View from Afghanistan

14 May 2007 in Afghanistan

Margaret Orwig recently left the comfort of Los Angeles for an assignment in Afghanistan. As a program development officer, she writes proposals for new projects to improve the health of the Afghan people. Her blog provides a perspective of an American living in a country where freedoms for women are highly restricted.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Wow! That was the longest weekend of my life.

I was spending such long days and nights working, that I couldn’t bear to open my computer once I returned home at night.

Thankfully, said pesky work is over and I can get back to concentrating on more fun social activities. (Hi boss! Just kidding about not working).

There are several posts where I promised to write about something “later” but then never mentioned it again. So, I’ll tie up some loose ends:

Jalalabad: What a fascinating, historical city! There are so many things to write. For example from the 2nd to the 7th centuries A.D., Jalalabad was one of the most sacred spots in the Buddhist world, partly because it housed a relic of the Buddha’s tooth. (Anyone interested in Afghan history should really read Nancy Hatch Dupree’s* famous An Historical Guide To Afghanistan.)

I’ll stick to the two things I remember most from my recent trip:

On the way to Jalalabad from Kabul, you drive down a long, steep mountainous road, which eventually flattens out and is surrounded by small hills, and then as you get closer to the city, arable land where people grow food. Completely covering most of these small, idyllic rolling hills, there are THOUSANDS of little piles of painted white rocks, occasionally interrupted by small, waving red flags. On the way there, I couldn’t figure out what they were – graves? Markers for plots of land? Some strange offering to the Gods?

They are, it turns out, areas cleared of landmines. Whole hillsides searched, cleared and marked with these small white stones. I was shocked by the sheer enormity of the task. The red flags signify areas where a mine has been found but not yet removed.

Those little red flags, flapping in the wind –reminding us that the decisions of the past continue to haunt us. How many more hillsides, I wonder, to go?

I also went back Sheikh Mesry, a camp of repatriated refugees that I had visited in August. The place was unrecognizable! In August, IMC was the only organization providing services there; it had set up a mobile health clinic. Now, there is a school funded by an Afghan woman, there are some gravel roads within the camp, there is a community center, and there is transportation to the camp so people are able to travel to work in Jalalabad. The IMC mobile clinic has become a fixed clinic, and added new staff members.

I was happy to see such a difference after only six months. It reminded me that progress does occur. The camp is expecting to absorb thousands of additional people as more refugee camps in Pakistan are closed this summer, so it will be interesting to see how it evolves.

The description of my daily journey from the car to the office: I don’t really think anyone cares about this. Now that the snow is gone, it’s fairly uneventful.

On most trees having been cut down in Kabul: So, supposedly the Russians cut down most of the trees when they occupied Kabul. There is a famous story about Soviet soldiers cutting down the city’s tallest tree, which had stood for hundreds of years, because they were scared that the Mujahadeen would climb up it and use it to fire at Soviet troops. People say that most of the remaining trees were cut down during the time of the Taliban to be used for firewood, in times where oil and money were scarce.

Now, without any foliage, the city is a dust bowl. I was out to dinner with a friend the other night, and we stood on a terrace atop a tall building in Shar-E-Naw overlooking the city. It looked hazy, and a little misty. I thought it was a very romantic way to view Kabul, until I realized that it was all DUST, kicked up into the air by hundreds of thousands of people, cars and animals. We ate our dinner inside.

On The Ministry of Vice and Virtue: The Ministry of Vice and Virtue was a cabinet department under the Taliban. With 30,000 ‘enforcers’, it was the Ministry in charge of determining whether women were covered enough, ensuring shopkeepers closed their stores during prayer time, censoring media, measuring men’s beards, shutting down schools for girls, etc. One of my coworkers who was here during that time said that one day as she walked home from work, she lifted the bottom of her chadiri so it wouldn’t get muddy, and someone whipped her ankles for letting them show.

The Ministry, while not so strict, still exists, though it has changed its name. It’s now called the Ministry of Hajj and Islamic Affairs. I’ve seen decrees by the Ministry posted on various establishments, always related to alcohol sales and consumption. They also black out the naughty bits of photos on imported magazines and newspapers.

Afghanistan in the spring is beautiful! I am still very happy to be here.

Saturday, March 3, 2007

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Tuesday, February 6, 2007

Monday, January 29, 2007

Monday, January 22, 2007

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.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Considering Collateral Damage

A conversation with my office mate today:

Me: So, when I was in Peshawar, I went to the museum there! It was great; they had all these ancient Buddha statues

Her: Yes, they are very beautiful. You know, Peshawar is a very old city. It was a center of Buddhist culture until I think the 6th Century

Me: Does Kabul have a museum?

Her: Yes, but nobody really goes there anymore

Me: Oh . . . why not?

Her: All of the best things were stolen or destroyed so it’s kind of boring now

Me: I see

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Hillary Clinton on Afghanistan

Hillary Clinton was visiting Kabul this weekend! Alas, she did not ring me during her brief stay in Afghanistan, nor did I see her out and about, shopping in town or down ice skating at the lake. Here’s her take on the security situation in Afghanistan, as quoted in the Stars and Stripes daily paper:

“I’m encouraged by the progress in Afghanistan, but Afghanistan is tottering . . . We’ve got to get more support there to make sure we try to finish off the Taliban and al-Qaida that are regrouping, coming across the border. We expect a big spring offensive.”
posted by IMC at 10:12 AM 0 Comments
Friday, January 12, 2007

Crossing the border
I’m in Pakistan for a few days, visiting the IMC – Pakistan office and attending some meetings. I survived another airplane ride to get here, this time in a very, very small plane with propellers. It didn’t crash even once!

Though Peshawar (where I am) is very close to the Afghan border (about an hour), and literally millions of Afghans live here, there are very marked differences between here and there. That is my expert opinion after having spent approximately 19 hours in Pakistan. The first noticeable difference is the language (no Dari), and the driving on the wrong side of the road (it’s a former British colony). Also, they have trees here! (Most trees in Kabul have been cut down. More on that later). And grass! There is very little barbed wire, and no blockades in the streets nor gun-wielding military types milling about. They’ve got a big ferris wheel, KFC, MTV, and AlJazeera English! And the best part so far is the weather – at least 30 degrees warmer than Kabul.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

One pill

I had the good fortune of spending my morning in Qarabagh, about an hour from Kabul. I attended a Community Health Worker meeting for a post-partum hemorrhage (PPH) project that IMC is implementing in the area.

The project, in a nutshell: IMC doctors and midwives recruit Community Health Workers, train them in pre- and postnatal education, and teach them how to administer a pill to women after giving birth that prevents post-partum hemorrhaging and death. Here’s what the package looks like:



The health workers are assigned an area of 150 houses, where they are responsible for educating and giving the pills to all pregnant women in their area (generally, 15-20 women at a time).

The project has been going on for about five months. Since the project started, no new mothers have died! These are notable results, especially given that rural areas of Afghanistan have some of the highest maternal mortality rates in the world.

I was impressed by the meeting – most of the health workers walk for a couple hours to make the bi-monthly meeting, where they share with each other and IMC trainers their successes and problems over the prior two weeks, they turn in information on all the pregnant women they counseled, and they pick up the PPH pills for any women in their eighth month of pregnancy. None of the health workers (or the pregnant women they counsel) are literate, so everything is taught in picture form. This also meant I was able to understand some of the training materials (as I am also illiterate in Dari). Here’s a photo of some follow-up training after the initial meeting:

Everyone seemed so engaged, and passionate about the project. And, they are all volunteers!
These meetings also seem to have become a time for the women to sit, relax, and talk about their lives – husbands, children, in-laws, what’s happening in their town. I was happy to witness this, as I don’t often see many women anywhere! In general, (at least in Kabul), foreigners and Afghans don’t hang out much informally, and most women are behind the high walls of their houses.

Tuesday, January 2, 2007

Happy middle of the Persian solar year 1385

The new year doesn’t come in Afghanistan until March. In fact, it’s still the eighties here. The 1380’s! They follow the Persian calendar, a solar calendar also used in Iran. The new year is determined based on astronomical observations of the vernal equinox from Tehran. Right now, it’s 1385.

If you’re interested in the precise determination of the new year, the all-knowing Wikipedia enumerates: “The Persian new year is determined by noon-time observation of the Northern spring equinox. If between two consecutive noons the sun’s altitude rises through its equinoctial altitude then the first noon is on the last day of one calendar year and the second noon is on the first day (Norouz) of the next calendar year.”

Got all that? They explain some stuff about leap year over there too, but you’ll have to do your own investigating if you’re really interested. I’m still stuck on “equinoctial”. Is that even a word?

(Wait, if there’s nobody’s there to witness the vernal equinoctial altitudinal shift, does the year really change? We could theoretically be stuck in the eighties forever!)

Speaking of idiosyncratic measurements, they’re also on a half time-zone here. They are four and a half hours ahead of London, and two and a half behind Beijing, (For those keeping track, that’s twelve and a half ahead of Disneyland). To my knowledge, it’s the only country with a half time zone. Both Iran and Pakistan fall to the whole hour on either side.

Also, I have heard people here discuss the Dari word “farsang”, which is “the distance a man can travel on foot in an hour,” estimated at give or take 3.5 miles. I’m guessing that must be in the summer? On a flat road? I’m not sure, but it seems like an awfully reckless way of calculating distance to me. Full of pitfalls. ha.

It seems, however, that strange conceptual gauges for measuring things might not be unique to this part of the world. Just yesterday, for example, I was reading this article from ABC news about an ice mass the size of “11,000 football fields” snapping free from the Canadian Arctic.

I haven’t been gone very long, but when did the U.S. start measuring things in "football fields"? I have a hard time envisioning 11,000 football fields. What does that mean? How many football fields would be considered “really, really big”? How many football fields does it take before being upgraded to “indicative of global warming”? Hmm, I wonder how many farsangs it would take to fill 11,000 football fields . . .

Friday, December 29, 2006

Belinda Bowling on Afghanistan

From the December 2006 Afghan Scene magazine:

Scene:   What were your first impressions [of Afghanistan]?

Belinda Bowling:   The kindness and hospitality of the people, the stark and haunting beauty of the landscapes, a way of life untouched by the march of WalMart style globalization, and hope visibly blossoming in the ashes of conflict. Predictably, I fell in love with the place immediately. (Then, I got dysentery and wondered what on earth had made me decide to go backpacking in a war zone.)

Belinda Bowling is an environmental law expert who works for the UN in Kabul. She’s been in Afghanistan since 2003.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Christmas in Kabul

Thankfully, for the benefit of my sanity as well as that of everyone aboard UN Flight 0041 from Dubai to Kabul, airport communications equipment had been fixed, and the pilot was not required to spiral into the city. As there were only ten other people aboard the flight, I would have had nobody’s hand to hold.

I guess ‘tis not the season for much travel to Afghanistan. Five of the people aboard the flight were coming to Kabul to see their families for the holidays; the other five were itinerant aid workers like me. Seeing the five greeted so happily at the airport made me wish I was home with my family for Christmas. It reminded me of the constant tension I feel whenever I travel to a new place, which travel writer Mark Jenkins captures well:

“This is my conundrum, the incurable disease of mountain guides, foreign correspondents, and all kinds of adventurers: We yearn to go, but we don't want to leave.”

I was certainly wishing I had never left California while sitting in work meetings all day on Christmas Eve. And, aside from these alleged Christmas trees on Chicken Street, the only holiday-like decoration in Kabul I think, was the shiny, new barbed wire fencing our next-door neighbor spread festively atop his 15-foot high perimeter fence early Saturday morning.

Not recognizing Christmas is but the first of many differences of living in an Islamic Republic, I am sure. (And it pales in comparison to the Afghan Ministry of Vice and Virtue! which I can’t wait to write about). Still, it made my yearning for home more acute.

Christmas night, I went with fellow IMCers to a celebration at the compound of a company that provides catering to foreign businesses. The guests seemed predominately Australian, but I also met people from France, Eritrea, the U.K., Pakistan, and of course, Afghanistan.

Much of the discussion centered around the Afghan educational system, which is in serious need of resources. Less than 15% of girls can read! A lot of schools became military bunkers under the Taliban and hundreds of “schools” still have no buildings—kids just sit in the dirt or on rocks. People at the party seemed pretty heated up about the fact that foreign donors have built schools but left them as empty shells without any desks or supplies. They also discussed the schoolteachers who were recently beheaded for teaching girls.

One of the men recounted how – during Taliban rule – he taught girls to read and write in the basement of his house. Had he been caught, he would certainly have been killed. After three years, he had to decide whether to stay and continue teaching, or to go to university himself. He said it was the most difficult decision of his life, but eventually chose to leave for university in Pakistan. Fortunately, he said, the Taliban fell out of rule one year later, and now the girls he taught can go to public school, though not without fear of continued attacks.

I – who have trouble making the complicated decision of what to wear each morning – was humbled by the people at this party. They routinely make decisions where people’s lives truly hang in the balance. The teacher I met last night in particular—though I was far away from a Christian land— embodied to me the true spirit of the Christmas holiday.

Happy Holidays, everyone. Missing you, but I’m glad to be here too.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Is this heaven? No, it's Afghanistan

Snow-capped mountains part of the Hindu Kush system near Kabul, taken from the window of an airplane. The Hindu Kush system stretches 600 miles east to west (966 km), and 151 miles North to South (244 km), and can be found in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Tajikistan, China and Kashmir.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

A steep, corkscrewing plunge

By Margaret Orwig

I’m en route from Los Angeles to Afghanistan. My first confession: I am terrified of flying. Which, as it turns out, is an unfortunate affliction for someone traveling in an airplane ten thousand miles around the world. If you’re counting, that’s a literal day of flying – a full 24 hours in the air.

You can imagine my chagrin, then, when I read the following information in the latest daily Afghanistan briefing:

“According to airport officials, airplanes cannot fly under 31,000 feet due to communications equipment failure. Therefore airplanes must spiral into and out of Kabul International Airport rather than gradually descend.”

First of all: what? Communications equipment has failed so they’ll resolve the problem by making airplanes nosedive the runway? Good solution.

If you don’t know what spiraling is, Time magazine’s Baghdad Bureau chief, Aparisim Ghosh describes it in terrifying detail. (The full article can be found here.)

“. . . The pilot must stay at 30,000 ft. until the plane is directly over . . . [the] airport, then bank into a spiraling dive, straightening up just yards from the runway. If you're looking out the window, it can feel as if the plane is in a free fall from which it can't possibly pull out. I've learned from experience to ask for an aisle seat.”

He refers to this type of descent variously as the “world’s scariest landing,” and “a steep, corkscrewing plunge.”

So, essentially, I am about to face my own personal, worst nightmare. During even routine airplane type activities—takeoff, landing, mild turbulence, the captain saying hello over the loudspeaker—I shoot up, grip the sides of my seat in terror and alternately crane my neck to see out one window, then the other, until the offending movement or noise subsides. I can’t imagine what I’ll do during the World’s. Scariest. Landing.

Taking Ghosh’s advice, I’ll most certainly be asking for an aisle seat. Hopefully, that comes with a kindhearted, rational person sitting next to me, who won’t mind my feverishly clutching their arm. If nothing else, it will be the most literal “plunge right in” to a new job I’ve ever made.

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