Sylvia's Journal

Today some things got resolved, others got out in the open, and everything is a bit better as a result at least on the face of it. Deep down there may be some damage but I can only guess as it will never be disclosed to me. And so I enter the weekend with a lighter heart. Still, I am counting the days to boarding time (3).

On the Lobster Cove home front there is more excitement than here. Axel’s lungs appear to be OK and the allergy specialist is next to give his/her verdict – the problem seems to lie in the throat. I get that, being used to endless and very annoying throat clearing myself. Tessa is having her senior/graduation show’s opening and I was sad not to be able to heed her fb calls to come on over.

I had an extra long session at SOLA. Somehow the message that Axel was gone had not made its way to all his students. Now, one week after his departure I believe they all know.

I dropped about 10 pounds of books off and gave a lecture about borrowing library books and returning them, shamelessly comparing the non return of a library book with stealing. Everyone nodded that this was indeed a serious issue and not acceptable – at least not in theory. Immediately after our class F took to counting books – a rather basic library technique but better than none – and checking the list of people who had taken books out.

We read over 10 pages of Greg’s adventures in Baltiland. The girls are very competitive about how much they read out loud. Reading out loud is like getting candy, even more desirable than that. They sneak an extra paragraph when they think I am not watching by ignoring the end of a sentence or take a pass when it’s their turn and they consider the following paragraph is too short.

They are visibly disappointed when I say stop. And when they all have had a turn I can’t just let one other read until time is up – no, they all have to read about the same length of text (and they measure the way American kids measure Halloween treats) being fiercely protective of what they consider their right to read an equal number of lines as their sisters.

We had some fun discussions about cultural practices related to being invited into people’s home and the ignorance of foreigners. I told them that soon they will be the foreigner (huh?) and that they will be in for some surprises, introducing the very big word of cultural competence. I told them about my faux pas of accepting an invitation at the first go (here one has to decline until the invitation is extended a third time when it is real.)

The other side of this is the American habit of not repeating an invitation after it has been declined. F told us about her sister in Vermont who missed several opportunities at Ben and Jerry’s until she figured out that if she wanted an ice cream she’d better learn to say ‘yes’ right away.

I watched an Indian Shahrukh Khan movie that M bought for me because it was about never giving up, leadership, inspiration and change – themes that are rather relevant these days.

The story is about an Indian (field) hockey coach who got into trouble, as the captain of the Indian team because he lost a penalty shot that gave Pakistan the victory. His people spit him out. Redemption came many years of obscurity later when he molded a group of willful girls from all over India with fierce state loyalties into a high performing team.

It is a story about human frailties and redemption, rivalry, and more. I didn’t get the subtleties of the struggles towards redemption because there were no subtitles. If I understood things correctly the team finally came together when a bunch of annoying teenage boys harassed two of the girls in a McDonalds and thrashed both the boys and the place. The girls bonded even more when they were challenged by the Indian men’s team that first made fun of them until they realized the girls were for real which earned them both an applause and respect. In the end they became world champions, prying the victory loose from the 6 time Australian champions with a penalty shot – exactly the one that the coach missed all these years before. Circle closed.

The team theme resonated with me. It made me think about trying to be part of a team made up of people with such very different backgrounds and values. The shared values we claim represent only the outer layer. There are so many layers underneath that I can’t seem, or even if I see them, will never understand, no matter how much I try to immerse myself in this culture by learning some of its languages. Unlike the girls hockey team we don’t have the advantage of scoring goals together as a way of bonding, or, for that matter, beating up harassing boys.

I watched the menacing demonstrations in Takhar Province on the evening news. They are especially unsettling because when I came here the north was still considered safe for us foreigners but that has changed in the last 20 or so months. Anti American sentiment is strong. I read about international forces storming a clinic in one of the eastern provinces where Taliban, tribal feuds and IMF actions meld together to create one large explosive mixture.

Sometimes I do believe that the international forces have quotas to fill of bad guys to take out and they storm clinics and bedrooms alike. The US embassy promptly put out a bulletin for us Americans/foreigners to be on the alert because of all sorts of vague threats. We are exhorted to not to discuss our plans with strangers. As if we would.

It takes a lot to get me down but not very much to lift my spirits. That was done at dinner time after another trying morning by an article in today’s Afghanistan Times. An intrepid Italian with the help of the Aga Khan Foundation and New Zealand tax dollars is doing something much more challenging than what I am trying to do. If I sometimes feel I am swimming upstream, he’s certainly swimming upstream of something equivalent to the wild Mississippi River by coaxing Afghan women from rural Bamiyan to learn to ski.

The quotes in the article are priceless. “Women skiing? I’m against it if they do it without the burqa,” according to one gentleman fingering his prayer beads. One of the young women (they are all in their 20s and 30s) who clearly enjoyed the new experience said, “It is the first time I do something for myself.” Apparently the women had to put up with snide remarks from male onlookers – but that is nothing new. I remember an article about a young female automobilist in Herat whose car was full of dents from male drivers intentionally hitting her car – a variation on snide remarks.

A 16 year old had come to the conclusion that, never mind the burqa (“it would be impossible to see the piste”) even a veil was impractical and unnecessary. But Mullah Said did not entirely agree with the latter proposition, “If the woman is properly covered from head to toe, with a scarf, she does not need the burqa…”

Reading this I was imagining women with their blue burqas fluttering in the wind elegantly zigzagging down a mountain slope. I ought to get that burqa before I leave Afghanistan and, one day back in the US, when no one is looking, see what it is like to ski with a burqa. Ha!

The article made me smile and realize that I am not alone in my efforts of trying to free women from oppressive attitudes and practices although it certainly feels that way sometimes. S and M told me today that they are praying for me. That was very sweet, since I think they are the ones I need to pray for.

Today was a real down-in-the-dumps day. If I could have afforded it and if it wasn’t for my very strong superego I would have boarded a flight and gone home. But there is too much to keep me here and I have to follow my own advice – never give up. Truth is that today I was very close to the edge.

I am trying to figure out what I am up against and felt betrayed by my own people back at headquarters. The view to Afghanistan, from comfortable Boston, is sometimes so off base that I wonder how we can ever work effectively across great cultural divides and distant borders.

The one thing I am trying to do here, which is not in my job description, is getting lost in a myriad of other priorities that makes me feel at times superfluous and my efforts futile. It takes a lot to discourage me but today it all came together in a large oppressive sweep.

We had a long meeting with our funder; for once we were outnumbered by agency people, and discussed both the small victories and the incredible odds we are up against and exhorted each other to hang in there. It is an exhortation I use a lot myself when encouraging others but today I heard it, not uttered it and quietly repeated it to myself. It didn’t help much – a good reminder that my own exhortations don’t always fall on fertile ground.

Coming back to an empty house didn’t help. I keep sticking my fingers out and counting: four more workdays, seven more nights – I am so very ready to go home.

Axel is home in Manchester and breathing, as he told me, the sweet air of Lobster Cove. He is tired but his spirits have lifted. It was good he went ahead of me. We talked in the middle of the night after I had been awakened by an earthquake in Faizabad. Everything swayed gently but nothing fell or broke, at least not here in Kabul. That’s when I called home to see if he had arrived. He had and here they acknowledge that with a ‘Praise the Lord! alhamdu lillah!’

I may finally be successful in getting to the bottom of my email box, what with no one waiting for me at home. As I dig down I am finding reports, some several months old, and I try to at least scan them. This is how I stumbled on a report written by an American consultant about how all donors should coordinate better. It is amazing how many consultants need to be flown in to give that message. The poor coordination, and the repeated calls for better coordination (read: more, different, new structures) is one of those things that baffle me.

My mantra about coordination is that it is easy if people want it and impossible if they don’t. The rhetoric is that everyone wants better coordination but the reality seems to indicate that this is actually not true. As a psychologist I cannot help myself to think that some deeper psychological forces are at work: A fear of loss of control? Forgetfulness (as in ‘Oh, I forget to inform them!”); time pressures (meetings seen as time wasters, which they of course often are); a fear of being held responsible for promises or commitments made, a fear of interference by national or ideological agendas one disagrees with? A fear of getting more work shoved one’s way?

The lengthy report took some stamina to read from beginning to end. It is full of dense language (dense as defined by the number of times my thoughts wander away from the page) and I wonder how many Afghans are actually studying the report and scribbled notes in the margins with questions, comments, observations. My hunch is only a few; those who read English easily and who can read fast to manage the incessant stream of reports coming in from consultants. So what does it mean when few people read but we all pretend the document has been thoroughly vetted?

This particular consultant had work planned out for another 5 months, neatly ‘x-ed’ in a Gantt chart. But something interfered with that plan and it got stalled. And now we are on to other plans, done by other consultants (because the ministry is too thinly staff with people who could write such a plan or they are too busy with other things). And I hear more calls for better coordination in the near and far distance.

I find myself a bit despondent at times, wondering what the heck I am doing here. I have had this sentiment before and it keeps coming back. We foreigners don’t have to live with the decisions we make yet everyone is listening and stamping reports with ‘approved’ and they work their way up the hierarchy until they becomes official policies, strategies, strategic plans, frameworks or what not. And then we go and those who stay have to implement it. And we are surprised that many of these wonderful, comprehensive, complete intentions remain letters on pages.

Because of Axel’s absence the US government is getting more bang for its buck. I worked on various tasks that fall by the wayside during the workweek completing at least a half day of work on this second day of my weekend.

I spent considerable time on the performance review process. I sweated over the evaluations of some of my staff. What to do with positive self evaluations when you don’t agree? If you take this annual ritual serious (I do), doing it well is very complex. You have to think, weigh, balance and try to remember the entire year, not just a few high or low points. You have to imagine how what you say will be interpreted; whether it will trigger defense reactions and how to handle those.

Part of me says ‘hey, why complicate things, just agree with everything and give the score that states all objectives were satisfactorily achieved.’ Many people here do that, or even give a superior rating. People will like you for it and you don’t have to have any difficult conversations. And so the other part of me says, ‘well, if you are not honest what message are you giving?’ I tend to listen to the latter voice. And so I sweat. I must have spent at least 8 hours over the last week just on these performance reviews and I am not done yet. Luckily I have only 4 people reporting to me.

And then there is the procurement integrity course we have to take online each year. It takes about 90 minutes according to the instructions. I thought I would do it faster than that – I read fast and take tests easily; at that pace it took 90 minutes. I wonder how long it would take for my Afghan colleagues. Some test questions are complex, representing ambiguous scenarios.

I had two wrong answers of the 50 or so questions, so I passed and am good for another year. I have taken the test several times now and am quite familiar with the content. I love the section about why it is not good to give jobs to relatives. All possible kinds of relatives were named, including ancestors. According to the rules you are not supposed to procure jobs for your ancestors.

In the afternoon I was once again the only student in my weekly Dari grammar class which started with four people back in March. It seems I am the lone survivor. I like it because it means I now have a two hour private lesson from the head teacher and can focus on whatever I want.

Today the teacher helped me write a note in Dari to ‘my esteemed cook’ Amin jan in which I explained that I don’t want him to cook the kind of meals he has cooked so far for us before because I can’t handle that volume now that Axel has left. In my best Dari I asked him to prepare two small salads each day for my dinner: a green/veggie salad and a fruit salad, explaining that I have a solid lunch at the office and am not very hungry when I come home so as not to create any bad feelings about the quality of his cooking.

For dinner I went with a friend to the Gandamack guesthouse where Axel has wanted to go for so long and never went. We sat on a lovely veranda surrounded by grapevines and roses and could imagine we were somewhere in Italy or Spain. One look at the menu (Sheppard Pie or Steak and Kidney Pie) though makes you think that you are in Britain. And then, when you look past the roses and beyond the neat green lawn you see the sandbags and security guards with guns – and you know that you are in Kabul. And finally, when the espresso is served in the little six (eight?) sided stove top espresso maker you are back in Italy.

The Indian prime minister interfered with my weekly Friday morning massage. Our office car park is on one side of the main road that leads to the parliament and our house is on the other. No one could cross the road for hours. Eventually, after a helicopter ferried the Indian and his entourage low overhead back to wherever he came from, the road was opened again and I could proceed to my much delayed massage. It was however too late to have our planned brunch at the Serena hotel – Axel had to pack and that takes time.

When he left I blew him a kiss from the terrace – that is as much open affection I could show. As the car was already moving the flying kiss entered the driver’s window by mistake – this everyone liked.

Our house suddenly felt very big and very empty. Luckily we had organized a repeat party from last week as the restrictions on US government personnel had lifted. I asked the artists to come again and show their wares and tacos were once again on the menu. I ordered a Nuristani wooden lattice, cut out of one piece of cedar wood – intricate and fragrant.

Although some of the company was the same the hoola-hoop crowd was missing and there was no interest in blowing giant bubbles or hoola hoop practice – we simply sat around the table and discussed everything that is happening in Afghanistan while sipping Chianti, a rare treat.

Although it is nearly bedtime, I can’t quite end the day without writing. I started up my computer and stared at the MS desktop background (‘bliss’) and suddenly had this intense urge to get into a small Piper plane, with my buddy Bill, and fly over Vermont. It’s probably because ‘Bliss’ is Vermont. Memories came flooding in about flying over the green mountains. I realized how much I have missed flying. One day…(sigh).

This morning we discussed our project’s extension budget at our funder’s home. I used to think I didn’t understand a thing about budgets, reinforced by my colleagues’ low opinion about my financial skills and insights. I wish they could have seen and heard me talk about millions of dollars of pharmaceuticals and other direct costs as if I was the finance director – well, sort of. Of course I am not, and W. who flew in from HQ, was a great help in explaining things that none of the rest of us could. We are all public health folks, doctors, educators, psychologists…not your typical financial types. We need one more meeting about the budget –I think, I hope, and then we can get on with the work.

W. is a finance professional from Texas. She has worked several years in Afghanistan and Iraq with big contractors, the kind that ‘burn’ a million dollars a day (that takes us about one month, with pharmaceuticals included). She is full of stories that made her leave Afghanistan. They illustrate the dark side of US development work here. I think we, in health, have been spared the really bad stuff that make you want to scream ‘no more dollars, no more lives!” The stories are amazing, juicy, entertaining. They made W. cynical and leave. I have to ration them or else I would want to pack up too.

In the evening we joined P and M in one of the restaurants where expats hang out who cannot have a meal without a beer or a glass of wine. There aren’t many of those left in town. The food is overpriced but the company was excellent. Both M and P are leaving, tomorrow and the day after and so this was our goodbye. We agreed to meet again in Lobster Cove for a mussels and lobster meal. I can just picture us, right by the lilacs and irisses.

I spent all day at the Intercontinental hotel, a place I visit only rarely. It is the place where Axel got very sick from eating too much lamb fat. The hotel is a holdover from the 60s and, because of that, rather charming. Today I noticed that it is being renovated. This may be good for travelers – I have never stayed there and don’t know the quality of rooms – but probably a shame as something else that pointed to Kabul’s better days, will be sacrificed to progress and modernity.

I attended a workshop about SWAp which is donor speak for Sector Wide Approach, an ideology about aid effectiveness and donor coordination that has been tried out in several countries and is being proposed for Afghanistan. It’s entire philosophy and its processes/structures rest on the assumption that everyone wants better donor coordination and that alignment is possible. At an abstract level this may be correct, but in practice the multiple constituencies that sit behind donors and Afghans don’t have as much in common as we like to believe.

Experiences elsewhere have been mixed, some good, some disappointing. We heard about successes and shortcomings of SWAps in Malawi and Bangladesh. The people that administer US government funds here in Kabul are a little cautious with this approach because of the ‘fund pooling’ and the difficulty of explaining to the American taxpayer what exactly their dollars have produced in terms of better health services for Afghans, especially women and children. Given the incessant stream of news about corruption here, this is a very reasonable concern.

I learned a new word from my Afghan colleague, ‘fungible,’ which he explained as donor funds earmarked for something being used for something else. He learned the word at the Tropical Institute in Amsterdam while studying for his MPH. I was impressed.

The Intercon sits on top of a hill overlooking two sides of Kabul. While we were waiting for our car to take us back to the office at the end of the day we could see the ‘khakbad’ (Kabul’s infamous dust storms) whirling on our right, picking dust up here and depositing it there. I thought of Axel’s poor lungs and hoped he was inside someplace.

Back home I could see that the hula hoop had been moved. I suspect there has been some more practice during the day although no one said so. Someone is going to show off at the next opportunity I suspect.