Sylvia's Journal

The day started with a summons from the minister to help her with her thank you letters to the various people who welcomed her, worked with her during her visit to the US. They were the leaders of various UN agencies, the World Bank, the US congress, the UN in New York, the Lancet and No Woman, No Cry, whose director, Christy Turlington Burns film, Every mother counts, greatly moved her.

I am working with one of her staff to transfer the skill of writing good thank you letters. When I was 12 my mother taught me that skill and for years I had a sample of a thank you letter, in her handwriting, hidden under my desk blotter. I kept pulling it out whenever there was a thank you letter to compose. As a result I am pretty darn good at it now and it is time to pass the skill on.

In the evening we were invited at the Dutch embassy for a celebration of ‘Leiden’s Ontzet,’ which is one of the oldest victory celebrations in Holland. On October 3, 1574 the rebels pierced the dikes and flooded the countryside around Leiden to flush away the enemy Spaniards. It was sink or run. They ran.

The Dutch rebels rowed across the water with food for the besieged and starving inhabitants of the city: haring and white bread. Legend has it they also brought the contents of the cooking pots the Spaniards left behind, a stew now considered very Dutch, ‘hutspot,’ consisting of potatoes, carrots, onions, mashed together into a thick orange mass and served with sausage.

The Dutch embassy had invited General Petraeus to partake in this very Dutch event. We did not know this but we could have figured it out from the tank-like SUVs (weighing 9000 pounds and costing more than a small house each) that were parked between the various embassy perimeters.

The celebration was a small and intimate affair that allowed us to chat with the man who is so much in the news. We asked about Woodward’s book and his now famous quote that I remember mostly because of its [expletive] part. He smiled and said he tries not to use those words but they sometimes slip in.

We discovered his father was a Dutch captain and so there is some affinity with the Dutch, although he did politely decline both the raw herring and the Dutch gin (apple juice in a gin glass looked exactly like it).

We met some old acquaintances and made new friends. One of the old acquaintances, a Dutch/Afghan, who ate herring like a Dutchman, had run for a seat in parliament. He thinks he got 1000 votes; whether that is enough or not we don’t know.

A member of the October 3 Committee had flown in from Leiden with several hundred pounds of haring, sausage for the hutspot and corenwijn, a special variety of Dutch gin. Small bowls of hutspot with the sausage were served in addition to the herring. After the speeches we could also have a glass of gin, except the military (Dutch and American) because McChrystal banned alcohol for uniformed men (except the Belgians who threatened to leave if not allowed their 2 beers a day).

The Afghan staff knew quickly who the herring lovers were; as a result I ate more than I ever have at one sitting. The committee member turned out to be a Scott, married to Leiden’s principal city archivist and a citizen of Leiden. His Dutch was so impeccable that we did not realize he was not a native Dutch speaker. But then someone reminded us that old Scottish was very close to old Dutch.

I read (or rather listened to) Margaret Atwood’s Penelopiad which lets Penelope tell the famous story from her perspective. Her story is, not surprisingly, quite different from the one that has been told for centuries, his story.

I felt a little like Penelope as I started to unravel a sweater I knitted all through last winter. I got the measurements wrong so I will start all over again. The wool for the sweater, a bag full of Shetland wool skeins, was a gift from Alison who had found it in her mother’s attic after she passed away. The nice thing about gifts, especially unnecessary ones, cousin Nancy wrote me on facebook, is that such gifts remind you of the giver. And so I am thinking of Alison on this nice fall evening.

The unmaking of the sweater is taking a long time. It is as much a labor of love and patience as the making was. Unlike Penelope, the unraveling takes place in clear daylight as there are no suitors to keep at bay. My Odysseus is right here with me.

There is another unraveling that is going on here and that concerns the elections. The foreign news media are reporting on the thousands of complaints that the Election Complaints Commission has received. There are stories about some very brazen and heavy-handed tactics used by the power brokers, government officials and candidate agents, some of them recorded on phone videos. I am beginning to suspect that the official announcement of winners and losers will be more tumultuous than Election Day itself .

There are a lot of loose threads and very little confidence that anyone can tie those up neatly. Re-knitting my sweater will be a whole lot easier.

Today, exactly one year ago, I arrived in Kabul to take up my new position. It has been a wild and amazing year – with highs and lows, delights and frustrations; a year in which I learned more than I can remember.

It has been a year in which Afghanistan became real, multifaceted and not quite as dangerous as people back home thought; a year in which I mastered enough of the language that I can order pizza in Dari and converse with our drivers and guards.

Originally my assignment was for one year only. We would be home now. But we added another one. If it passes as fast as last year did we will be home in no time.

We celebrated the event with one of my Afghan colleagues, his wife and his four wonderful kids, one boy and three girls. They flew balsa wood airplanes, which disintegrated in exactly two hours; they blew giant bubbles with the bubble wand and smaller bubbles with wands made from a clothes hanger; the oldest two learned to hoola-hoop in about 10 minutes and wore themselves out; they played with the exercise ball and then they posed for a picture each holding one of the mustaches (brut) or beards (rish) on a stick that were leftovers from the wedding decorations.

We had pizza from Pizza Brasil which the grownups liked more than the kids. We put out sweets which they ignored in favor of a giant melon that their dad carved up expertly.

After tea we gave the family a tour of our house. Their house is in the process of being finished, has been for a long time, a bit like the main road outside our office. They were curious about how we foreigners fill our houses and said they got some ideas for their own.

The kids all had to try the elliptical machine which was a little too difficult for the youngest one (5) who could not reach the handlebars.

After the house tour they requested their leave (may we go now?) which probably was a literal translation from Dari. We sent them off with a bag with goodies for everyone plus the picture of the kids with their mustaches and beards.

I liked the way we celebrated my anniversary here because it was all about what is good about this country: good company, good food and good weather, and kids that played like kids do everywhere else in the world when given the chance.

We were in the middle of an orientation about the Health Management Information System (HMIS) when a loud boom went off, followed by what sounded like metal rolling down a tin roof. The presenter paused for a moment and we all looked at each other but no one said a word. Then he resumed as if nothing happened.

I found it hard to concentrate after that. For about 15 minutes I tried to follow the presenter but my mind was otherwise engaged in two parallel thought streams: (1) what was that? It sounded like an explosion. Was this the next event that we had been anticipating for so long? What had rattled down a roof, and where? Where did it happen and were people hurt? And (2) was I the only one thinking these thoughts? What about all the other people in the room? Chris has a little girl in a school not far from us. Was she worried? Why didn’t anyone get on the phone?

I had to call one of my staff to join us and used this as an excuse to get out of the room. Outside I found two of my female colleagues with cellphones to their ears. “What happened”? I asked. I was taken to the cafeteria, which abuts the wall that separates our compound from the main road. The cook showed a piece of metal that had come in over the wall. The man who does our copying took the piece to security. It had been too hot to handle when it landed in the compound.

“No, not war!” was the answer to my question, put awkwardly in the local language to one of the guards. He said something I only partially understood, about a house, nearby. I made up the missing words with my own imagination, a gas tank explosion maybe? Later I saw our security chief. I asked him what it was. He shrugged his shoulders. It was nothing, just the demining people blowing up mines. There are still mines in the mountains around Kabul and, I guess, they still find them from time to time. This is the reason why we are not allowed to go on walks up there.

And so I was reminded that a boom is not necessarily a bad boom. It can come from many different causes and we can make it up to be one of many things. That’s also how rumors become facts.

Today was one of those days where I realized how being in all female (rare) and mostly male company (normal) affects my psyche in different ways. In the afternoon I went with one male and two young female colleagues to present our leadership program to the executive board meeting of the midwives association. Two years ago, in Bangladesh, I met two of their members and since then I have always been warmly received in their midst.

If my young female colleagues come across as shy and inexperienced in the usual (older) male settings I am used to see them in, they were completely in their element in this company of (mostly but not all) young women. These women have devoted their lives to helping babies enter this world under the best possible circumstances. That they themselves do this work under less than ideal circumstances, especially those living in the southern and eastern provinces, makes their work all the more remarkable.

I congratulated them on finding themselves repeatedly in the world news, in a positive way, as Millennium Development Goal #5 (reducing maternal mortality), was being scrutinized in New York at the MDG Summit this week. The gathering has just been reminded everyone, once again, that women’s health is given short thrift in many countries and that midwives can do something about that.

I was proud of my team that had produced an excellent powerpoint, in the local language, and gave the eager midwives a taste of what this leadership program is like. An enthusiastic question and answer session followed the presentation and everyone wanted to sign on right away, even though we can only start with about 7 teams. The others will have to wait.

These total immersion sessions in Dari are good checks on my linguistic progress. I can read the powerpoint text, albeit slowly, and ask for the meaning of words I don’t recognize. They are words like facing challenges, activities, measurable results, none of which ever show up in the fairy tale books that my teacher has me read.

Everything is about expectations. When people are upset with one another it is almost always because expectations weren’t met. It plays out at the couple level (wife upset because she expected husband to take the garbage out), at the team level (team didn’t complete expected work as per specifications), organizational level (bank didn’t honor clients withdrawal requests) and country level (we gave you all this money and we expected you to manage it as if it was your own!).

But sometimes when expectations aren’t met there is relief, as was the case with the Afghan parliamentary elections. There were expectations of major fraud, widespread violence, so much even that the UN evacuated much of its staff. And then, when there were no major bombardments, rocket attacks, kidnappings, election workers going postal and such, everyone applauded how the Afghan government (with help) had managed this.

But wait a minute. According to the Afghanistan Times of today, the Free & Fair Elections Foundation of Afghanistan (FEFA) reported 276 incidents in and around voting places by the Taliban in all but 2 provinces; 157 serious acts of violence by the power brokers and their supporters in all but 6 provinces and 300 instances of intimidation and coercion of voters, candidates’ agents and observers by local power brokers. This is what some 7000 FEFA volunteers, observing about 60% of all the polling places, reported.

They also recorded plenty of instances of blatant or not so blatant voting fraud like fake voting registration cards, underage voters, men voting for their wives – although I imagine that many (men) may not consider this fraud –, voting materials missing, polling centers opening too late and delays in counting votes.

If you expect widespread violence and major fraud and you get this, I suppose it is a reason for relief, though not for celebration, as some think. There is still much that can go wrong, especially when the results are being reported and some people don’t like what they see.

The mayor of Kabul has ordered all candidates to remove their posters, from the gigantic 6 by 4 meter ones that practically obstruct the mountains around Kabul to the small handbills pasted on anything within view of the voting public. Kabul’s mayor means business. Apparently there is a fine if you don’t do this.

The rented spaces are already empty, I suppose the rental agreement ran out on the 20th, but many large posters still grace the large poppy mansions, hanging from balconies and covering the high walls surrounding them. There is something narcissistic about not taking those down – some people may love to keep seeing themselves as savior. I suspect some may be around until the weather does them in.

For us, life is back to normal – the holidays are over, the tension leading up to the elections is gone and we are (still) a little blue after the wedding.

Aside from the possibility of a change that the elections brought, there is also change in the air. We are acutely aware that it is fall. We know about the fall weather back home because of the many facebook postings. But here fall has also arrived.

The grape leaves on the arbors at work and at home are curling brown and yellow, the remaining grapes have shriveled up. The fruit trees are full of apples and pears (our pears, sweet and crispy have all disappeared but the sour green apples are not in demand, and so these trees are bending heavily under their weight).

The market is flooded with pears and apples and carts full of pomegranates are appearing on the streets. We have not yet had enough of the famous Afghan kharbuza, the white, green or yellow melons that are the best in the world.

It is no longer light when I get up. At the end of my Dari class today we had to turn the lights on. Soon it will be fully dark which means that I have to either change from a female to a male teacher or change my class hours because it is considered dangerous for Afghan women to travel in the dark to and from their homes.

It is also getting cold in the evening, during the night and in the early morning. I can now remove the fan that I used to tilt towards the elliptical workout machine to run at full blast to cool me while exercising. I wore socks for the first time; soon I will also need a coat. As the day unfolds the temperatures first rise and then fall again. It’s weather that requires layering.

I am starting to eat oatmeal for breakfast and have taken out my knitting. Winter is coming alright!

This morning there were two kinds of Afghans, those with an inked finger and those with a clean one. Those with inked fingers proudly showed them. It was like a badge of honor. The clean-fingered ones were a little embarrassed and gave me all sorts of reasons why they had not voted. Ali Ghulam, our housekeeper, proudly posed his inked finger for Axel’s camera.

People were pleased with how Election Day had had come and gone. Apparently spokespeople for various ministries had made declarations at the end of the day that had impressed many. There was a sense of hope and the possibility of change. Still, I couldn’t help thinking about all the people who are dead now because of the elections.

At work we resumed our work that had been interrupted by Ramadan, then Eid and then the election run-up. We are back to normal, if work here could ever be called normal.

We had requested a late afternoon home visit from my Friday massage ladies. This was the only way that Axel could get a massage from one or the other as the spa itself is off limits for men. And since coming to a house is only worth their while if they can do two massages, I, without any reluctance, had another one, side by side with Axel. Needless to say, it was a fabulous way to end the first day of the week.

A 6.3 earthquake, several hundred kilometers northeast of Kabul, surprised us, ever so gently, as we were watching the news just minutes after midnight. I was thinking about the irony of an earthquake, not the Taliban, disrupting the elections.

The first movement of the window against which Axel was leaning made us think it was the explosion that we had been expecting for the last few days. But then the rattling continued and we got out of the house and saw the grape arbor that covers our terrace slightly swaying. We got out on the grass in the yard and I could feel the earth rippling beneath my bare feet. It is a weird and very unsettling sensation, when the one thing you assume stable is not.

We had come back late from a wonderful dinner at Razia jan where we met, as is always the case at her dinner parties, some very interesting people. All but one were Afghan Americans with impressive records of higher learning and degrees from European and American universities. Some of them had returned back more or less permanently. Others commute between the US and Afghanistan. Two women had left their husbands and kids in Fremont, CA, to investigate business opportunities here.

They recounted the endless frustrations of dealing with a government that provides no help at all to the Afghan diaspora that is ready and willing to pitch in. There is a deep mistrust in the government of the private sector and because of that, a series of lost opportunities to engage those whose are educated and can bridge the gap between the stone-age elements in this society and the modern world.

The stories over dinner about the olden days in Kabul were full of sadness and deep frustrations about those elements who have hijacked this society back to the Stone Ages and total chaos, corruption and unpunished criminal acts. “But,” said one very senior government official, “we have to be positive, we have to have hope that things can change.” Everyone nodded. When I asked whether anyone was going to vote (Afghan-Americans can if they have registered) only one admitted to be registered, none were going to vote.

On election morning we woke up to a beautiful day. We watched the election coverage on various local TV channels, surfing from one to the other. Although we still can’t understand much of what is being said, we do recognize words such as ‘quiet, peaceful, good, hope,’ and the like. We saw lines of men and women patiently waiting for their turn to enter the polling places, an act of courage given the many threats and actual killings perpetrated by the Taliban over the last few weeks of those who are ‘cooperating with the evil forces of the foreigners and the Afghan government.’ Would I vote under these circumstances?

Our movements for this last day before the elections were a little restricted. We were told to stay at home between 11 and 3, the hours of Friday mosque activity. Mosques are one of the favorite places for provocateurs and if anyone wanted to derail things for the elections, our security staff decided, we’d better stay home during those hours. And so I changed my 11 o’clock massage appointment to 9.

My Philippine masseuse is also a medicine woman. When I mentioned that I had painful knees and woke up with both my arms asleep this morning she summoned her Afghan trainee and proposed an hour and a half massage that include ‘medicine’ work on my knees and arms. Having four hands work my body was truly a double happiness experience, especially when she threw in a facial at the end for free. I emerged from my ‘treatment’ feeling rejuvenated, no pain, all oily and fragrant from the various lotions and creams they rubbed on and in me.

While Axel slept, recovering from endless exercises to relieve the residual pain in his body caused by the long trip from Manchester to Kabul and our oversized luggage I played in the kitchen. First I turned 3 kilos of local tomatoes into 3 liters of fresh tomato juice, for Bloody Maries and then used up the dried figs in an Afghan version of homemade fig newtons.

We took the cookies to Ted and his School for Leadership, Afghanistan (SOLA) where Axel has been teaching since last winter. A new crop of extraordinary young Afghans had gathered around his large living room table for an orientation and a, rather informal, application process. Ted was explaining that this after school program is not about grades or numbers and that he only wants good Afghans and good Moslems.

How would he be able to tell, someone asked. “I want young Afghans who have a sense of country,” he replied, who want to lift their country up, “and I have a good intuition for spotting people like that,” he added. Ted is looking for young Afghans, boys and girls, who are committed to use their education for the betterment of their country, and so, will return to Afghanistan rather than skip to Canada. He then proceeded telling us one story after another of amazing leadership by very young ladies. I was very moved.

Sitting around the table with these young eager people reminded me how much I have missed teaching. I do hardly any of that now, as all of the leadership teaching in our project is done in Dari or Pashto, something I cannot do. But in SOLA the teaching is in English, to prepare the kids for study in the USA. I made a commitment to teach at least one hour a week, and if I can handle it, more than that, after work hours. Currently there are no female teachers for the girls and Ted, in his usual loose manner, counts on things falling into place, including the teachers, of which he has only Axel right now. I was one more piece of that puzzle that found its place today.