Chris and I went out for a morning into the real Kabul, not the areas we foreigners usually go to. We picked up M. and her two small boys. They live in Khairkhana, an immense popular neighborhood on the northwestern side of Kabul. Many of our staff live there. It takes a good 45 minutes to get there from our house. They commute this distance twice a day – like I used to do in Massachusetts, but under very different circumstances.
M. took us to the kind of fancy dress stores we drive by but never go inside. The dresses are gauzy and glittery pieces of art, gaudy yet beautiful, especially rows and rows of them in the most vibrant colors. This is what the women wear at weddings and at parties at home – something that Axel and my male (foreign) colleagues and friends will never get to see ‘live.’
Afterwards we went to M’s tailor who took my measurements. I had wondered about this somewhat intimate act by a male tailor (I have not seen female tailors in tailor shops – it appears to be a male profession). I had to take off my scarf and let him measure my body. ‘How does that work with Afghan women?’ I asked M. It must be rather uncomfortable to have your bust measured so blatantly. Of course the tailor never touches the body but still. M’s husband, she told me, stands close by and watches carefully so nothing inappropriate, like touching, would happen.
We settled on a design from a well-worn copy of busty Indian or Pakistani women. There was not enough cloth (picked up last week at the agricultural fair) for long sleeves. M. said that half sleeves were OK for me because I am a foreigner. For her it would not be OK. How sad, I thought, that women here can never feel a warm summer breeze caress their bare skin. Imagine not knowing what that feels like.
Sylvia's Journal 
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