Sylvia's Journal

This morning I arrived early at Lisa’s place where I got the royal treatment: hair, feet, reflexology, Swedish massage and a mask, ‘because you’re special,” said Lisa. Sammy the hairdresser decided I should have a Princes Di haircut, “because I look like her,” as if she is still around. I did see a picture of Princess Di recently which was photoshopped to show her at age 50 – elegant with a few wrinkles and dyed hair, with a haircut that doesn’t look anything like the one I got today. It was more a Twiggy haircut, a reference no one at the salon would understand.

With face and feet soft as a baby, and very little hair left on my head, I went to the shop where foreigners buy locally produced and highly marked up handicrafts that make us feel good because they make for unusual gifts while we support destitute women. I had received an announcement that they would have a “Blue Herat Glass and Ice cream event.” The blue glass was there but not the ice cream which was cancelled for reasons unknown. I bought a decanter and two water glasses to replace the plastic water bottle on my nightstand – very stylish and very ethnic.

In the afternoon I went over to SOLA to say goodbye to Angela who is leaving for Virginia on Sunday to start her four years of college at the University of Richmond. Her departure is a big loss to SOLA but also a victory as this is yet one more Afghan girl who will come back to join her sisters who are trying to change this place. Connie from the European Police trainers, another volunteer teacher like me, showed up with a lesson plan about the Berlin Wall, German bread and Dutch cheese, complementing my cake with its ‘safar bakhair’ (safe travels) written across the frosting.

Connie always has to come with an armored car and guards, this time one male and one female. The female one was from Sweden and the male one, who patiently waited in the car outside until we called him in, was from the UK. I have met a few of these guardian angels now and all have said that their visit to SOLA is one of their best experiences in Afghanistan. They live between barbed wire and blast walls surrounded by armaments, and corruption, and have an impossible task.

Although not living in the same conditions, I too have found my time at SOLA among my most fun and rewarding experiences here in Kabul. Each time I leave the girls I feel that some good is going to come out of all the good that is streaming into Afghanistan, usually undetected and under the radar compared to the bad stuff, arms, too much money, misguided strategies and arrogance that streams in highly visible and in abundance.

The two remaining boys at SOLA, which will return back to its original state as a girls’ school, are shipping out next month to Kent School in Connecticut – one has his red card in hand (this means he will get the visa) while the other is waiting for some form from the school without which the interview at the consulate cannot be scheduled. We are all keeping our fingers crossed for all the kids who are now waiting for the much coveted visa and start their new lives.

As usual, while the kids introduced themselves, Ted provided editorial comments and context that consist mostly of stories that make you want to cry and that restore one’s faith in the goodness of people, an effective antidote to the constant barrage of bad news. He has a large trunk full of such stories and I can’t hear them enough, even though I have heard many of them more than once already. Apparently during his latest stay in the US he added another layer of stories, of random people stepping in his way and bringing things he needed but did not ask for.

Last night it finally happened: one of my dinner guests stepped blindly into the ditch that runs in front of our house. Here in Kabul, and in this part of the world, these are the drainage ditches that run everywhere along both sides of the street. They are basically open sewers. It was dark, Pierre’s eyesight isn’t so good in the dark and we were chatting when suddenly Pierre dropped down. As he pulled himself out he acted like one would expect a doctor to act, ‘oh, no problem.’

But I know doctors as I was brought up by one and have a few in the family; I was worried that he would not give himself the same advice as he would give to a patient. One of his shins was bloody, skinned from knee to foot. His driver fished one of his shoes and his cellphone out of the ditch. A little later we discovered that Pierre had put on the wrong shoes, and that it was Steve’s shoe that had been submerged.

Steve had earlier quoted me a saying from his time in Shiraz that when you fell into one of these ditches you would never leave town. We thought that had applied to Pierre but since these were Steve’s shoes this may now apply to him. It was an unfortunate ending to a lovely dinner with a few friends.

One of them first arrived in Afghanistan 44 years ago. He also read Paula Constable’s article in the Washington Post a week ago (Dread and Dysfunction in Kabul) and was even harder hit by it than me. He remarked that in the olden days typical Afghan (mudbrick) houses, even in the city, had a series of small rooms built along the walls of the compound around a beautiful garden occupying most of the space; a garden that received attention all day long.

Now garish monstrosities are built to within an inch of the outside walls leaving very little space, not even the size of a walkway, between the house and the house next door. There is no more outdoor life because there is no more outdoors, only cement, brick and tiles. Gone are the roses, the grape vines, the fruit trees. Many people who lived here a long time ago can’t find their houses back. They are gone.

Our Afghan dinner was cooked, served and cleaned up by our cook and housekeeper who had offered to stay, for the evening. Steve and I immediately accepted. That’s one thing I will miss: having a dinner party and when you go to bed everything is cleaned up and put away.