Thoughts in the wake of riots
It’s now been a few days since rioting mobs plowed through the streets of Kabul, leaving a broad swath of destruction in their wake. Things have gone back to normal, at least on the surface. The fruit vendors are out blocking traffic with their carts, children are playing football in the parks, and the annoying jingle of ice cream trucks can be heard at most hours of the day. The gaping holes of hundreds of shattered windows have been covered with colorful plastic and the glass has been swept up.
Even in the expatriate community, life is getting back to normal. We are back in front of our computers, in our bikinis by the pool at the french restaurant, in our white oversized “vehicles” (nobody calls them cars here). But yesterday’s party at the British Embassy had to start at three in the afternoon so that people could drink enough to sing and dance yet be home before the ten o’clock curfew.
For me, Monday marked the end of the honeymoon phase. It had been two and a half weeks since I arrived, and I had been feeling safe to move around the city, excited about making a difference, and just incredibly happy to live in such a fascinating place. On Monday, that sense of euphoria took a serious hit. When gunshots were fired and cars exploded on the street outside our office, I felt nothing but caught in enemy territory. Climbing wobbly ladders to seek safety in our Afghan neighbor’s garden, I cursed myself. Sweden must be the safest country on Earth—and I leave it to risk my life trying to better the lives of the Afghans?
This last part is the crux of the emotional dilemma I have been battling since the dust settled on Monday night. The riots targeted everything having anything to do with the West, with no distinction between military entities, private companies, and humanitarian organizations. The offices of two aid organizations were looted and burnt; so was the Afghan-owned Pizza Express in our neighborhood. Guesthouses catering to foreigners were set on fire, and the city’s only five-star hotel saw its bakery and business center disappear with the crowd. The construction workers across the street from our office pointed the mob in our direction, yelling “there are foreigners in there!” Considering all of the above, I ask myself: Is my presence here wanted? In the eyes of the Afghans, am I doing anything to help them?
It is true, my work does not bring tangible, short-term results. I produce research and publications, not wells and hospitals. My organization’s cause is noble: We document the livelihoods and needs of this country’s population in order to inform the spending of aid money. But perhaps in their eyes of ordinary Afghans the value of our work is limited to the warmth our lengthy reports can bring by fueling the fire in wintertime?
I don’t know.
Even in the expatriate community, life is getting back to normal. We are back in front of our computers, in our bikinis by the pool at the french restaurant, in our white oversized “vehicles” (nobody calls them cars here). But yesterday’s party at the British Embassy had to start at three in the afternoon so that people could drink enough to sing and dance yet be home before the ten o’clock curfew.
For me, Monday marked the end of the honeymoon phase. It had been two and a half weeks since I arrived, and I had been feeling safe to move around the city, excited about making a difference, and just incredibly happy to live in such a fascinating place. On Monday, that sense of euphoria took a serious hit. When gunshots were fired and cars exploded on the street outside our office, I felt nothing but caught in enemy territory. Climbing wobbly ladders to seek safety in our Afghan neighbor’s garden, I cursed myself. Sweden must be the safest country on Earth—and I leave it to risk my life trying to better the lives of the Afghans?
This last part is the crux of the emotional dilemma I have been battling since the dust settled on Monday night. The riots targeted everything having anything to do with the West, with no distinction between military entities, private companies, and humanitarian organizations. The offices of two aid organizations were looted and burnt; so was the Afghan-owned Pizza Express in our neighborhood. Guesthouses catering to foreigners were set on fire, and the city’s only five-star hotel saw its bakery and business center disappear with the crowd. The construction workers across the street from our office pointed the mob in our direction, yelling “there are foreigners in there!” Considering all of the above, I ask myself: Is my presence here wanted? In the eyes of the Afghans, am I doing anything to help them?
It is true, my work does not bring tangible, short-term results. I produce research and publications, not wells and hospitals. My organization’s cause is noble: We document the livelihoods and needs of this country’s population in order to inform the spending of aid money. But perhaps in their eyes of ordinary Afghans the value of our work is limited to the warmth our lengthy reports can bring by fueling the fire in wintertime?
I don’t know.
posted by Anja at 8:47 AM
1 Comments:
I'd look at it this way: You and the work you're doing are never really going to be wanted or unwanted by most Afghans. Your work may be urgently needed, as I very much believe it is, but that's another matter. The point is, virtually no one in Afghan society, I'm sure, knows what you're doing. The proximate causes of the rioting have nothing to do with you, nor, really, do any of the deeper causes. If you were almost targeted, that's because there was already a riot going on, not because of you or anything you're doing.
It's of course appropriate to worry about an event like this and what precipitated it, but I wouldn't put too much emphasis on whether Afghans want you there on any given day, because (even assuming that a rioting mob spoke for Afghans, which I don't actually assume) most Afghans, like most of the rest of the world, have no clue about what you're up to there. They're not accepting or rejecting you or judging you at all. Meanwhile, you chose to go because you know the work is good -- and I know implicitly that you're doing a great job -- so I say keep it up, dude.
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