The Road to Jalalabad

I spent last week in Jalalabad, where IMC has a field office and several programs for returning refugees. This is a photo of the Jalalabad River; the road follows the river out of Kabul, down a winding mountain pass, through lush fields and finally into the town. More on Jalalabad after the weekend.

A bird's eye view

A bird who sits on the windowsill of the IMC-Kabul office each day. Note the snow in the second photo. Winter hasn’t yet left this city, where it seems everyone is holding a collective breath – along with the sunshine, what kind of security will the spring usher in? Will the rumors of resurgence in violence come to pass? All we can do for now is wait, bundle ourselves against the continuing cold, and watch.

Statistically Speaking

I’ve been reading a lot of health statistics lately for work. If you’re like me, and nothing quite gets your blood pumping like a good set of statistical indicators (hi Lorea!), then you will want to visit the Afghan Central Statistics Office website. For the data-driven, it’s like a golden gift under the tree of knowledge.

(Wait. Did I really just compare sets of numbers to a present, and then couple it with an incredibly cliché allusion? Someone, somewhere, please save me from myself).

Lame figurative language notwithstanding, the ACSO really is a gold mine of information. So without further ado, I present some lesser known statistics (most from 1385/2005) about everyone’s favorite Stan:

• 23,177,000 people live within the borders of The Islamic Republic of Afghanistan (52% men/48% women)
• There are 190,000 camels who also call Afghanistan home
• And just over 10 million sheep
• Annually, Afghanistan produces 16,042 pounds of grapes (7,292 kg)
• It has 66 libraries, eight movie theatres and four museums (for the whole country!)
• There are 20 power plants (that’s an average of a million people per power plant. Either those are really big power plants . . . or a lot of people don’t have electricity)
• In 2002, 16.9 million telegrams were sent
  
• 9.3% of people prefer to listen to the radio at noon
• 36% of women don’t listen to the radio at all
• The average construction worker makes $48 per month
• The Ministry of Rural Rehabilitation and Development has 6 flatbed trucks. The Ministry of Information and Culture has 24.
• •Its largest foreign export is carpets, annually shipping 383 acres of carpet (1,551,000 square meters. . . though I’m unsure how many football fields that might fill).
• It imports 175,000 bicycles per year and over three MILLION televisions
• 5.4 million kids go to school
• Though I can’t find the exact number of school-age kids who don’t attend school, 5% don’t go to school because they are “ashamed” and another 4% don’t because of security risks. 14% don’t feel it is necessary. The biggest reasons are inadequate facilities (25%) and distance (35%).

Better than kittens

IMC has a training program at a hospital here in Kabul. Two of my colleagues—midwife trainers—who work at the hospital were telling me about some fresh babies that were born there the other day. My life is completely devoid of any small, precious things (sentient or otherwise), and it startled me to remember that such dear innocence exists just down the road from me.

In Afghanistan, because it’s such a dangerous undertaking, it must be even more miraculous every time a baby comes kicking and screaming into the world. Women here are literally sacrificing their lives for their children. Imagine doing something—on purpose—which will result in death 6% of the time (that’s in the more rural areas, but still).

Here are some little guys—twins—from the hospital. Mom and babies all still healthy and doing well.

Burqa-ning Perspectives

More than anything else in Afghanistan, Americans seem to be most fascinated by Burqas. (Which, by the way, is not a word Afghans use. They use the word chadiri). The blue burqas are worn throughout Afghanistan, though in some areas they prefer white. When I was in Pakistan, most women wore white; it seemed only Afghan women there wore the blue chadiri.

To those in the West, the burqa is, of course, an iconic symbol of Afghanistan, symbolizing oppression of the Taliban and the subservient place women hold in Afghan society. (Who else remembers that episode of Seventh Heaven where they take up the issue of the Taliban and oppression of women and the mom keeps seeing visions/flashes of her daughters wearing Burqas in the school halls, at church, etc? Uh. Me neither.)

For anyone who has been living under a rock for the last decade, or doesn’t get a newspaper or TV and therefore might not actually know what a Burqa looks like (hi, Dad!) here are a couple photos from around Kabul:




In western media, the progress of women in Afghanistan seems in many ways to be linked to removing the Burqa. As if taking off a garment can simultaneously lift the burdens of women’s lives, and the effects of (both real and perceived) oppression. This article is a perfect example. One line says:

A sign of hope came from photographs taken in November 2001 by photographers of the Associated Press in Kabul, where children dare to laugh again and some women lift the veils of their chadiri to look at the world that finally listens to them.

There are many issues I have with that sentence. Here are two: the implication that, behind a chadiri, one is unable to see or experience the world. And that the post 9/11 world is now somehow listening to Afghan women?! Because they took off their Burqas?! ( I’m not counting potential wiretapping.)

Don’t get me wrong; things seem much better now than they were seven years ago. Some women have told me Taliban horror stories related to their dress; threats or beatings if the screen part of the Burqa for their eyes was too wide, or if they inadvertently showed a part of their body when walking around outside.

But after being here and watching/hearing women talk about themselves and their rights, the last thing most are worried about is whether or not they can cover or uncover the upper half of their body. For them, it is not an obvious link to liberation. Throwing off their burqas doesn’t bring progress or give them more agency.

People I meet here wear Burqas for many varied reasons, most of which seem more practical than anything I’ve heard an outsider ascribe: Because they don’t like to be looked at in the street, and their chadiri gives them anonymity. Because they feel safer, protected from the outside world when they’re covered. Because their husband or father prefers it. Because in the rural areas, everyone else is wearing one. And sometimes, because its just easier to throw on a burqa to run to the supermarket rather than put on nice clothes and make-up.

What I am having trouble figuring out is how people can tell theirs apart from all the others of their colleagues and friends?

Kabul profiled in NY Times Travel

If you didn’t catch it, Kabul was profiled in the NY Times travel section last Sunday:

Mysteries of Kabul

The author Joshua Hammer’s description of the airport terminal is funny and accurate, and he also confirms my colleague’s impression of the National Museum. It’s worth a read, and he even profiles hotels if you’re thinking of coming for a visit. “The real fascination of Kabul,” he writes, “ . . . lies in the ordinary rhythms of life here, in the bustle of a reviving city.”

In unrelated news, I wasn’t exaggerating about the bread! Photo courtesy of Allyson:

The morning commute

I spend the greater part of my days in the Kabul office, or in the house, sequestered, and shuttled back and forth between the two.

On the eight minute daily ride between the house and the office, I experience nearly the same thing every day. It goes something like this:

We fishtail down the driveway onto an unpaved, icy road, the car pulls out into the street. The driver reaches his arm out to his radio, calls security to alert them of our movement. We’ve all got code names, and I nearly always laugh whenever I hear mine, or have to say it myself. Which all told, is about seven times a day. You think the novelty would wear off! But then, you would also be overestimating the excitement in my life rather dramatically.

We drive down the bumpy road, turn the corner, pass the kids picking through trash piles on the side of the street. I smile at the schoolgirls, solemnly treading down the block, their brothers at a hovering distance, keeping a stern watch.

I try to practice my Dari with the driver, who usually smiles politely in spite of the fact that he has no idea what I’m saying. Most days, it takes seven of the eight minute drive to get my point across (which thus far, is always some variation on the word “hello”), changing my accent slightly each time I repeat the word, leaning in a closer, in case he hasn’t HEARD me. Maybe if I just speak it a LITTLE LOUDER, he’ll suddenly understand. Just before we pull into the office compound, it will suddenly dawn on him what I’ve been trying to say all along, and he’ll say OH! laugh, then toss the word out effortlessly in his smooth, honeyed accent, shaking his head. If I have any hope of speaking the language, I should probably hire a tutor.

After the schoolkids, we pass a fancy looking mansion, which signifies the transition from our sleepy little neighborhood into the glorious bedlam and chaos of Kabul – the driver closes his eyes tightly as he leaps headlong into traffic to cross the intersection.

Once safely across, on the left side of the next street is a little corner market with a big Pepsi sign, and on the right, guards patrolling the neighborhood. Some more kids sifting through trash after the guardpost but this time there are dumpsters, as well as a few older women in Burquas standing by.

On this wide thoroughfare, the car usually narrowly avoids hitting a few people bravely pedaling on their bicycles; they ride precariously, skidding along, maneuvering between the icy potholes and unobservant drivers.

This is literally the most exciting part of the morning. Me fumbling with the acrobatics of the language: Chetor HAST-en! Sub ba KHAIR! My colleagues – one (a dentist, with very pretty teeth) sitting in the backseat next to me with a bemused smile on her face, and the other (our finance manager who has been here for four years and seen every phase of reconstruction and setback in Afghanistan and then some), in the frontseat, possibly ignoring me or maybe asleep.

A biker suddenly brushes one inch from the car, the driver swerves and we all lurch to one side, shoulders bumping heads. Ow! everyone exclaims, laughing, looking around. Quickly though, the driver resumes his course, and we take up again our respective language chirpings and bemused/bored expressions.

The bicyclists are usually carrying a big load of some kind so their mobility is somewhat compromised. I am most alarmed by the ones who carry bundles of nan (bread). The nan here comes in ridiculously huge oval shapes; each piece – and I am not exaggerating here— measures about a foot wide by up to three feet long.

The bicyclists carry the nan – without any wrapping – under their armpits, an observation someone pointed out to me last week on the ride to the office. I’ve been able to think of almost nothing else since. In the winter, it seems relatively ok, as it is cold, the riders are wearing coats, not sweating. But in the summer? I can’t consider it. In any case, I try to toast my bread over the gas heating stove in the office to kill any and all armpit germs that may have wormed their way into the soft dough.

As you can imagine, between Dari and contemplating the potential implications of armpit bread, there’s not a lot for much else.

But, we turn another corner, drive down a bumpy, narrow alley, where each residence is guarded by stern looking men with Kalashnikovs, cocked and ready. I usually slink down into my seat at this point. There’s always either a car stuck in the snow or a few huge trucks waiting for a small Nissan to drive. Down. The alley. Already. Move!

Somehow, someway, each day we make it to the office compound gate, where our friendly guard smiles and lifts the barrier. Salam Halykum! I shout to him. The driver stops, we all tumble out of the car and try to avoid falling and smashing our hips on the ice.

Tomorrow: from the car to the office! The excitement continues.