Tag Archives: kabul

Kabul Road Exprerience

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This was written in an email in 2006

My driver picks me up at 9 am every morning. ‘Salam Halil!’ I exclaim as I emerge from the tall brown metalgate reaching far into the skies blocking the view from prying eyes. He flicks his cigarrette and gives me a sincere smile. He knows I don’t like the smoke. ‘Good morning!’ he greets as he climbs into the drivers seat of the run down van.He switches on the igntion then we charge down the uneven, crooked paths through a series of palace-like bungalows with their large gates that loom over the little hideouts and hole structures of the indigent.
Destroyed buildings
The Kabul road experience is an exhilaring one. Every morning I look forward to entering the city- indeed it is the onl time I am able to catch a glimpse of the hustle and bustle of trade life. This year however was reported to beone of the most dangerous years since the invasion of coalition forces. Often I am warned not to travel into the city without reason. The days approaching 9/11 were filled with a series of suicide bombings, not far from Sharenaw where I taught. I recall a moment once whilst we were pushing our way through, an American tank approached from behind. Drivers around started to panic and tries to manouever themselves out of the way, American tanks often being the target for suicide bombers.
Halil slows down as the American tank passes by him. I remove my camera and start taking shots of the tank. One click! Two clicks! I know this is prohibited but I want a better view so I jump to the front seat. The American soldier turns towards us and Halil, with his hand pushes the camera down. His eyes dart across the road, finding a route out. He checks his rearview mirror- far too many cars were pushing off to the left. The American soldier now looks at us. His gun points directly towards us-my heart races. Of course I know I am not a target and I will not be shot at but I also know that it takes one man to behave suspiciously for the gun to be fired. Omar’s uncle was killed by the coalition force in the same way during a  taliban operation. I ask Halil if he is afraid. He answers ‘After 25 years of war, I am not afraid for my life. I am afraid for yours’ in Dari. I understand him. Tears well up in my eyes out of gratification. His statement typifies  the nature of Afghan people. They will trade their lives for their land, women and guests without hesitation.

To the one who begs, to the one turned away

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This was written in 2006

‘He has made me blessed wherever I may be, and He has enjoined on me prayer and service to the poor so long as I live’ 19:31

Kabul Road. What can I say? The only word that describes it is pure chaos. Cars, vans, horses, bicycles, motocycles are travelling in all sorts of directions with no order. A police man stations at the roundabouts and turnings but the road is packed and his efforts are futile. He holds a speaker to shout out at drivers but his voice drowns away from the loud, continuous honking of the vehicles. I look at the policeman. He probably has the worst job ever, I think to myself. The pollution, the sand and dust, the noise, and the life-risk! But then so did everyone else. The city is bustling with people- traders selling anything and evertyhing they can. I see car parts, shoes, books, western clothing, Hindi movies, cow meat dangling from hooks, Yasser-Arafat lookalike scarfs, Kandahari and Tajik Topis (hats). I see children selling water by the road- it is quite innovative; a flask on wooden crate filled with water and plastic cups stacked one on top of each other. I see more children selling phone cards on the roads. They are running up to cars, knocking on their windows. Others have cloths in their hands. As soon as a car stops at a traffic jam, they climb on top the cars and wipe the windscreens and windows with water and soap. Some people give money, some don’t.
meat
ROAD
A little boy sits on the road selling matchsticks as cars drive past him. He must be about 6years old. When I look closer, he is missing a leg. I start to panic and scan around to see if his mother is close by. There are a couple of women beggars on the road but none seem to know this boy. I ask the driver to stop. Then I open the door. A big lorry is approaching,cars behind are honking. I step back. The driver from the car behind comes out to see what is going on. He wears a suit and I assume he speaks English. ‘Can you carry that boy to the curb?He only has one leg!’. Another lorry approaches from the side and nearly hits the boy. The man in the suit curses in Farsi then signals for the other cars to stop. The boy is crying- his matches have been destroyed! Now he has nothing to sell. He runs to pick up the little boy and brings him to safety. Another man comes out from his van, taking money out of his pocket for the little boy. A sense of huge relief feels me and I rush back to my vehicle at the command of my driver who is getting a little frantic.
Abandoned boy
We drive through the busy streets. I feel a little sick from the bumpy ride and place my head back on the headrest. Persian music feels my ears. The growling of my sick tummy has subsided. 5 days ago, I accidentally drank the local water then fell into a series of diarrhoea, fever, stomach upsets and loss of appetite. My driver turns back and asks if I am alright. ‘Man mariz astom’ (I am ill). He smiles and tells me my Farsi is perfecting. As we approach a turning, a little boy runs up to my van. He carries a tin can with him, and throws powder into the can.
Span Boy
It releases smoke, intended to ward off evil spirits around me. He places his hand on his tummy. “I am hungry.I need to eat” he cries out, his palm against the van window. Tears starts streaming down his coarse cheeks. His eyes are blood-red and his lips chapped, parched and dry. The vehicle moves forward, his palm slides against the window leaving a trail of black carbon. I look back and he is running after the van. I try to hold myself back but I am extremely saddened by his situation. He runs fast barefooted amidst the cars and vans that do not seem to take heed of him. His clothes are torn and ragged with holes down the sides of his skinny legs. I can see the outline of his ribs from his chest. I tell my driver to slow down but he surrenders to the traffic. I grab my bag and look for money but there isn’t any. Food? None. I am helpless. He catches up with the vehicle but I tell him to go because I feel worried for his safety but he persists. “Please I am hungry,” he cries at my window. I shake my head and show him my empty purse. But he still begs. “Please sister, I am very hungry,”. I hold back my tears but my heart is crying for him. There is just nothing I can give him.
Beggar
My driver makes a sharp turn, cars start honking but he is still running. I sit back and look away. He catches up again and taps on my window. I just look away. He puts more powder in the tin can, but I just look away. I want him to leave the road so I just look away. How can I convey how selfish I feel. That I turned away from a child who needed my love and help. I don’t have any money on me but I still should have done something. At this point, I know I have violated the 5th pillar of Islam, service to God’s people. How will I answer to God that I turned away a little boy when God has enjoined upon me the duty to serve the poor, a central part of my faith?
I silently pray for forgiveness as I hold my pendant bearing God’s name. ““Verily, in the remembrance of God do hearts find peace.” Quran

Conversations with an Afghan Man

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This was written in an email on 2006 to family and friends

‘The most fearsome of warriors turned out to be by far the most peaceful of people’

From the balcony, and far into the skies,  I spot a blur vision of the moon, almost matched to perfection. All activities have ended. Kabul is as silent as a graveyard. Not far, I vaguely see the picturesque scene of Afghan mountain peaks silhouetted against the hazy sky. The sun is setting, leaves are rustling and not long more the call for prayer will sound. I prepare myself for prayer and sit by the balcony door in a lotus position. My eyes close as I try to achieve a oneness with God. ‘God is Great. There is no God but God himself’, the prayer recites.

After my prayer, I skip down the stairs and rush ouside to speak to the guardsman, an ex-commander in the army during Soviet occupation, whom I call ‘Ustaz’ (teacher). He pulls out a chair for me and places it next to him. I am eager to hear him. He tells me about God, about spirituality. I ask him about women’s modesty (the Burqua, Hejab, Jilbab). He pauses for a moment then replies ‘God knows no beings. To him, we look the same. The only thing that differs is our hearts.’ It reminds me of a saying by an Islamic Sufi poet, Rumi, ‘When we are dead, seek not our tomb in the Earth, but find it in the hearts of men.’ My Ustaz moves on to women’s education. I lean closer forward and listen intently. He speaks in a different language but the message is clear. ‘If my wife is not educated, how will my children ever be educated, for all the knowledge of a man is first imparted to him by his mother when he was child.’ He repeats for the 3rd time- the views of the Taliban are not representative of us. Both men and women suffered the loss of education. He himself had to burn his books when the Taliban raided his village. ‘When we threw our books away, it was like we threw our lives away.’

I am drawn to my Ustaz’s words. I learn more and more each day i spend my evenings with him. I hear his speak of his wife as if she were a sacred shrine. He tells me she is too precious for him to raise his voice at her. He then quotes a phrase from the Holy Koran,’God created a man and a woman so that love could grow between them.’ Such a beautiful phrase establishing the sacredness of love. I ask myself silently, ‘Will anyone believe this was cited by an Afghan man?’

I tell him of my plans to raise awareness of women’s rights within an Islamic framework in villages. But I also tell him I am afraid it will create an uproar. First he points to the heavens. I know I have to believe it is possible. He places his hand on his chest, ’But whenever you need me, I will be there for you.’

On my thoughts about the future of women- I see such a huge potential, albeit slowly for a progression and development of women’s rights.There are some men who had views like women should stay at home and not go out…or that men have the right to marry four women etc. Their reasoning however differs; some pointed out that the security of Afghan streets is so loose and there is no protection from the law if anything were to happen to their women and therfore women should not be allowed to go out. Others had the impression that ‘It is my job as a man to support my family. I don’t want my wife to bear that burden‘. Others were outright male chauvinists (excuse me fofr using such a term!) What I tried to emphasise was though I understoodtheir concerns, it was wrong for them to limit their women from having the choices and making their own decisions. I spoke to them everything from marriage, veil, education, polygamy. I had my koran with me and actually pointed out the relevant phrases and quoted what the Prophet said. I also made the driver (who speaks English) to interpret everything for me. For me, raising awareness was very important and I tried as best I can to convey the truth to as many men as I could gather.

A common one was about polygamy and I showed them in the Koran a phrase in the Koran first that says

And if you fear that you cannot act equitably towards orphans, then marry such women as seem good to you, two and three and four; but if you fear that you will not do justice (between them), then (marry) only one or what your right hands possess; this is more proper, that you may not deviate from the right course 4;3

Then later it states:
‘You may never be able to deal justly with you wives even if it is your ardent desire, so leave not them hanging as if in the air; and if you effect a reconciliation and guard (against evil), then surely Allah is Forgiving, Merciful 4;129

When I told them this, I felt like they understood. Only 2 questioned further and argued with me but most of them accepted this and told that my ‘mind was good’ as they put it. But also warned me that some men could kill me for this and I should becareful. But the mere fact that they sat to listen to me, an 18yr old non-Afghan ramble on about something so controversial and even agreed and said they understood finally shows how moderate they are and how much potential there is to raise awareness and raise ACCEPTANCE of women’s rights within an Islamic framework. THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO FULFILL desperately.

A Tribute to Afghan Women

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This was written in 2005 in an email to family and friends

This is about women of Afghanistan and their struggle

Reading about the struggle for peace and freedom by the women of Afghanistan will probably bring you to tears. To see it in reality, is, on the other hand, extremely inspiring. Afghanistan has been a victim of over 25 years of continuous civil war and 8 years of immense oppression under the Taliban, where women were subjected to laws, under a religious disguise, which completely disregarded their worth and dignity as a human being. Some women I spoke to recounted stories of being beaten in public for showing merely their ankles’. There was another story of a woman who allegedly murdered her husband and was arranged to be executed in a football stadium. The boy who cleaned up later recounted that as she fell onto the ground in religious supplication for mercy, a bullet shot through her head, with her brains splattering all around her.

Afghan Women

My experiences with Afghan women also showed me the true strength and determination of a woman. To be hidden behind a veil covering everything but a net of holes for them to see through is one thing. Being subjected to ridiculous rules by the Ministry of Vice and Virtue was another.

Though the Taliban had been ousted out of power in 2001, many women still wear the burqua (veil) because they feel insecure in the streets. Some of them even told me that the burqua has become part of the Afghan culture. I did try wearing the burqua but could not even last for more than an hour. I practically felt like a ghost- to everyone else, I was completely inexistent. I was just a blue figure without a face, without a character and without life. How did they live in a world where they did not actually ‘live’ and when they tried to, every gesture, every sway, every smile and every noise was regulated by the government? It was like being a prisoner in your home.

Yet beneath the burqua weren’t despaired, agonized and lifeless women. They had ambitions, dreams and hopes for their futures. And every single one of them wanted to play a part in the rebuilding of their country. I never thought I would ever see a feminist movement in my life, less a peaceful one! Even the little girl, Sunbol whom I am sponsoring, aged 11, displayed such a strong ambitions to become a ‘kidney doctor’ (she is an orphan and suffering from kidney failure). Other young children I spoke to in schools listed out a string of things they wanted to do for their country. A school I visited, Lycee Malalai, truly showed me the true spirit of Afghan girls. I was there for a talk by the founder of an NGO, JAHAN. At the end of it, the Principal addressed the school. Though I did not understand what she was saying, a girl next to me translated the speech. I was extremely surprised by the tone and passion of the principal and particularly how the Afghan girls who voluntarily sat there for the talk was responding to her. She spoke about the need for women to progress, and the impact of education in building them up into women of great calibre; to win the respect of the men; and to change the tide of gender perceptions in the country. The speech, I thought was suited for university students in gender-studies lectures. But here there were little girls of age 10 years listening to such speeches. It was exceptionally remarkable!

Beauty

Afghanistan, she arrived at my doorstep

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[This was written in an email in April 2008]

How will I deny her?

No, it doesn’t take long for Afghanistan and I to meet once again.

Rocket-propelled grenades and machine guns…It’s Karzai taking revenge.

A man clenched his fist into a tiny ball, tiny hole peeking through from the corners of his pinkie finger. ‘Af-ghaa (with emphasis)-nistan is this close to a civil war.’
“I come from a distant land
with a foreign knapsack on my back
with a silenced song on my lips.”

“I had somehow to hide
the frail blood-stained shoots of April
inside me; I had to allow the crimson night-sky
its majesty; I had
to learn how to stain
the space of the present
with what seeps from a forgotten wound.”

No, not by me. By an Afghan Mujahid. But today I see no difference.

xx