Sylvia's Journal

It took us 11 hours, rather than the 9 hours the GPS promised us, to get from Boston to DC, from winter to spring, from work and chores to vacation.

Axel did most of the driving. I am good for getting us into and out of cities but can’t handle the long monotony of turnpikes – I would fall asleep. We shortened the time by listening to what our friend Edith calls ‘a cozy mystery’ but there were too many names and characters to remember so I cannot retell the story. For the ride back we have a Christmas Blizzard by Garrison Keillor and Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger, each about 6 or 7 hours of narration. We will have to choose.

Wednesday was a workday, but an easy one – mostly hanging out with colleagues from our projects in Africa and Asia – some people I knew well and others that required introductions.

Thursday was the first vacation day which I started with a sleep-in till 12:30 PM – I don’t think I have slept that long in a decade. We spent a good chunk of the afternoon in the metro going to and from Alexandria’s torpedo factory where our friend Ruth has a gallery of fiber and glass art.

It is warm and balmy here – people wear summer clothes – the kind I only wear on trips abroad it seems. If only this weather would stay, and not get hotter, DC would be a fine place to live.

Last night we partook in one America’s oldest democratic processes, Manchester’s Annual Town Meeting. Our current process emerged out what was initially a matter of the church, with matters of town and church one and the same. The church elders, supposedly wise and god-fearing men, would create the agenda and then vote on it. Although greed and aberrations like the witch trials did happen, by and large these meetings were aimed at securing the ‘common wealth.’ With families intermarrying (as one can see from the gravestones) interests were intertwined and what was good for these men was supposed to be good for all. It was a paternalistic and patronizing system that survived for a very long time (and sometimes I think it is still there).

Somewhere between then and now towns and churches separated and the business of running the town became a secular affair. Still, our annual town meeting still starts with an invocation, a request to God to bless our decision making process. After 1876 the first edition of Robert’s Rules of Order appeared which are now standard practice. But they are not Roberta’s Rules of order and they have a certain cerebral masculinity about them. The process is stilted and allows for serial monologues and very little evidence of people listening to each other – rather people waiting in line to say their mostly well prepared speeches. It’s is funny that I can only remember the more spontaneous comments by the women in the assembly – but all comments, whether applauded or not, tend to fall like lead balloons in a sandbox – and there they stay. There is no dialogue as messy exchanges are taboo in a process that is based on Order.

And so I marvel and wonder about this particular New England democratic process where people vote on what is brought to the table by a fraction of the audience. They are the ones who have done the homework and are well versed in the issues. We are asked to validate what they put before us and our ‘aye’ is a vote of trust. But sometimes trust gets dented a bit and then things are not so smooth anymore and implementing the idea of self government is no longer easy.

Now we have oldtimers who want to preserve the town of old and the wealthy newcomers who have bought the multi million mansions built by the rubber and train barons of the 1900s, or tore them down and built McMansions. Interests are widely divergent, proposals are full of emotion, opinions are presented as facts, and figures are interpreted in ways that suit the cause pursued. You can do anything with numbers I learned a long time ago. We couldn’t possible get through the agenda in one night.

I suspect that most minds already made up beforehand. The real work of course, as in democratic government anywhere, is done long before the actual voting takes place. So in some way this town meeting provides the illusion of participation but it is a very superficial kind of participation, mine included – I got a lot of knitting done.

Axel is more involved and attended meetings beforehand; he writes letters in the local paper and huddles with others about how to deal with the tension between short term wishes and long term debt. The numbers are staggering, I think, for a small town.

The most controversial items were related to the donation of forty+ acres of land; a big chunk of ledge land that has, as per stipulation in the gift, to be converted into playing fields that will cost us 5 million dollars to be paid off over the next 15 years with money that will come partially from our own wallet. For this purpose we increased the Conservation Preservation Act (CPA) tax to 3% something that Axel tried to get passed more than a decade ago. At that time the voters grudgingly accepted one half percent; now, with the gift and field dangling in front of us, the 3% proposal was given a resounding ‘aye’ without any discussion. It seemed that the whole town came out to vote on this; it kept us busy till nearly 11 PM. We will miss tonight’s continuation of the town meeting but attendance will probably drop off a lot as the controversial issues have been decided or moved to the ballot later in May.

I arrived in a cold Boston and was picked up by our friend Edward who now has a livery service. His car has neon lighting under the dashboard and in the cupholder (why?) and one can change the color from pink, to purple, blue, red, yellow and white (why?). The heated seat was nice as I was thoroughly chilled from my few minutes waiting at the curb. I choose the color blue for the lighting to stay with the theme of ‘cold.’

Axel was still in Toronto where he attended the annual meeting of Sita’s Valueweb. We were both invited but I choose the Philippines instead. As a result Axel drove to and from Toronto on his own – returning late Saturday evening, leaving me the day to unpack and settle into normal again.

Sita flew in from Toronto in the afternoon and was picked up by Jim and Faro who then headed to Lobster Cove and stayed the night. Faro was sick for the very first time in his young life (just after I noticed that this kid had never been sick). He seemed not perturbed by it while his parents were.

Faro has learned to say van Gogh the Dutch way with the scratchy ‘g’ that Americans can’t really handle. He responds to the question ‘who is your favorite painter?’ with the correct pronunciation, not the American ‘Van Goh.’ Sita and Jim are determined to have him sufficiently fluent in Dutch to play with his second cousins when we all get together 2 years from now to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Faro’s over-opa ‘Plop.’

I split my day between grand-mothering, packing and finishing up some assignments. I took Faro to the drugstore for some last minute errands and re-discovered what it is like to shop with a toddler in a store that has all the children’s toys displayed on the lowest shelves, eye and hand level for Faro. Within the shortest time all the plastic trucks and boats and balls were scattered across the aisle. I ended up taking Faro under my arm like a football and, under loud protest, left the shop. The grocery store was easier with its shopping cart. I gave him the bag of clementines to hold on to while I shopped for the rest on my list. The mesh bag was toddler proof and kept him busy until we were done.

On our way to the airport we learned about the latest attack on the Serena Hotel in Kabul. I remember that restaurant from when Sita and I were lodged there in 2006; a nice place to celebrate the beginning of the Afghan (and Persian) new year, nao roz. The massacre was apparently carried out by a handful of young men who had managed to slip into the heavily fortified hotel. Such fortifications have never stopped terrorist attacks, at least not in Kabul; maybe it only stops those who are less committed – attackers are not meant to survive – or stave off petty crime.

The masterminds behind the attacks got the desired front page news coverage, which was, I am sure, one of the objectives; the other, sowing fear and terror to derail the elections got some election monitors to pack their bags but may have hardened others to forge ahead and vote for the one they think can stop this senseless violence. What a lousy way to start the new year. But then again, let’s not get superstitious; it is only one out of many ore days to come – hopefully better days.

Although I sometimes bitch and moan about the bureaucracy of my organization which I have seen grow from 160 to 2400 staff, the people that work there are, by and large, amazing. They have been the source of deep friendships and much learning. I marvel at the stories, especially of my colleagues who, like me, didn’t grow up in the US. But unlike me, the journeys that led some of them to where they are now, were not as smooth and easy as mine.

Whenever I have a problem with my computer I get assigned an IT expert to sort out my problem and fix it. I have lately had a lot of such problems and am getting to know one amazing lady, Khin, who hails from Myanmar (Birma). While we were fixing my ‘dancing’ cursor problem I asked her how she got to be an IT expert. She fixed the problem so quickly that I didn’t get the whole story and so we’ll have lunch when I get back from the Philippines for the rest.

She embodies to me the thirst of learning that can be a powerful driving force, especially for young girls who, in their culture, are not expected or supposed to do anything other than getting married and have babies. But Khin wanted none of that and showed great ingenuity, when begging and crying didn’t work all that well, to reach her goals.

This included setting up a beauty salon, instructing a younger sister to eventually take it over, playing the USA visa lottery (success at first try), taking advantage of services offered to new immigrants, learning CAD at an engineering firm while also getting her beauty salon license. She studied at Wentworth, then BU’s Computer Sciences and now she is helping us computer-illiterates with our problems. Hearing all of that and thinking about my own path that led me to where I am, I was humbled and awed.

In the often acrimonious debates about immigration we do not usually think of people like her and yet my hunch is America is full of them.

I am trying to figure out what keeps me from writing. This has been the longest dry spell. Sometimes I think it is because nothing happens here in Manchester (or Medford, my new workplace); on other days, especially in the weekend, I intend to sit down by the window, looking out over Lobster Cove early morning, when everything is quiet and pink from the rising sun, but then I get distracted, like wanting to buy egg fresh eggs from Hardy’s in Essex and I tell myself if I don’t go now they will be gone – this happens; or it is later than I thought and other things take priority, like work, or yoga.

I do write in my mind but that just stays there and then I forget the sentences. This morning a friend reminded me that there was nothing new to read and my sense of obligation kicked in. There are some things that I have been thinking about lately:

I am nearing the end of my physical therapy session – another phase in the recovery process. I can walk now without anyone noticing that anything happened to my left ankle – but longer walks remain challenging. I also discover what I can’t do (yet?), such as walking down to the Cove over the uneven and sloping grass, driving a stick shift car, getting into a boot or sitting cross legged and the warrior poses.

Tessa and Steve are trying to buy a house in New Hampshire and all the emotional and financial turmoil that comes with that. We are trying to be good supportive parents.

Watching Fahrenheit 451 – an old movie with gadgets that have become reality now, such as the enormous TV screen on the wall; we started listening to the book on tape but were turned off by the male actor’s female voice. The movie was great.

Another snow storm, a wimpy one this time.

My hard drive failed and the loaner I was given performs worse than my sick computer, a time sink if ever there was one. I realized that I think faster than a sick computer and, yesterday, on my ‘work-at-home-day’ finally gave up, closed the lid and read things I had accumulated. After that my mind was spinning with ideas which I led spin since I had closed the computer.

A concert of three spectacular performers of Celtic music. The themes: immigration, love and inebriation. The love songs were all sad and beautiful. But then I thought about the Irish books I had read about what happens after the wedding: the babies, the poverty, the drinking, the abuse and then everything is sad again. How can these things exist side by side I wondered?

A weekend visit from a friend who is publishing one book after another about spirituality, leadership, supervision and higher education. She gives classes and seminars all over the world – the soul of leadership, the title of one of her books, resonates deeply with me.

Preparing for a trip to Manila that starts with a plane flying westwards for what looks like an interminable time. This makes me think of the Malaysia flight which really became interminably. I had dreams about that.

Today is Happy International Women’s Day. I got a message from an Afghan friend (male), wishing me this kind of happiness. He belongs to those Afghan men who understand that women hold up half the world and that empowering them is good for everyone.

The books we read or listened to during the last few weeks were all about a past when women were either handmaidens or witches and/or too fragile to live a public life: The Count of Monte Cristo, The Crucible, Caleb’s Crossing (the latter two set in New England in the 1600s) and Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. All these books make me appreciate that I was born in the latter half of the 20^th century which allowed me to stand on the shoulders of many visionary, stubborn, enlightened, tragic and marked women.

To stay with the theme we finished watching the remaining episodes from Downton Abbey season 4 and celebrated the increase in choices that its women folk have gained since season 1: a choice to do take responsibility for one’s actions, good or bad, and live with the consequences. No cliffhanger this time but and ending full of opportunities for redemption, love and being fully in the world.

Yesterday afternoon we drove to the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts University. The school honored International Women’s Day with a new award for a mid-career alumna. It was our friend Connie who received the first ever Fletcher Women’s Leadership Award.

Originally trained as a lawyer in Germany and the UK, she choose a different path from her fellow lawyer class mates there and pursued further education and then a career that is about justice and creating legal recourse for those unlikely to know about their options. We met her while she was training the Afghan police force as part of EUPOL during her three year stay in Kabul. We were all volunteer teachers at SOLA.

Connie received the prize in the presence of her parents and brother who flew in from Germany, two of our SOLA students, now both studying in the US, the SOLA founder Ted and an auditorium full of students and alumni.

Connie gave the best ever acceptance speech I have heard, prompted by note cards rather than reading a speech. She shared the lessons she had learned since leaving Fletcher:

• Show no sympathy as it is of no use to people in need; instead practice empathy by learning about the people and listening to their stories, their views, the needs they express and then help them realize their goals even if they themselves believe they cannot be achieved.
• Look under the rocks, meaning use your network and extend it wherever you go as this is how the world works.
• Once you have taken aim do not sway, which is about owning your doubt, making a decision when it needs to be taken and then stand by it.
• Invest in big guns, not the ones that spew ammunition but those that bring about change. It was an exhortation to all of us to invest in change makers, like the girls at SOLA, and hold their stirrups while they mount their horses.

We are all so proud of Connie who helped develop the first-of-its-kind comprehensive rule of law manual for Afghan police and prosecutors, played an important role in SOLA’s transformation into a real school while she was on the board and currently works to increase access to legal services for victims of sexual violence in the eastern DRC.

I was sitting next to one of the SOLA students who told me she has to give a presentation at a high school in Massachusetts soon. Watching Connie keeping us spellbound with her stories for close to one hour was full of lessons for a budding change maker.

Axel’s Christmas present claimed itself when triple A suggested we go to theThorn Hill Inn in Jackson NH on a discount. I bought the discount coupon from my Afgha nistan danger pay, we assembled our long forgotten cross country ski equipment and clothes, put an out of office message on my email an drove the 3 hours north for a mini-middle-of-the-week vacation in the mountains.

in spite of our discounted status we were treated like royalty. Carlos, our waiter learned our names and then brought us dainty appetizers, an elegant variation on the fish taco for me and a New York sirloin for Axel. We had a wonderful glass of wine an then retired to our small cottage with a living room, a two-person jacuzzi and a fire place.

And now it is snowing gently, temperatures are in the 20s and we are clad in many layers, heading for breakfast. After that the big experiment will begin, the big question, “can I still ski?”

The fifth snowstorm since I landed nearly 3 weeks ago has announced itself. This is why some of my colleagues like to travel to assignments in warm places this time of year. Many people are getting very impatient for spring but I know it is a long way off here in new England. March here has nothing to do with spring.

But I don’t mind the winter and the snow. I actually like snowstorms – at least under certain conditions: I don’t have to be on the road or have a flight to catch (or land), our snow plow contractor shows up, we have dry wood for the fireplace within reach and the electricity stays on.

Snowstorms greatly advance my knitting. I completed another sweater for Faro from the wool Sita and I bought at an enormous wool/knitting warehouse that happens to be in her neck of the woods. I was like a kid in a candy story and spent a chunk of my Kabul danger money there.

Both Axel and I have body parts that need healing: his thumb and my foot. Both of us started off a little too enthusiastically exercising our tender parts too much and too quickly. Now there is push back and we are told to back off.

My impatience makes me forget that the body heals at its own pace. I should know better. But I want to walk, hike and ski (cross country) again. The ankle doctor told me I should count on a half year for 90% recovery and a full year for a full recovery. I am only 3.5 months into the process.

My physical therapist creates adjustments to my exercises to avoid the pains and aches that have surfaced and counsels ice packs more often and short ‘ice-naps’ with my foot elevated above my heart. “Can you do that in your office?” she asked me. I surveyed the office landscape in my mind, searching for a place. I think I can find one where I have a view of the outside and no one has a view of me.

Axel and I watched and listed to Alexandre Dumas’ Count of Monte Christo. I had downloaded from our Manchester library the unabridged (English) narrative while still in Kabul, for the long trip back. The download took an entire night, 42 parts, each about one and a half hour of narration. It took me another two weeks after I landed to finish the book. The snowstorms helped. There is nothing like sitting by the fire, knitting and being read to by a superb actor.

Axel got us started, in parallel, on the French mini-series, starring Gerard Depardieu as the count. Some members of my family call him Gerard Depardon’t which irritates me mildly – just because they can’t pronounce dieu it doesn’t mean it is funny. I told them the joke, if it is one, would not be understood in Europe. Ah, American humor. I suggested to call him Gerard Depardiable, but that is not funny; it is, in some ways, the role he takes on.

Listening to the 60 hours of English during the day and then watching the 6 hours of French ( spread over the two weeks as well) was interesting. I pointed out the many liberties the script writers had taken – which I suppose one has to when having to reduce a story by 90%.

The story is a classic indeed, leading to many conversations around the dinner table about justice, righting wrongs and taking the law into one’s own hands. But in the end I think it is about life’s purpose, happiness and the toll that anger and revenge take. As for the writer, we can’t imagine how someone can write such a long book with a quill pen and ink. And to think it was only one of many books he wrote. On to the three musketeers!