Spring offensive?

In Kabul, in the news media, and in capitals of countries that have soldiers in Afghanistan, people are talking about the imminent onset of the Taliban's "spring offensive". The insurgent leaders have said that this will be "the bloodiest year ever" and that 2,000 suicide bombers are ready to attack once spring arrives. Thus, as the snow melts away from the mountains surrounding Kabul, I am dreading the day when our winter honeymoon of safety will be over. Waiting for that first attack that will break three months of silence in Kabul, I am a bit more on edge.

This morning, I had just gotten to the office and was chatting with my colleaugues when we all heard a loud bang. Nervously, I asked, "Was that a bomb?" The instant reply came from my petite and very girly Phillipino coworker: "No, that was just me passing gas!"

Even the Afghans were bent over laughing. We laughed for a long time, then we stopped, then we laughed some more. For me, that laugh was therapy.

The Epitome of Inequality

I don't know why it has taken me so long to write about what may well be Kabul's strangest place, the Serena Hotel. Set in the middle of the filthy, crowded city, it is a walled enclave of five-star luxury.

I’m sitting in the hotel’s café, enjoying wireless internet, a $10 sandwich and a pot of French-press coffee. From the lobby I can hear the soft tunes of a traditional Afghan three-piece band. I just finished a rejuvenating session at the hotel’s gym and spa: a 10km run on the treadmill, an amazing hot shower, and ten minutes in the eucalyptus-scented steam room. Fridays are busy at the Serena; a lot of expatriates get together for the $35 brunch, which apparently offers freshly-made sushi.

Walking through the hotel’s double gates is like crossing a boundary between two different worlds. Inside there is wealth and polished serenity, outside – chaos, dust and poverty. On the sidewalk a few steps away from the hotel guards donning AK47s sits a child without legs, begging bypassers for a few coins. The park across the street is a muddy pit that also serves as a public toilet. The people living on the hillside a stone’s throw away earn less in a day of hard labor than I just paid for my coffee.

I love and I hate this place. I love it because, after all, it is a Western retreat from all the things that make Afghanistan a difficult place to live – frozen toilets, bone-chilling cold, and constantly being surrounded by poverty. I hate it because it is the epitome of inequality.

Therefore, when I have paid the outrageous bill for this lunch, I will not call a driver to pick me up but rather walk home through the real Kabul, step over shit and garbage, and give the begging child a whole dollar.