Sylvia's Journal

I flew in a spotless but crowded Safi jet to Delhi for a very low price – an introductory offer that is no longer available. There were many sick people on the flight. I occurred to me that flying out of Kabul to a prime medical tourism spot, may therefore be nearly as risky as living in Afghanistan.

Unlike Air India with its predictable delays, Safi left and arrived as scheduled. They have that reputation on their other routes. And so I arrived in plenty of time to catch my connecting flight to Cochin (Kochi).

I did what Axel had wanted to do in India and never did, and that is checking out McDonalds. We had wondered during our previous trip, with pork and beef off limits, how McD had adapted its menu. For one there is the Maharaja Chicken and the rest is variations on chicken and fish with the usual names.

Their advertising trick (what is more spicy, McSpicy Chicken or McSpicy Paneer?) succeeded in getting me to buy the spicy paneer. It was a little disappointing (should I be surprised?) and was not all that spicy and the question not interesting enough to entice me to buy the other McSpicy; I don’t think I will be a repeat customer.
At the beginning of the gate area for the domestic travellers a circular upward pathway shows the sequence of the Surya Namaskar, sun saluations, with an explanation. It is more or less what I do every other morning though my spine doesn’t quite bend the way it is bend this way or that way by the bronze life size manikins.

According to the explanation provided on an engraved plaque ‘the Surya Namaskar holds equal benefits for the body and the intellect. Its practice results in a shapely and strong body encompassing a sharp and focused mind. Working out the routine at dawn with controlled breathing uplifts the mood and provides an invigorating start of the day. This alleviation of anxiety and stress grants a clear and alert mind that is capable of concentration and meditation which is the ultimate path to creating complete harmony of the spirit and the body.’ Imagine what my life in Kabul would be like without this routine.

The statement above the money changer’s desk is exactly the kind of state of mind I am in: Please bear with any inconvenience if there is any. Indeed!

This morning I spent about one hour trying to get my malaria prophylaxis. It was not as simple as I thought. I mobilized one of my colleagues, a specialist in infectious diseases who connected me to his friend who runs the national malaria program. I pulled him out of a meeting which he didn’t seem to mind. As it turned out he had studied a year in my homeland and we exchanged a few words in Dutch while being served cake and tea.

I left the place with an insecticide treated bednet after I had declined pills to treat malaria, since I don’t have it, don’t plan to get it; I plan to avoid getting it. Prophylaxis is not so common here, despite the fact that there were about half a million malaria cases last year. The disease is fought mostly through education and bednets; only pregnant women are given prophylaxis.

I ended up getting the pills my Boston colleague had suggested, against the judgment of the chief malaria epidemiologist – but the small pharmacy had nothing else. And then the parents of the bridegroom wrote me they are not taking anything because their son claims there is no malaria in India. He is a young and healthy entrepreneur in the age group that doesn’t expect to ever get sick. What he doesn’t know is that malaria is a big and deadly problem in India (although apparently not so much in Kerala), so I will bring my pills and maybe even my treated bednet.

After several calls with Boston about what happens next I spent over an hour mindlessly removing beads from a scarf that some poor Afghan woman must have spent days sewing on the outlines of a paisley pattern. I don’t even know why I did it and seemed not able to stop myself. The reptilian brain had taken over – not wanting anything nubby to mess up the smooth texture of the scarf – a yearning for something.

The box under the TV that lets me access international news channels was broken again so I watched the local news. Most of it was about weapons or money and/or the damage caused by one or the other or both. Although I did not really understand the details of the coverage of a workshop, I could read on the banner that it was about senior government officials disclosing their assets. The number of 2 million was mentioned several times and I wondered whether that was the limit above which officials had to declare their assets or whether it was the amount already declared. A couple of dozen men seemed to be squirming around a conference table, suggesting the latter. I am all for disclosures like that.

Next the viewer was treated to footage of a huge courtyard presumably somewhere in Kabul with thousands of weapons that were confiscated from the private security companies that are being disbanded. That they were removed from these companies gave me little comfort as they are still in Kabul and will surely go to some other user, official or non official. I just can’t imagine these arms being put in a smelter and turned into plough shares though that would be the right thing to do.

The complexity of the work here can sometimes overwhelm any sense of duty, responsibility, idealism, optimism and what not. Today was such a day. Where to begin? I read the newspaper and it is full of things that didn’t work out as planned, that misfired, that got waylaid with criminal intent, that never got off the ground or that went unnoticed. How about this for a front page headline: Karzai seeks honest US support in anti-corruption drive! (grrr)

The newspaper retains its balance, somewhat, by always having a provincial news page. It is written by, what I assume are the communication people, the PR folks at the Provincial Rehabilitation Teams. They write in good English (unlike most other pages of the newspaper) and their stories are always upbeat, encouraging, heartwarming, optimistic. They write about small do-good projects like pizza parties for the local kids, a visit by women soldiers to women in purdah, a school, a bridge built, and locals doing things for themselves now that the foreigners used to do for them. Often I read that page first, for therapeutic reasons, but today it didn’t help.

Sometimes I can write like that in my blog, and I have done so many times, but not today. Today was a day marked by people second guessing me without asking, by not being asked for my opinion, by walls, things to run into and I came home a bit bruised – the empty house didn’t help, except for Axel’s email about the excitement of the Fourth of July – he is in the parade on one of the floats. I try to imagine him. Me, I am floating on a wave of self pity.

The visit to India on Thursday is timely, a moment of respite, a psychological breather. At first permission was not granted but the decision was reversed, thank god. During my preparations I realized a bit late that I will need to take malaria pills. I have gotten out of the habit and threw away my last Malarone tablets because they were two years past their expiration date. Not something to ignore when dealing with a serious disease like malaria. I have never gotten malaria pills here because the malaria areas are out of bounds anyways. My public health friends in Boston sent me advice on what to take that can be obtained here – doxycycline, bad for the stomach but also bad for the parasite.

Sitting in an airconditioned living room with all but one of my favorite things around me I am floating upwards a bit again. There is much work to be done before takeoff on Thursday and a good night sleep seems just the right thing.

We are preparing for a conference during which we want to showcase the leadership program and the results of a study that seems to indicate some link between our leadership development program and improved coverage of one or another of the priority health services.

Presenting the results in house triggered a heated response from my colleagues – suddenly, after a long period of non interest everyone had an opinion. I had to bite my tongue at times. I took down notes of everything people thought wrong and will use it as part of our preparation for the more public sharing. I am glad I am not a researcher – I have seen similar reactions when other studies were presented. Maybe you have to hang out in academia to be immune to such reactions.

We are starting to prepare for the second workshop of the leadership program with the midwives. It is about six months behind schedule, for a variety of reasons, and falls during the last days of my upcoming trip to India. And so I will this time not sit in the back and coach/advise M and S who are the rookie facilitators – they will thus be thrown into the deep. I am working with them over the next few days to make sure they will do well – I know they can.

There was another explosion, a bomb thrown into a government office not far from our office at the Demazhang traffic circle at the end of our road. It was a minor thing compared to the spectacular Intercon attack but no less worrisome; I didn’t even hear it, just noticed people busy on cell phones responding to worried inquiries or re-assuring family members.

I delivered a small suitcase to a colleague who is travelling back to the US tomorrow and graciously offered to take stuff back to Axel, some clothes and books. I have another pack waiting for the next traveler. The rest will have to wait until our container ships back in the fall.

One of Axel’s SOLA students, Farid, showed up at my house with a friend, Fatima who, like him, returned from a stay with an American family while attending high school. If placing young Afghans with American families and sending them to school for a while has the same results that I saw with these too, we should be sending thousands of them to the US (and, to avoid them skipping to Canada, guaranteeing them a re-entry visa if they return to Afghanistan first before returning to colleges or schools that gave them secured scholarships). What a great deal!

What I saw was a case study in young adult leadership – if we could multiply what these two are doing by a few thousands this country would be on its way back to normalcy soon.

Upon their return the two approached the principal of a girls high school from which one of them graduated, to ask permission for introducing tennis as a third option for girls who can now only choose basketball or volleyball as their school sport. Farid had taken up tennis at his high school in Maine and sees an opportunity. His coach assured him that the International Tennis Federation would be interested in getting Afghans hooked on this sport. His enthusiasm was contagious and I immediately launched an appeal on facebook for getting Afghans to Wimbledon by 2050.

The principal thought it a good idea, the Ministry of Education thought so too, its engineers approved the site, Farid pulled down the specs from the internet, lined up a contractor, negotiated the cost of a net and rackets/balls down from their foreigner prices with a local vendor. They are now waiting for the remaining 500 dollar to come in to purchase the building materials. Labor will be provided by their friends. I offered to help – bringing in 500 dollars should not be too difficult.

I marveled at their energy, vision and drive. We brainstormed about how to get a fence or netting around the court, a considerable expense – but wait, wouldn’t the military have some of that just sitting around? We racked out brains for connections with people in the military. Farid’s hairdresser in Maine has a daughter who is here in uniform – a start; and Fatima knows someone here who knows someone in the military – another start. If ever one doubted the importance of networking, we proved these doubts to be baseless. Although there are no results yet, the rush of energy about possibilities gave everyone hope and yet more energy. That’s the neat thing about vision.

In my Dari class I started in a third grade public school textbook. I feel sorry for the 9 year olds who have to learn this way. The first three lessons are all religious and with words that are more appropriate for 11th graders than 3rd graders, with pictures of the Kaba in Mecca, the Mosque in Medina, printed on cheap paper in stark black and white that allows for no nuances. The whole lesson doesn’t allow for nuances. The lessons have questions (what do you see in the picture) that leave nothing to the imagination and groupwork that basically ask kids to read back what they read in the text. The whole things sharply contrasting with Farid and Fatima’s approach to life and learning which is all about curiosity, experimentation and the pursuit of a vision.

I woke Tessa up to congratulate her on her 26th birthday and thought back to that joyous event all those years ago when Axel burned the croissants in the birth center’s oven that locked for cleaning and incinerated them, which brought the fire trucks out while I was laboring heavily.

I wanted to catch her before preparations for her customary birthday beach party are well on their way. Apparently it is a 10+ day in Manchester by the Sea, with high tide at 1 PM – add to that one’s best friends (called in among other things through facebook) and all should be a most joyous occasion. I tried not to be too sad to miss it but of course I am. I toasted my non alcohol beer to her continued health and happiness and, instead of croissants, baked myself a Lebanese thyme pizza (mana(q)ishe) that did not incinerate nor brought the fire trucks to my house. Some things do improve over time.

Yesterday’s newspaper showed a picture of a would-be suicide bomber, ‘clad in lady-dress’ according to the caption, who was caught on his way to Kapisa with a bag full of explosives. The picture shows what looks like a mentally disabled man, his capture, despite his ‘lady dress’ suggesting this may well have been the case. If not his behavior, then his beard and shoes would have given him away. Young girls have also been girded with suicide vests – people go to great length to pursue all sorts of sinister objectives. The picture filled me with sadness.

I found my masseuse in the company of a new character by the name of Sammy. The name did not help me in figuring out whether I was dealing with a he or she. S/he cut my hair with the flair of a gay hairdresser who considers hairdressing an artistic expression rather than a job. The hair job was followed by an extraordinary massage of both legs and one arm (A did the other) and L was in and out giving directions to both, lending a hand once in a while. Sammy is apparently an expert in tantric massage but until I know what that is I decided to go with a regular one under L’s supervision.

I made it to and from the massage place without encountering any madmen like the one pictured above. In fact, to my great surprise I was waved through several blocked off streets by uniformed men with guns as if I was part of the military.

The rest of the day I devoted to exploring job opportunities post Kabul, both with and outside MSH. I organized and edited my CVs, completed an American one, and a European one, and filled in most of my Devex profile, following tips and advice from the Devex professionals. It is a little scary, after nearly 25 years, to throw oneself into the job market again. Thousands of kilometers away Axel is doing the same thing. Something will surely turn up.

This was a seesaw week – I am dizzy with feelings going this way and that way, up and down, inferno, purgatory and a little glimpse of blue sky. Dante is at the moment circling up in Purgatory speaking to souls who avoided hell but aren’t guaranteed a place in heaven – I am learning how prideful people have to purge themselves. In Inferno: Canto 21 Dante explained to me where the greedy people from Kabul Bank will go after they die, circle seven or thereabouts. It was nice to hear Dante describe what horrors away them.

Ignoring an exhortation from the Dalai Lama that Edith quoted on fb (“People inflict pain on others in their selfish pursuit of happiness and satisfaction. Yet true happiness comes from a sense of brotherhood and sisterhood. We need to cultivate a sense of universal responsibility for one another and the planet we share.”) I did not have many such feelings this week. Or, if I had them, they were of a different type, more like the feelings I had towards my brother when we were young and fighting all the time, the ones that come with growls and sharp finger nails or teeth.

The weekend has arrived which means less than 24 hours before I get my weekly therapeutic and relaxation massage. This will help. But frolicking in Kabul is not in the stars I am afraid, not until more suicide bombers are put behind bars. I am asking people (those who are not in lock down) to come to my house instead.

Axel sent a lovely picture of Tessa on Lobster Cove beach while he and his pals were having their IQ lowering session – apparently a weekly event – sitting by the water and probably a fire. I ached to be there, even to be with males in the act of lowering their IQ would be OK. It can’t be as bad as being in the same place as bunches of unidentifiable suicide bombers.

And then Axel skyped me and took me on a video tour of the yard on the sea side, the flowers Tessa planted, the dogs playing and the painter who is painting our dining room. More heartache…

Gritty is nothing to what it feels like to being woken up in the middle of the night by the bleep bleep sound of an SMS from our security team. We know the Intercontinental Hotel well – we used to go for weekly walks in the Bagh-e-Bala park last winter right below the hotel – something that now seems from another time. I attended several workshops and conferences in the hotel and always thought it was unassailable, with only one entrance road, high up on a hill.

But as Farooq explained to me this morning in his very wise ways, routine checks like the ones at the entrance to the hotel tend to get boring and people slack off. Only the American security people at the US embassy never slack off (probably because the consequences are very serious). Not so, apparently for the security forces at the hotel’s entrance road. Secondly, some of the terrorists may well have rented a room the night before – they don’t look any different from anyone else here in Afghanistan – how could you possibly tell a terrorist from a turbaned and robed Afghan?

After the initial wake up and checking out Aljazeera on the net I fell back into an uneasy sleep to wake myself up again by grinding my teeth just a tad too hard. In the office this morning we were all in a kind of post traumatic mood – some of my colleagues preferring to stay put in the compound rather than crossing the town to get to the ministry. Now that the immediate panic and sense of vulnerability has past we are simply sad and discouraged.

I did go to a meeting at the ministry in the afternoon, because not going there would make me feel even less useful and life, after all, does go on.

Everything is gritty. Even though I keep my mouth closed and the windows of the car are closed tightly the ‘shamal’ (northern wind) is blowing the finest dust through the smallest cracks. I taste the grit that is full of bad things for humans.

When I just moved here, now nearly 2 years ago, one of my colleagues said that Afghanistan was famous for its 300+ days of sun and blue skies. That was mostly true that first year, then somewhat true last year but this year I don’t think we can even make the 200 days. With the exception of a brief blue spell yesterday, the sky has been white and the nearby mountains obscured for days on end.

Constructions projects (houses, bridges, roads, sidewalks) are everywhere in our part of town. A brief squall blows all the construction sand and dust up in the air, whirling it around and pushes it in every nook and cranny. It is very fatiguing. Axel was smart to stay back in the relatively clean air of Manchester by the Sea.

The winds may be responsible for the fact that my non Afghan TV channels don’t work today and so I am forced to watch the local channels – none of them are very interesting or, if they would be, like news about the parliamentary troubles, I can’t understand the speaker because he speaks too fast or Pashto.