Sylvia's Journal

The discovery of a large cache of weapons, explosives, army uniforms, hand grenades, rifles and other instruments of death at the airport left only the very stoic among us untouched. When I left for the airport to go to India some weeks ago, I had been pondering just that question: what’s the next highly visible place for a complex attack? All the fancy hotels in town have been attacked and some of them twice already, there is no railway station so the airport seemed like an obvious target. Of course it is well protected with a perimeter that runs along the international forces bases. But then again, as we discussed yesterday with the midwives, everything, including conscience, can be bought.

One of our consultants is flying out today and is nervous but the rest of us who are flying out in the next couple months think he is lucky – they surely aren’t going to try anything now as the perpetrators have to regroup, steal new uniforms, get new weapons (that’s probably the easy part). Steve is leaving on August 13 when things will have slacked off a bit as the news and attention has worn off. Although we will also be deep into the Ramazan slack; it is not a month of great exertion.

Those of us leaving in September have more to worry about as active life resumes in Kabul after the holidays. There is always the hope that the holy month of Ramazan will put the fear of God in the hearts of the people who are supposed to do the dirty work. And so we pray.

I had lunch with the SOLA founder at the small French restaurant where you can get real coffee, real croissants, real baguettes and real ham. We discussed the fate of SOLA and are in agreement that it has to be Afghan owned and run if it is to survive the no doubt tumultuous years ahead.

We also discussed the continued denial of American visas to students who have received full scholarships and the difficult line to walk between pushing people at the consulate too hard or too little. Some people in high places really don’t like to be pushed by the ‘representatives of the American people,’ and become even more rigid. Ted is unfazed.

The restaurant with its young Hazara waiters is packing up. I am not entirely sure what the reason is but one rumor has it that the owners are getting squeezed for protection money and that it has something to do with security, threats and such. I haven’t been able to verify that as no one was there to confirm. The place already looked cleaned out, the inside furniture removed, only the second hand French books, a rug, the small shop where you can buy fresh baguettes, jam, fruit tarts and croissants and the kitchen remained. Even the starched peach and white striped vests of the waiters were gone – the boy served us in black street clothes.

The rest of the day was agony as the stifling heat in my office appeared to turn off my brain. All I could manage was clean my inbox, score the MBTI results of a colleague’s husband and write a request to the US government about distributing personal protection equipment kits that are clogging up are scarce warehouse space; and all of these things very slowly. It was one of those slack days that don’t have a place in the American work philosophy of efficiency and effectiveness but are quite common in the rest of the world, especially where it is hot.