Sylvia's Journal

I spent a good part of the morning settling my affairs and saying goodbyes. The goodbyes were hard – some big sobs and some small tears in the corner of an eye, as if I didn’t notice. I cried too – the parting is hard, bittersweet as I am half happy and half sad, words I would repeat over and over again, mostly in Dari.

Fridoon had invited me to lunch in nearby King’s (Shah) restaurant that came recommended by Axel. I have helped him write and rewrite his resume but so far no success. He has no great hopes of getting a job because, as he says, he has no connections. Unfortunately that is very true and so I try to be his connection. So the lunch was no reward for success but rather a token of friendship.

Then it was off to USAID for a very long meeting about many things that don’t require my attention anymore even if they do concern me.

Afterwards I was dropped off at my now totally empty and re-arranged house and said goodbye to my boss and our deputy director – handshakes only of course. Our security chief came by to say goodbye and we sat in the lovely late afternoon sun while he talked up a storm about politics, Islam, friendships, good and bad people. It was all in Dari and I later asked if this had been my final oral exam in Dari and whether I had passed (I had). I surprised myself, understanding maybe 80% but at the end of that conversation my brain was fried.

My co-technical director, very dear friend and confidant, took me out for a final dinner where we talked through the several years we had known each other, the things we had learned, loved and hated and what would happen next. AB joined us later for ice-cream and then I was dropped off at my house for the very last time.

The task now is to close the suitcases and try to shoehorn in the last of the gifts. The pile of stuff that will stay here is getting bigger and bigger, my resolve about what only a day or so ago had to get back with me to the US is weakening and I realize I don’t need much there, more here. So now I have to come back – no doubt about that – just not knowing when. It helped me cope with the most teary goodbyes and I hope that this comforts the shedders of those tears as well. Partir c’est mourir un peu.

Wali returned from the visa section of the US embassy empty handed, without the coveted red card which is code for ‘visa granted.’ He got his request for a US visa rejected for the second time, something that took all of us by surprise as we had been so confident that another consular officer would see the gem he is.

Hila was also rejected after a mere 2 minutes audience with the one consular officer who gives every kid nightmares and who seems to believe that in two minutes you can tell whether a kid is trustworthy or not (the assumption is ‘not’ so the kid has to prove the opposite). Hila was going to a high school near us in Massachusetts; we had already fantasized about having her with us over the holidays; she rattling in fluent American English and we trying to drag our Dari up to the surface.

And so they will join the ranks of talented young Afghans who feel betrayed by the US and are moved back to square one. It is maddening that some of us Americans are working like crazy to get these kids, who we have gotten to know and love so much, and who have been given full scholarship to great schools by other Americans are ditched by American officialdom. And if only the dismissing officer knew how incredibly hard both of them worked to get to where they are now. It breaks my heart again and again and again.

Now, with the school year having started, their chances at another miracle have shriveled to zero. I don’t think we can pull off anything like we did with F, who is now approaching Dubai on her way to her new life.
The moving company came with a packing crew of 7 and a manager who took care of the paperwork, the numbering of the boxes (there were 25), and the decision making about what could and could not be packed. They worked hard for 5 hours – and I thought naively that it would take only a couple. But they were so much more careful than their American counterparts who shipped us out – granted, a fifth of the weight – who threw things into boxes as if everything was made of rubber.

While the crew had lunch I went to the office to have the often postponed conversation with a small group of my young female colleagues about the movie the Whale Rider. It was my last chance to encourage them to reflect on their condition in this society and think together, rather than alone or in competition with each other, how they can begin to change what needs to be changed so badly.

I did a few more rounds of gifting the final items that won’t go back with me and for which I had found good homes – it took a while to get all the goods delivered to various places – only the TV and TV dishes are left – they will move back to their original owner who comes every other month and lodges in one of the other guesthouses – possibly the one I will be staying in when I come back on short term assignments.

And now I live in an empty house – it was already empty without Axel but now it is really empty with just two suitcases and a carry-on left and a near empty refrigerator. I was therefore very happy to accept a dinner invitation at the house of my Dutch friends who live around the corner in an old house that feels like a plane, a series of rooms one behind the other with first class in the front – a lovely cozy living room. They also have a huge garden that produces much of their food from the soil and electricity and hot water from the sun. They like to cook and read Dutch which made for a large Albert Heijn bag full of goodies that only they could do anything with.

It is finally hitting me; the anxious anticipation of going home is now being balanced by the sadness of saying goodbye to people who have become very dear to me. The goodbye at MSH was festive with a meal cooked by the combined household staff of our guesthouses and the office. It was a massive operation prepared for 250 people in a place that an American caterer would not consider fit for cooking for even a small gathering.

Giant pots sitting on gas burners and with burning charcoal on their covers, heat coming from two sides – a kebab man busy fanning the skewers with the tastiest kebabs, spiced just right, enormous platters of rice, with meat hidden underneath, eggplant smothered in yogurt, roasted chicken, naan (bread) and more. It was a feast for the eye and the stomach.

I had worked hard on a speech in Dari which most people, except those sitting close to me, could not really hear (assuming they did understand it), as I was drowned out by the call to prayer from the mosque across the street, the giant generator that makes up for the lack of city power and a noisy crowd dispersed far and wide across our large compound. S and M had helped me in perfecting my speech – I help them with English and they help me with Dari, a perfect win-win.

Later in the day SOLA hosted a goodbye party where we welcomed the new crop of girls and said goodbye to those leaving either to get their visas or go to their new school like F who is accompanied to England by Ted and Connie. F is a girl who had, until two weeks ago, never been on a plane and then found herself in quick succession off to Delhi and now to London. She’s the girl who was rejected twice by the US consulate. She will come back in a few years speaking British English rather than Connecticut English. It is America’s loss and England’s gain.

N. is also off to England, to a prestigious school. N. got hit by shrapnel in Helmand, collateral damage to a senseless war. His brother got killed. A journalist saved him. N. gave a moving speech saying that he could have been yet another mechanic in dirty clothes preoccupied with scraping together a meager living in Helmand Provinced (“the worst place in the world!”) rather than making Afghanistan a better place – which is what he will do when he comes back – the first kid in his family ever to get past a few grades, let alone to study at a fancy school in the UK.

F. also spoke, choking up many times and getting all of us to reach for the Kleenex. She has become a stronger woman than she ever imagined. After her first visa rejection by a consular officer she felt like giving up on education. Now, just weeks after her rejection she is off to a private school in England with a full scholarship including room and board – all this arranged by a lot of helping hands in two weeks flat, including the visa.

There were many tears, of joy mostly but also tears of parting – it is then that it hit me that I am leaving – that I am going to miss these kids at SOLA so much, that I had so many more lessons in my plans, that I was going to watch The Breakfast Club with them and talk about parental expectations.

Earlier in the day Fazil came by to drop off my Nigerien earrings he fixed for me. We had tea and talked about his having violated his parental expectations in unspeakable ways by picking his own mate for life. As a result he is being ousted out of his family. He has breached the Pashtoon honor code by making his own choices rather than let his dad and uncles make them for him.

His parents wanted him to marry an illiterate village girl but he wants none of that (what, me at work all day and leave my kids with a woman who cannot read or write?). His insubordination is met with death threats from the male members of his family – these he says are not empty threats as his family comes from a rather wild place. They confiscated his savings he had given to his mom for safekeeping and scratched him off the list of family members – he is all but dead for them and, if given the chance, they would complete the job. The young man is only 25 – what a tragedy – Afghanistan at war with itself.

I listened to this tale of family honor and horror and was reminded about the honor code that the Bulgers lived by in South Boston– a book on tape that accompanies my daily workout. The tight Irish community of the 1940s was in so many ways not all that different from this Afghan family. I encouraged Fazil by saying that every new generation has to have its rebels and people who break with tradition – and it was his good or bad luck to be among them. It is good or bad as we don’t know yet how the story ends.

Tomorrow at 7:30 AM Kabul time Wali and Hila will go to the US consulate for their visas, Wali for his second time. I would like to harness all that is good in the universe, prayers, mantras, positive thoughts, really, anything to get them through this, for them, terrifying ordeal and produce the desired outcome.

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Sadiq the woolman came by to bring a gift from his wool company which is called, I only now found out, Sadiqat which means loyalty, honesty. We talked about marketing and quality control and branding and all that. He needs some help and a partner. I promised to check out whether there is any USAID small business support project that can help him put basic business concepts into practice and keep helping the widows he employs to earn a living, however meager. He brought me a cashmere scarf knitted by one of the ladies, wrapped neatly in a box with a dried flower arrangement on top that someone had spent much time on constructing to look like a heart.

I packed up my sewing machine which has already left for its temporary home until Nancy will explain it to her sewing ladies. I threw in various knitting and sewing odds and ends for good measure. I packed up the printer and the DVD player and except for the HEPA filter vacuum cleaner which I am still trying to sell, there is nothing more to pack.

For lunch I went to one of my staff members who lives across town with his extended family in two apartments, one above the other, in one of the old Russian housing blocks – ugly and pockmarked from flying bullets on the outside but quite comfy on the inside. The salon had been re-done for eid, new tushak covers, new curtains, newly painted walls.

I was treated to a delicious meal, followed by gifts, one for Sita, bride for one year, from his daughter. We watched videos of various weddings, one in Germany where two of his children live. It could have been Afghanistan except for the mixing of the sexes but otherwise, the dresses, the music, the make-up, the hairdos, all was as Afghan as Afghan can be – modern Afghan of course.

Back home I discovered that the large bottle of ketjap ( a dark and sweet Indonesian soy sauce), set aside for my Dutch friends, had fallen over and emptied half its contents on the beige wall to wall carpet, luckily behind the couch and near the window where it could be hidden from sight. Still, it was a royal mess. Mopping it up made the spot grow in size.

For dinner I joined Ankie and Annemarie, fresh from Holland, who are here to do an impossible task in very little time. Ankie used to stay at my house when here on MSH business but now she’s here on another project and put in a guesthouse across town. This is just as well as I am using her room as a staging area for the luggage that is flying home with me on Wednesday.

I took pictures of the other rooms that are now waiting for the moving company to come and pack things up.

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