Sylvia's Journal

I took M along to an awards ceremony for media that had increased awareness about HIV/AIDS in Afghanistan. There were prizes for TV, radio and print press, distributed after many speeches by high level officials from the ministry of health, of culture, the independent media, and the university.

Between speakers the mistress of ceremonies recited poems about HIV/AIDS and, I assume, healthy living. I don’t think I have attended any ceremony that did not have poems in between speeches. I asked M whether these poems were written for the occasion and by whom; did project or department staff write these? Can anyone in Afghanistan write poetry just like that? It seems that poetry is in the cells of most Afghans. I was impressed. I try to write poetry myself during bouts of inspiration (marked by long periods of silence). M told me that sometimes students of literature are asked to write such poems. What a concept!

I took advantage of the down time that being part of an audience granted me by knotting the fringe of the scarf that matches my new outfit. It would unravel without the knots. I let the Dari words of the speeches wash over me and enter my ears (and occasionally my brain when I recognized a word). This is how one learns a language, by immersion: listening to speeches and finding the recurrent words (culture, awareness, important work) and then looking them up or asking someone. It is a bit like deciphering the Rosetta stone, except here people already have the key.

The small stoves in our house have been filled with fuel and the one in the bathroom and in the living room are lit. This required airing the house for a while, letting more cold in. It had the opposite effect of what a stove is supposed to do, leaving us more chilled. It’s a temporary thing; until the fumes have dissipated.

Tomorrow I am going to request a different heating source for my office and our guesthouse. Now that we are on the municipal grid, I am told, we can heat electrically – odor- and fume-less, such a luxury.