Sylvia's Journal

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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Today held another round of goodbyes, a family in Khair Khana and Razia jan. The parting isn’t so difficult because we know we wll see each other again, sooner or later.

At the Khairhana home I found a family that had escaped toxic (as in nuclear toxic) Japan to come to somewhat less toxic and in their mind much less dangerous Afghanistan. The family had moved over a decade ago to Japan and the kids all go to Japanese schools although full integration into japanese society as a foreigner is but impossible I have been told.

Mom runs an Afghan restaurant on the outskirts of Tokyo. It is closed now of course. But dad is still there. The kids now go to Afghans schools, anxiously waiting to return to their Japanese friends.

I had brought balsa wood planes and a box full of balloons which produced endless and cheap entertainment for the younger kids, especially when they discovered you could blow the balloons up really big and then step on them. The explosions were a source of great merriment. You’d think that this would not be the case in Afghanistan but it was.

Over the last few (Eid) days I have seen many boys, dressed in their Easter finest, with plastic AK-47s or revolvers. I suppose it is not surprising that such toys are in high demand given the ubiquitous presence of the real things – still, the nature of the Eid holiday seems not quite in line with the giving of toys that mimic instruments of death.

I finished number two of my projects today. The knitted mouse has been assembled and came out fairly well, although not by long stretch resembling the picture in the knitting book. I filled the body, head, arms and legs with Afghan kapok, final leftovers from the many pillows I have made. The cotton, fluffy now, will of course flatten over the years. Since that is all I had available to me (rather than the Pakta kharidji, the foreign artificial kapok) I am not taking the long view on this project but rather one of immediate gratification. Taking the mouse apart and re-stuffing it may not be possible.

With this last task for the sewing machine, I cleaned the soot that clung to its plastic case, and packed it up; it sparkles again like the new machine I bought in Holland over a year ago. It has served me well and will now serve Nancy’s sewing ladies, who will also be receiving various knitting and sewing odds and ends that I don’t need to take back.

I have a gallery of plastic bags and boxes lining the living room window – each will go to a new owner who, I think, can make good use of the contents. It is amazing, when you do an inventory of your stuff, how little you actually need. A move now and then is not a bad thing.

I spent a good chunk of today writing my end of assignment report. Telling the story of this two-year roller coaster ride was a challenge. I sent it off for review to two trusted ‘advisors’ and will be waiting anxiously for their verdict. I would like to submit my report before I leave.

And so, with all that writing, I nearly forgot my blog posting for the day, so this will be short.

It was raining in Kabul today. Some people said it was good as it ‘cleaned’ the dust of the streets. But it did more, it turned Kabul in a dirty garbage strewn mud pool. Kabul river flowed again, also full of garbage. A little boy with two snow-white kites slipped in the mud and his kites turned brown. He didn’t even cry.

I had my last massage, a long one, first with Frishta and then my grand finale with Lisa. We exchanged gifts and hugged and kissed goodbye. They kept me sane by faithfully undoing the knots in my body after a week of hard work, week after week, after week.

There is nothing else to pack or to move up or downstairs and so I am concentrating on three projects I hope to finish before I leave: a mouse I am knitting for some unknown baby, the Quaker sampler in shades of red and pink for Sita and Jim’s first anniversary on September 3, and my end of assignment report. The monkey parts are being ‘blocked’ right now, pinned to one of the hefty pillows downstairs.

The sampler is missing a few diamonds after which I will fill up the ‘spaces in between’ with tiny diamonds, the important date and the initials. And the report is now in other people’s hands.

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I broke out of my solitary confinement twice today. First to get Axel a cabinet he had been drooling over since he arrived. It was now or never, as the movers come on monday. The furniture shop on Chicken Street was of course closed but a few phone calls later the cousin of Ibrahim, my textile man, had indicated he would be there waiting for me.

Shopping on Chicken street on the second day of Eid, with only that one store opened, especially for me, was perfect: no traffic, no other customers to compete with, and the uncle, who doesn’t negotiate, wasn’t there, only Hamid and a helper. The helper was critical as the furniture is stacked three or four high with very few spaces to maneuver. I brought a picture of the cabinet Axel wanted and we soon spotted it at the far end of the enormous store on top of and behind many others large pieces of furniture.

While Hamid and his helper pried it loose I found myself a few other treasures that cannot be transported back in a suitcase at future visits. And so I haggled to include a few other items in the purchase. Eid is a good time to haggle as everyone is in dire need of money, more so than any other time of the year.

Next stop was the kite bazaar. It is kite flying season and kite makers do a brisk business in the Shor Bazaar. The colors are dazzling. It was hard to make up my mind which ones to get. Signature kites are expensive (2 to 3 dollars each) while the plain small ones go for as little as 40 cents. I spotted one enormous kite, a true piece of art that was sold for 40 dollars. It would require a very big wall which we don’t have back home.

In the afternoon I was invited to the M. family for Eid. I have gotten very fond of the family, mom, dad and three grown up kids. They are a bit of an aberration in their larger family network which was nicely illustrated when a cousin came to visit. The visiting cousin is about 30 years old, just like S., but unlike S, who is not even engaged, she already has 7 children and no plans to stop. After the cousin and her brood left I christened the family ‘oddballs,’ a word I had to explain.

For entertainment the son decided it was time to uncover (and dust off) the old Grundig record player that mom had brought back from Germany 40 years ago; this was followed by a proud showing of the record collection that had been meticulously cared for over the years and, at some personal risk, kept hidden in the house out of sight from the Taliban.

The whole family got involved in the project: mom listening, eyes closed and reminiscing, me reminiscing with my eyes wide open – I think mom and I are about the same age and both remembered the Euro Song Festival – dad tapping his feet, younger sister dusting each record cover as if it was brittle glass and son taping the unglued fronts and backs of the sleeves back together.

Everyone got to choose a record to play – it was very democratic although dad’s selection of very mourning Indian music played on a kind of long slender horn got the longest playtime. To humor me they played Zorba the Greek which compelled me to show them how to do the Greek step dance.

I am ready for the packers to come in and empty this house. They won’t come for another 6 days but I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I knew that from my short consulting trips – when I can’t stop myself from packing my suitcase – it is time to go home.

This is one of the good things of being alone – there is no one to stop me. I feel thoroughly pleased with my accomplishment of today. The rest of Kabul was feasting and celebrating the end of Ramazan, but I was feasting in anticipation of my reunion with my family.

Colleagues called me and sms-ed me to wish me Eid Mubarak. It is as hard for them to imagine me alone at home as it would be for me to think of someone home alone on Christmas. But I was having a good time scratching things of my to-do list.

Everyone was on high alert this morning, especially the US embassy. We were told to stay put until 11 AM by our security staff – there is much chatter in town about something nasty being planned. When I woke up several helicopters flew very low overhead. Routine sorties don’t usually take place this early in the morning and as a result I was wondering whether something bad had happened in another part of town. But if it had I wouldn’t know it as it did not compete with Syria, Libya and Irene for a spot on the BBC, Aljazeera or Euro news.

Axel told me on Skype that Tessa and Steve are moving into their new place and that she leased a car. We have finally arrived! No more haggling about who gets to have the car, no more deep sighs and pulling at my heart strings when the bank account is low, and, best of all, we have our house back. Now the nest is truly empty and we are done with our task of rearing children and transforming them into responsible citizens – it was not easy but we are very pleased with the result.

Apropos of teenage years, I wrote teaching notes for the girls and teachers at SOLA if ever they watch The Breakfast Club and Disney’s High School Musical. I am sorry I won’t be able to have that conversation with them before I leave. Maybe when I come back on future trips I can insert some classes. It would certainly be an interesting conversation to have.

Afghans have an incredible knack for creating and seeing beauty, the kind I like in their embroidery, weaving, carving, painting with paint or words, their gardens and music. Yet they, maybe not the same people, also have an ability to build the most garish houses, mismatched patterns, colors, tiles, with little or no outdoors; monstrosities that hurt the eyes.

Our housekeeper, Ghulam, delights me when I see yet another one of his attempts to create harmony, symmetry and beauty in our house by the way he arranges things on the shelves of our bookcase. Today I was surprised by his arrangement of a green plastic toothbrush cup that I had given him to wash, in between two teapots. One works with the stuff that one is given and makes the best of it.

I have now completed the inventory of our house. It is amazing how much stuff we have collected and I worry about how to shoehorn it all back into our small house in Lobster Cove that is already full. It is also amazing how much, if we wanted to replace everything in case the container gets blown up or disappears (not an unthinkable scenario), the insurance will have to pay us.

Today the five day (for the government 4 day) Eid holiday started and tonight is probably the last iftar that is being consumed after sunset. This means that on Sunday the tea, candy and water bottles will re-appear. The household staff already stocked the refrigerators earlier in the day with water bottles; and the cafeteria will re-open and lunch breaks will be introduced again, making the workday one half hour longer. This will be the end of my daily lunch of a hardboiled egg, eating furtively when no one was looking, and a small bottle of Tabasco bloody mary (virgin of course) mix.

It was a very (very!) low key day and several people had taken the day off or were doing low intensity work. I took advantage of being left alone by writing my handover notes and discovering, in the process, various loose ends that needed to be tied up, firing off a series of emails to hapless colleagues asking them to take action on this or that.

I also cleaned out the rest of my desk drawers and bookcase shelves, walking around like Santa with stuff to give away. When all was done my hands were black with soot and dust as everything not used daily, even inside drawers and cabinets, was covered with a thick layer of dust, dirt and soot.

I have completed about three quarters of my end-of-assignment report which is turning out to be a challenging but interesting piece of work. My intent is to complete it before I leave. Although my boss told me I could write two reports, one for public consumption and the other confidential, I have decided to write only one as I am not entirely sure confidential, once mailed, will remain that way. Thus the discipline is to write truthfully without offending or blaming. Luckily I have some experience doing this in my daily blog, which I am actually using as a reference now and then to get into the finer detail of one event or another.

Here are some of the things I will miss, not miss and the things that make me smile or cry, or both:

Not miss: walking right into the barrel of a gun each time I enter the ministry – I can only see the barrel, not the shooter himself.

Miss: the young woman with her umpteenth baby by her side who has to check me in case I carry a bomb or IED into the ministry. She does a cursory check because she has to while we speak about important things in life such as babies and eyes that are strained from the tiny embroidery stitches she makes for her man’s dress shirt.

Not miss: the toxic dust and dirt, the diesel heating in winter and the overheating in summer, not seeing the mountains even though they are very close.

Smile: the curtains in the office of the Director of Capacity Building in the ministry of health. They are made from flannel designed for children’s pijamas, with little boats or trains or cars, something like that.

Cry/smile: one of my staff who says he didn’t expect to live beyond forty (expecting to be killed before then), a target he has exceeded by 18 years now.

Cry: the way women undermine each other rather than stand together – it is a combination of jealousy and fear that works like a cancer.

Smile: the new organizational chart for the general directorate of human resources that has the (our) management and leadership development department indicated in a bright color with a smiley face right above it. It has not been officially approved but it probably will. Progress!

Not miss: the razor wire and blast walls and the sight of militarism everywhere.

Miss: the young women I have gotten so fond off – I feel like I am abandoning them but then this would not give them credit for their courage and commitment. I should be confident.

Not miss: the blatant attempts to milk the American taxpayer.

Smile: the Eid celebration breakfast and goodbye party that is being organized after the Eid holiday break on September 4th.

Cry: starting to say goodbye to people at the ministry.

Cry/smile: the students from SOLA, smile for those who are on their way to a new life and cry for the ones who are still trying to get a visa.

Cry/smile: how some people have changed since I first met them – for the better.

Cry/smile: Afghans praying for people living on the east coast of the USA, to see them safely through the Irene hurricane.

Smile: when Afghans say it is now safer in Kabul than on the US East Coast.

Smile: seeing the instruments that Fazil brought back and that are now stringed to play by Sita – from decorative to instrumental.

Yesterday evening I went into a parallel universe. I was invited by a friend who lives with her significant other in a real apartment as opposed to a hooch (a container) in the US embassy compound. I used to arrange jailbreaks for her and her man but this time I went into the jail.

The driver picked me up after Iftar which is now a quarter before 7 PM. As we drove across town I realized how strange it was to see people eating and drinking in public. Since I am usually not out after dark during this month of Ramadan I didn’t see anyone eating our drinking, including our drivers and guards. Now they were drinking water and eating grapes. They offered to share with me, part of Afghan hsopitality, but I declined as I was going to a dinner party in another universe.

The roads were empty because most people were at their homes. As a result there were few cars on the roads, which are now nearly all in excellent condition due to the mayor’s concentrated efforts to get the municipal infrastructure up to snuff. The combination of the emptiness and good condition of the roads are potentially lethal as people drove much too fast and, if they hadn’t already broken their fast, with their minds probably focused more on food and drink than on the traffic.

At the American embassy I was dropped off in front of the outer perimeter of this heavily guarded bastion. In the dark it is even more eerie than in daylight – as if you enter a warzone. I made it quickly past the outer two guard posts because of my American passport but at Charlie 1 I was stopped and had to wait for my escort. It took a good 20 minutes to check me in and, after handing over my cell phone, I entered what looks very much like the dorm section of a college campus.

There were joggers, women with bare arms and exposed ankles and long hallways with fluorescent lights. Inside the tiny apartment, the only thing that indicated we were in Afghanistan were the rugs and the Karzai coat displayed on the floor and walls.

My friend had invited other friends. All from inside the bubble and so I was the only one who had come in from that very dangerous outside world called Afghanistan. Introductions were on a first name basis and then everyone told everyone else what they worked on. Only much later, during the take out Thai dinner, did I dare to ask whether people felt their efforts made any different. The answers were depressing.

At one point people asked me where I lived. I described my house and yard, not forgetting to mention the apple and pear trees, the tomatoes and basil. People looked at me incredulously. “Aren’t you afraid?” they asked. I told them that I found being in the US embassy compound much more frightening as it seemed were right in the bull’s eye.

To leave the compound and get back to my driver who was waiting outside in Afghanistan, I had to walk half a kilometer between blastwalls and razor wire, tanks with twirling tops that followed me in their visors. A heavily armed military man offered to escort me. He told me he couldn’t keep up with my light and fast steps (I had to get out of there fast) because he had 40 kg strapped to his body. He actually kept up quite well but soon our ways parted as he went towards the outer defense line where I couldn’t go and so we said goodbye. He seemed alarmed that I was simply going to walk out of this heavily guarded nest but I told him my driver was waiting and I was going to be alright. With that I disappeared out of his sight and into Afghanistan again. Pfewww!