute pleas at undecided voters.

What’s problematic is that many candidates belong in prison; in this respect not much has changed since the 2005 elections when, according to AREU, a reputable local research organization, the winners included 40 commanders at the time associated with armed groups, 24 members of criminal gangs, 17 drug traffickers and 19 who then, and if they are running again presumably still, face serious allegations of war crimes and human rights violations. From what I hear around me this keeps people away from the polling stations. Why put a crook in parliament?

Axel reminded me that the earliest elections in the brand new US were probably not that different. Few candidates had clean hands. A democracy needs an educated electorate that can distinguish fact from fiction and recognize easy promises for what they are – educating the public took a few hundred years.

Two of the five foreigners in our project our back – they are trickling back in. I was the first one; yesterday Douglas came back from a trip through China and a month at his home on the West Coast. At the beginning of next week two more will return. It is only after October 2 that we will all be back, converging on Afghanistan from Sierra Leone, Australia, US/East Coast and US/West Coast via China and India.

We started the new month, post Ramadan, with an Eid breakfast that reminded me of the first work day after New Year: there was much embracing, smiles, stories about the holidays and good wishes every which way. The only difference was that there was no hugging across gender lines and the weather was beautiful and warm.

Chairs and tables were set out under a bright blue sky. Breakfast consisted of sweet milky tea (reserved for special occasions), green grapes and cake. The only sour note was that all the women were missing. A few of them were pulled in halfway through the breakfast and after the words of thanks from our chief. The women received large boxes of cookies for their offices (no one else seemed to have received such gifts). Sometimes I don’t understand a thing.

The first day was much too long for a first day because of a – for us – late phone call with Boston. By then I was yawning so much that my participation was all but useless. I am jet lagged and responding to the thick layer of dust in the air with an allergic reaction that has left me sneezing and itchy-eyed. “It’s good to be back home” only applies partially to our life in Kabul.

Slowly we are picking up our routines again: Dari classes on Monday, exercising our lungs, already affected by the dust and going to bed at a reasonable hour. Vacation is over, not just for us but for everyone.

It was more of a work day than I had anticipated. I received a call from my boss to help out on the presentation a week from now by the Acting Minister at the Millenium Development Goals Summit that will take place in New York. The still in draft form powerpoint was large, as they are when people put full size pictures in them, and so it took a couple of hours before I had downloaded the enormous file.

My work was interrupted by Dari class. Axel cancelled his class because his back was hurting; we think it might have been the gin and vodka bottles that we crammed into already too heavy hand luggage. We got away with it then but apparently payback time waited until later.

I had brought my Dari teacher an English-Dari/Dari-English dictionary in the hope that she would be able to find the real English meaning of Dari words, rather than have me guess from her description of the word in Dari. I had guessed wrong many times in the past.

As I was working my way through Pinocchio in Dari there were many occasions to use the dictionary but I learned quickly that she’s not very good at using a dictionary. For me, using the dictionary to find the English meaning of a Dari word is difficult as I don’t know the ‘alfabah’ by heart yet and the sequencing of words is thus rather difficult. So I continue the guesswork.

Reading Pinocchio in Dari, even though I know the story, is difficult because of the many idiomatic constructions that don’t lend themselves to word by word translations. Still, after reading moral stories and fairytales for months now I am ready for something more adult. I gave my teacher an ‘Intermediate Dari’ book I had ordered from Amazon and brought back from the US. It has more adult content, phrases like, ‘he burned his books before he committed suicide.’ I asked her to review the first few chapters to see whether this can be my new text book.

We picked tomatoes and basil from our garden and Axel made the kind of tomato salad that we used to eat all through the summer in Manchester. I made a Lebanese zaatar bread roll to accompany our meal and we opened our last bottle of wine, a Ksara Rose that was left over from our previous Dubai visit. Because of the full hand luggage we were not able to add another bottle. So from now on we are relying on visitors.

We are back home in Kabul. We flew back in a plane full of the usual muscular types who are employed in the security industry as well as reporters to tell the story of next week’s parliamentary elections and then sundry aid workers like us.

The city is even more plastered full of election posters than when we left. Whole buildings and parts of streets are hidden behind the gigantic posters. I wonder whether they will be taken down next week. It’s sort of annoying all these people staring at you with promises no one believes.

The weather upon our arrival was nice, a warm summer afternoon and the sky was relatively clear; we could see the mountains surrounding Kabul. The roads were still under construction as they have been since I arrived a year ago (same roads, presumably different construction companies) – even the temporary frenzy of road improvement for the Kabul Conference in July did not make all that much difference – to have expected any progress since we left two weeks ago was silly.

We have one more day of the Eid holiday which seems to last longer here than in the UAE where today was the last day. This gives us one more day to recover from the trip, put away our stuff and settle in for the next stretch of Kabul life.