Kabul Correspondent

My review of Afghan Women

2007-12-09T08:27:00.000+03:30

The last issue of the journal Democratiya includes my review of Elaheh Rostami-Povey's outrageous tirade entitled "Afghan Women: Identity and Invasion". It's long, but here's the gist of it:

"Afghan Women does not represent the women I have come to know here, strong women who challenge patriarchy and stereotypes by studying and pursuing careers. Women who want their daughters to become doctors, run for office and make their own decisions. Women who want their husbands, like mine, to cook dinner from time to time. The Afghan women in Rostami-Povey's book, on the contrary, are bitter and cynical. They 'hate' foreigners and feel oppressed by everything Western; some even imply that life was better under Taliban rule. And they all agree with the author's raging anti-Western, 'anti-everything' tirade.

It is safe to assume that Rostami-Povey conceived the story of Afghan Women long before visiting Afghanistan; when she eventually did so, it was in search of suitable quotes. The result is a book that speaks not for Afghan women, but for the parts of the left that — in the words of Democratiya's mission statement — 'have backed themselves into an incoherent and negativist 'anti-imperialist' corner, losing touch with long-held democratic, egalitarian and humane values'."

The rest of the essays in the issue are also really worth reading...

Baghlan tragedy

2007-11-07T07:59:00.000+03:30

His mom had washed and combed his hair that morning, and she had ironed his clothes to perfection the night before. She was so proud that her son had been chosen.

With his back straightened and a proud smile plastered on his face, he handed over the roses -- pink, red and white -- to former minister of commerce Mostafa Kazimi. Kazimi was a good man, his mom had told him, one of the few honest and learned politicans in Afghanistan. His hand was small and wet in Kazimi's firm grip, but his voice was steady: "On behalf of Islam Qala school students, I welcome you here". He thought about his mom, how proud she would be if she saw him in that moment.

His classmates were just about to start performing the songs they had practiced when the murderer blew himself up among them.

In memoriam

2007-09-08T10:22:00.000+03:30

Anna was one of the strongest and most courageous people I have ever known. Her passion for life was inspiring, and the neverending energy with which she fought life's challenges was awe-inspiring. She used to say that once she was done with leukemia, she was going to solve the conflict between Azeris and Armenians. Perhaps that is why it hit all of us so hard when the cancer eventually won.

What I did on 17 June 2007

2007-06-18T07:55:00.000+03:30

On the day of the deadliest suicide bomb in Afghan history, I:

finished my morning coffee, wondering if the loud noise had really been a bomb.
donned my headscarf and walked the two blocks to the office, with eyes lowered to avoid men's attention.
interviewed someone that may become my boss (I hope he still wants to move to Kabul).
gasped as the number of dead passed 35, most of them instructors at the Kabul Police Academy.
edited a research paper on the struggle to reform the Afghan National Police.
posed for pictures with a Scottish friend wearing a kilt for the Queen's birthday party.
thought about the families of those who died.
went for a long swim in the UN pool, followed by a Heineken at the poolside bar.
asked myself whether I should really turn down law school admission this year.
tried on a burqa for the first time.
watched CNN and BBC footage of the carnage that had taken place five minutes from my house.
contemplated how life does not ever stop or pause, even in the face of disaster.

Becoming a wife

2007-06-10T12:54:00.000+03:30

Homaira handed in her resignation today. She is the only Afghan woman I feel really comfortable with; my only Afghan girlfriend. She is almost 19, stunningly beautiful, and a bit shy before you get to know her. She wears long skirts and tight long-sleeve blouses and matching headscarves embroidered with glitter and rhinestones. She used to wear jeans, she says, but her fiance put an end to that.

Her fiance, who after seeing her at the Afghan Telecom office sent his parents to ask for her hand in marriage.

After a yearlong engagement, during which she has been allowed to work in order to pay for her dowry, Homaira is getting married on July 1. That day she will be leaving her parents' house and go live with her husband, his parents, his brothers and their wives and children. She will no longer be able to work, or to leave the house without a man from the family accompanying her. She will spend her days at home, with the other women of her new family, cooking and cleaning and having children.

She was smiling as she told me this, so I asked whether she was happy with the way in which her life is about to change. I asked her if she liked her new family. "No," she said, "I don't like them. They're uneducated. They are not enlightened minds like my family. You know, my sister went to Cape Town for ten days on a study tour. I want to travel, too, but they don't let their women travel." The worst part of it all, she said, is that she will be allowed to visit her parents' house only once a week.

Like so many Western women before me, I asked "Why did you not refuse to marry into this conservative family?" And like so many generations of Afghan women before her, she shrugged her shoulders and said "it's my destiny".

I think her wedding will be the last time I ever see her.

Pick a wife

2007-06-07T12:20:00.000+03:30

“The problem is,” he says, “that I love three girls. I don’t know which one to choose.”

“What about them?” I ask, “maybe neither of them wants to marry you.”

“Well, I’m sure they will not object. I should choose, because the girls cannot. ”

My coworker is in the process of choosing a wife, and I am having a difficult time with it. While I do agree that he needs a woman in his life -- he’s 27 and spends too much time chatting with girls in other countries over instant messenger -- the wife-picking exercise is quite painful for me to watch.

I suspect that the three contenders are all his classmates at Kabul University: Young, beautiful Afghan women, ambitious and brave enough to be students. After he picks the lucky one, they will get engaged, and she will no longer be able to study. After they get married, he will probably be too jealous to let her out of the house. Because despite the cowboy boots, clean-shaven face and love for Jack Daniels, he’s only marginally more liberal-minded than the white-bearded mullahs.

On the other hand, maybe it’s true as he says that any of these girls would not want to work once they’re married; and maybe they want to be chosen by a man rather than choosing one themselves. I have no Afghan girlfriends, so what do I really know? Perhaps the real reason why I suffer observing this wife-picking excercise is that I judge it based on my own Western notions of gender equity and romantic love?

"Home" again?

2007-05-31T13:28:00.000+03:30

Ten days into my recent vacation, I caught myself saying "I'm going home on Sunday". I stopped. Home? Was I going "home" to Kabul?

Having lived and traveled in countries other than my own for the past few years, and having found a life partner with roots geographically far from mine, I have struggled with the concept of "home" for a while. (I wrote this column on the topic in 2002.) Is home where your family lives? Is it where you keep most of your things? Or is it where you happen to be living at the moment?

My family is divided between Sweden and Poland; my closest friends between Sweden and the US. Most of my stuff is in Washington DC, though my new KitchenAid Mixmaster and old college notebooks are housed in Los Angeles. And I live in Kabul. Where is home? I always used to say that home is wherever Oren and I are, together. But lately, I have come to suspect that the real answer is less rosy and romantic. By the time I arrived at Kabul International Airport yesterday, after 48 hours of plane-induced philosophizing, I had decided that Kabul is in fact not home.

Indeed, between vegan airplane lunches and mimosas in first-class lounges ("I live in Afghanistan" gets you far), I realized that home cannot signify a place where I cannot sit in a park or walk down the street by myself without fear. Despite the home-like feeling of friendships and everyday routines, home cannot be a place where I am advised to keep a grab-bag in case of emergency.

Deciding what is not home is far from determining what is home, I know. Perhaps the latter question simply does not need to be answered. Perhaps there is no answer.

Morning

2007-04-30T06:01:00.000+03:30

My favorite part of the day in my Kabul life is between six and seven in the morning. Spring is here, so the sun rises around five, and the mullahs call to prayer is my alarm clock. I roll out of bed at six, make a cup of coffee, and go outside. It's crisp and quiet, the city is just waking up. Still in my pajamas, I inspect the basil patch, the lettuce sprouts, and look if the potatoes I planted two weeks ago have made any progress. I check whether the rose bushes were damaged by last night's storm. I water the potted plants while sipping my coffee and listening to the birds singing. As Stubby the cat makes her first sleepy walk around the garden, I start thinking about the day ahead.

Kabul is at its best in the morning.

Expat Bubble

2007-04-13T21:52:00.000+03:30

It's Friday night, closing in on midnight, in Kabul's Shahr-i-Naw, or New City, neighborhood. Spring is here, my window is open as I sit by the computer, working. There is a party close by, foreigners only, and European dance music makes the warm air shiver as if it knew the degree of its own offensiveness. Friday is the holy day. Afghans don't throw loud parties. If I were the Taliban, I would bomb that noisy expat haven, if I were an ordinary Afghan, I would simply condemn it. Sometimes I wonder how clueless we are, us Westerners in our big cars and barbed-wired houses, trying to affect change in a country stuck in the 11th century. Our presence here is offensive to some, necessary to others, crucial to a few. Either way, nobody gave us permission to disturb the peace with our drunken parties and "foreign passports only" restaurants and clubs. It's disgusting. I need a drink.

Birthday

2007-04-01T10:54:00.000+03:30

I like birthdays -- those of others as well as my own.

Today is my birthday, and it's a wonderful day: The sun is melting the last snow off the mountains, the city is quiet and smells of spring and rain, and fruit trees blossom in our yard. This morning O made me breakfast and a pink rose from an Afghan coworker waited on my desk. And despite Wednesday's suicide attack, the war somehow feels far away.

Looking back at the year that has passed since my last birthday, I conclude that it has been a good one. I have seen, felt and experienced more than I thought possible in such a short time, and though it has been tough at times, on balance the good has outweighed the bad. That's it for introspection today.

The best part of celebrating this birthday in Afghanistan is that, though I'm rapidly approaching 30, the Afghans still think I'm a teenager.

The end of silence

2007-03-14T07:18:00.000+03:30

The Kabul bubble is broken. A huge exlosion rocked the city half an hour ago, at ten to seven in the morning. There is no information yet, so I'm just sitting here by the window, drinking coffee. When the blast shook the windows, my heart started racing and one thought appeared clearly in my mind: I am too fond of life to stay here much longer.

Women's Day

2007-03-08T15:08:00.000+03:30

Women’s Day was celebrated with fanfare in NGO-laden Kabul. For me, however, it just highlighted exactly how bad the situation is for Afghanistan’s women.

Afghan customs and traditions are shaped by men, most of whom think of women as pieces of property. Having a beautiful daughter is a blessing much like a cow that milks well — you can get a lot of money for it. Exchanging or selling women or young girls remains a customary method of resolving disputes or satisfying debts. In other words, if a man kills someone or racks up a gambling debt, he will go unpunished while his virgin sisters will be given to the victim’s family or to the guy who lent the money.

Rape and domestic violence against women are common in Afghanistan. To make matters worse, there is no chance of retribution for the women, because the court system is largely nonexistent and the village elders create “justice” using Islamic or customary law -- which in rape cases require that a woman produce multiple witnesses to the crime. By being raped, a woman also brings great shame on the family. The Afghan Independent Human Rights Commission recently reported a case in which a girl who had been raped by her brother was set on fire -- by her own parents -- in order to save the family’s reputation.

Most marriages here are arranged, many are forced. Some daughters of poor families are made at age six or seven to marry men several decades older. Even young boys are sometimes married off into sexual slavery at the filthy hands of commanders and warlords known as bachabazi -- “one who plays with boys”. In the West we call both of those practices paedophilia, and it is considered a mental illness. Here, they call it custom. The custom of men.

I cannot claim to know Afghan women, not even the ones I work with. They are shy and quiet around the office, and they are not allowed out on nights and weekends. They stop working when they get engaged, because nobody wants to marry a woman who spends her days around men. In some families, women never leave the house. Ever. When I visit someone’s home, I am instructed to eat with the men in the sitting room; only occasionally am I invited to the kitchen to thank the women for cooking.

In 2006, there were 106 reported cases of self-immolation -- women setting themselves on fire -- in Afghanistan. I suspect that the number of actual suicides among women is much higher.

I used to scoff at feminists, but not here. On the whole, Afghan men make me sick. With exceptions, of course, but those men remain just that -- exceptions.

Spring offensive?

2007-02-13T08:12:00.000+03:30

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

2007-02-02T17:00:00.000+03:30

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.

Vacation in Kabul, anyone?

2007-01-25T08:43:00.000+03:30

My longest-ever blog silence is now over. I was in Sweden and Tanzania for a long time, and then struggled to get on top of things here. Inspiration to start writing again came with this article from the New York Times travel section. Do you think the tourists will start pouring in as a result? Actually, now may be a good time to come -- the Taliban have laid low ever since the first snow fell in late November, and now the greatest danger around here seem to be walking down the icy streets in flat-soled shoes.

Letter from Kabul

2006-12-02T09:42:00.000+03:30

I have written a "Letter from Kabul" for the online journal Democratiya; you can read it at www.democratiya.com/review.asp?reviews_id=53 (direct link). In the letter, I discuss the deterioration of the situation in Afghanistan and explain what I think needs to happen for things to take a turn for the better. The focus is on democracy, as you might figure from the name of the journal.

Walking the Wall

2006-11-29T20:42:00.000+03:30

Last weekend we went on a wonderful hike along Kabul's old city wall, which runs across one of the many hills surrounding the city. It was built at the cost of many lives many centuries ago; unfortunately I can't be more precise than that because whoever told me the story did not do a particularly good job. The first snow had arrived a few days before, which made the view from the top very, very spectacular.

At the top of the hill, we came upon a group of soldiers. They seemed to wonder what on earth a group of unarmed civilans, mostly girls, did on top of a (not entirely de-mined) mountain, so we offered them cookies...

Fall in Kabul

2006-11-07T17:58:00.000+03:30

After a much-needed vacation in northern India, I came back to Kabul a few days ago. It may sound strange to those whose only exposure to Afghanistan is news about the war, but it feels really good to be back. I can't quite put my finger on it. It may be that India was so chaotic and dirty that Kabul in comparison seems clean, organized, and calm. Or it may be that there haven't been any bombs or other incidents for a few weeks. Or it may be simply that fall has arrived. The air is seemingly clean and crisp and smells of woodburning heaters, not of sewage. The dust has settled and the light has changed. It is getting chilly, but the sun still invites for morning coffee on the porch. Though I have never been a fan of the fall season, I welcome it this year with open arms.

Kabul is exactly where I want to be right now. How odd.

Who's Elvis?

2006-10-18T08:04:00.001+03:30

I share an office with two Afghan translators, Ahmad and Faraidoon. We have gotten to know each other quite well and spend a lot of time making fun of each other, comparing experiences and traditions and swapping slang expressions in English and Dari. Ahmad and Faraidoon are both fairly open-minded: they work with Westerners, have online girlfriends through Skype, and at least Ahmad will happily spend one-tenth of his monthly salary on a Diesel t-shirt and a pair of Levi's jeans. Our discussions at tea-time often go from homosexuality (which is surprisingly accepted here and merits its own blog post) to Russian beer to marriage and love. What they say could very well come out of the mouth of any half-liberal Swede or American.

And then yesterday, Faraidoon walks in with a suave new haircut and a clean-shaven upper lip (mustaches are standard here). It makes him look a bit like Elvis, so I say "Faraidoon, great haircut, you look like Elvis!" And both of them go "Who is Elvis?" Ah, priceless.

While giving them the Elvis 101 lecture, I pondered how easy it is to forget that these guys, seemingly worldly and modern, actually grew up with war, have seen their fathers fire rocket launchers, have been chased by the Taliban for possession of videotapes, and have never been further than Pakistan.

Up before the alarm

2006-09-30T07:57:00.000+03:30

There is nothing like being awaken by a suicide bombing. The explosion satiates the air and makes windows tremble. A sour taste of fear in my mouth; briefly, I wonder why I left DC for Kabul. Then everything returns to normal. I stay in bed, listening to the usual morning sounds: the hammering of nearby construction sites, cats fighting, a child crying in a neighboring compound. I get out of bed when I hear the sirens. But it is still too soon for anybody to know anything, so I wash up last night’s dishes while the coffee is brewing.

Kabulis and their picnics

2006-09-29T10:32:00.000+03:30

Picnics are definitely the number one weekend activity among Kabulis. On Fridays, traffic out of the city gets really bad, and you have to leave early to get a good spot. The word "picnic" for me used to conjure up images of wicker baskets, red-and-white checkered blankets, sandwiches and lemonade. But in Afghanistan, picnics involve carpets, sitting cushions, and real food on real plates. A while ago, one of our drivers invited us for a picnic at his family's home on the Shomali plains outside of Kabul. Here are some pictures.

Good morning?

2006-09-12T07:48:00.000+03:30

On my way to work this morning, I saw a military convoy including at least two tanks approach in the opposite direction. Because of the threat of suicide attacks, there were no cars immediately ahead of or behind it, and my coworkers laughed at that, because it’s such a congested road. Me? As the tanks rolled by the car window, I braced myself, put my head at my knees like you should at a plane crash, and prayed to the god I am quickly starting to believe in.

Seconds later, when I looked up, everything had gone back to normal. There was a man with half a naked cow on the back of his motorcycle, a little girl wearing a light blue towel as a burka (funny how kids everywhere imitate grown-ups), and people carrying water in colorful receptacles. The road was congested again, with buses spewing black smoke and cars honking.

Nonetheless, not battered by 25 years of war, my heart raced all the way to the office.

Getting worse

2006-09-11T21:13:00.000+03:30

Something is happening. Afghanistan is under attack. Things are escalating rapidly. A massive bomb killed twenty people in Kabul on Friday, and there have been numerous rocket attacks. Yesterday a suicide bomber killed one of the provincial governors, and today at his funeral six people were killed when a suicide bomber blew himself up among the mourners. There's a full war going on in the South. A war that the Taliban is winning.

I wonder how many times we can ask ourselves what the heck we are doing here before we actually do something about it. Without a doubt, this is the most afraid I have ever been; at times I honesty feel trapped in the lion's den. But what should we do? Give up on Afghanistan? Leave our Afghan friends to suffer and die in the hands of medieval psychopaths? Or should we wait it out until it gets better?

I think the worst part of it is the hopelessness and the depression. There is very little hope to be found anywhere around here, except perhaps in the creative minds of military speech writers that have never left the US military base. They keep saying that they are killing dozens of Taliban, that they are winning. Yet the situation gets worse every day.

I spend most of my waking hours pondering what could be done to save this failing country. At this point, all my strategies involve 100,000 troops, playing hardball with Pakistan, and--most importantly--a lot of real development and emergency aid so as to prevent the starvation and disillusionment that drive people into the hands of the Taliban. We must show them that democracy, peace, and progress will make their lives worth living.

Today is September 11. Five years ago, I could not tell you the first thing about Afghanistan; I was busy getting used to living in the United States. It's amazing how quickly life changes. For the sake of the wonderful Afghan people, and for the whole of the world, let us hope that five years from now this Islamist fundamentalist terrorist trend will have been broken.

Me on Islam and Liberty

2006-09-02T10:18:00.000+03:30

The book review essay that is the main reason for my blogging being so sporadic lately has just been published by Democratiya, an online review of books. My contribution looks at the book Islam and Liberty: The Historical Misunderstanding by Tunisian scholar Mohamed Charfi. You can read it at www.democratiya.com/review.asp?reviews_id=39.

Too close to home

2006-08-31T16:32:00.000+03:30

Four hours after I wrote the last post about security deteriorating in Afghanistan, three rockets hit Kabul. These things are launched from 30 kilometers away and have no intended target, and they rarely cause any casualties unless it lands on someone's head. Nonetheless, when one of them landed and detonated in the yard of in my organization's staff house, where all my coworkers were sleeping, I felt like it was a bit too close to home. It did not do much physical damage, but surely, it still fulfilled its purpose: to scare the crap out of the internationals, the aid workers, and the liberal Afghan majority who yearn for peace and progress.

Security on my mind

2006-08-30T21:01:00.000+03:30

In the past few months, security has gotten significantly worse in Afghanistan. Every other day, the media reports are dire: 17 people dead in a Kandahar suicide bombing, four soldiers dead in a battle against Taliban in Uruzgan, the office of an international aid organization raided and two Afghans guards killed. It's on everybody's minds and lips -- Why is it happening? Where is it going? What can be done about it?

Though I am an optimist and perhaps even an idealist by blood, it is difficult to sift through the general negativity that envelopes this place to find the few positive signs of progess. Some expats are leaving, disillusioned that things have gotten worse in the few years that they have been here. Other stay but doubt the relevancy of their work in the face of an ever stronger anti-democratic, anti-development, anti-Western insurgency.

Whenever I have those moments, I turn to my Afghan colleagues. Having lived through 25 years of more or less uninterrupted war, communism and Talibanism, these people are hard to phase. "Neeh, this is not so bad" they say, even as armed hooligans try to break into the office compound. One older gentleman even called this the Taliban's last "spasm" before its ultimate demise and death.

It makes me feel better for the moment. But then I remember that these are people who live in Kabul -- which is an island of security -- who have relatively well-paying jobs, and who are liberally minded enough to work with foreigners. They represent a small minority of the Afghan population.

Nobody has a good idea of what should be done to improve the security situation. Or rather, there are too many ideas, all interconnected, but ultimately dependent on foreign funding, military committments, and coordination that is nowhere in sight. So, for now, I will just keep telling myself that sooner or later the tide just has to turn.

Street scenes

2006-08-12T20:20:00.000+03:30

Taking a walk on the streets of Kabul, here are some of the things you see.

A bunch of "antique" sewing machines that are more useful than modern ones when there's no electricity most of the day (currently we get five hours every other night).
A barber shop, or "saloon", where a man can get a haircut and a headmassage for less than two dollars. Still looking for a place that will give a woman a head massage.
A man fixing the old jeans you threw out last winter.
Children carrying water in whatever receptacles are available, even old motor-oil bottles. Since women typically do not go out of the house alone, and men work long hours, fetching water is usually the task of young children.
A colorful gas station. Gasoline is sold in big plastic dunks, after (probably) being smuggled in from a neighboring country.

Kabul Cowgirl

2006-07-31T21:00:00.000+03:30

In a country where women do not ride bicycles, drive cars, or play sports, I managed to get on a horse yesterday. An friend of a friend, a nouveau riche Afghan, has six horses on the outskirts of Kabul. He is from Badakshan, Afghanistan's northernmost province, the birthplace of the national sport, Buzkashi (horse polo, without clubs, and a drowned goat instead of a ball).

The horses were beatuiful, all stallions and quite temperamental. The saddles were enormous armchair-like structures with a cover of hand-woven carpet and a big handle in the front apparently "for hooking your leg on when you hang down the side of the horse." I didn't do too much of that.

We left the mud-walled compound and rode down the main road to Darulaman Palace, a big castle which once housed the royal family and which at some point in the future will hopefully become the seat of parliament. At the moment the palace and its surroundings look a lot like Dresden or Warszawa circa 1945. Through the gaping holes of rockets and grenades one can see the insides of what used to be richly decorated dining rooms and sitting salons. We rode through what once must have been the palace gardens, now a wasteland of dirt and garbage.

It was quick to leave the city and enter the villages. Though my black headscarf revealed only half of my face, I was no doubt the evening's greatest attraction. The men whistled, pointed, and laughed, and the children yelled "Haraszi!"--the Dari word for foreigner. One teenage boy tried to persuade one of his cows to attack my horse.

Through alleys too narrow for cars and too dirty for feet; up hills that had not been de-mined and down marginally green valleys where nomads herded their sheep -- for two hours I was in an Afghanistan that I had never thought I would get to see, let alone on a Sunday evening after work. I saw long queues at the water pump, a fist fight too real for comfort, and raw sewage running down the middle of a road where children played. I saw Taliban-looking men in stylish turbans and not one woman without a burqa.

We got back after nightfall. My hands were blistered and my backside was sore, but I couldn't feel it.

Afghan Wedding

2006-07-16T07:28:00.000+03:30

A few days ago, we were fortunate enough to be invited to the wedding of O's colleague's sister. Her fiance had just come back to Afghanistan, having been denied asylum after six years in England. This, as the vast majority of Afghan marriages, was arranged by the bride and groom's parents--the happy couple had in fact never met before the night of their wedding. Engagements are often arranged when the bride is very young; and the payment of "bride prices" for daughters can be an important source of income for poor families. (For more about this common, slavery-like practice, read this article in the NY Times). This wedding, however, involved two very wealthy families by Afghan standards. Thus its elaborate nature.

Weddings are a very big deal here, perhaps because it's as much a business transaction as it is a family celebration. Loans are taken out, hundreds of people are invited, and women spend days caking on makeup at beauty parlors. Who would have thought that Kabul has as many wedding shops as bakeries? In the capital, most weddings seem to take place in one of the space-age-like wedding halls that have popped up around town in the past five years. They are all concrete blocks covered in green or blue mirror glass, and they come decked out with eagle-shaped fountains (without water) and blinking neon lights, sometimes in the shape of palm trees. As these Las Vegas wannabes sit in the dust amid century-old mud houses and garbage dumps, however, they fail miserably in their attempts to be glamorous. On our way to the wedding, I snapped this picture of a newly built wedding hall. Though it has yet to be blessed with neon lights, please note the shops selling hubcaps on the ground level.
We stopped on the way to buy flowers for the couple. Flower shops here cater almost exclusively to weddings and wedding parties, and almost all of the colorful creations are fake! Why buy real roses that fade when you can buy plastic ones from China that will stay red forever? I wouldn't have any of it, though, and made sure to find a bunch of real, albeit somewhat wilted and sad-looking, flowers. And then the bride showed up holding a bouqet of fake lilies. Bride and groom walks in, the woman in green is the bridesmaid holding the Holy Koran over the bride's head. In the background is a television set showing what is going on in the men's section--men and women celebrate separately, on different floors of the wedding halls. Related men may visit the women's party, but no woman--not even the bride--ever goes into the men's section. According to my spy on the other side, the man's party was a bit of a drag, and it ended hours before the women's party did. The bride is supposed to look sad the entire night, and she has to cry as she leaves the party with her new husband. Why? Because she is leaving her family, with which she has lived her entire life. She now has to go live with her husband's family, even if the husband is living or working abroad or in another city. O's colleague said yesterday that since the wedding, he had been home crying with his parents because his sister was gone. "Does her husband's family live far away?" O asked symathetically. "No, just across the street."
The wedding cake, of which the 500 men saw nothing as it was housed and consumed in the women's section, was a study in tackiness. It had at least three tiers, five miniature bride-and -grooms, plastic flowers galore, and an inexplicable flourescent orange figurine in the center. It was almost too cheesey to be true. I cannot speak for its relative culinary value, however. Who knows, maybe it was delicious.

At first, everybody was afraid of me: I was the only foreigner, the only blonde, the only woman not wearing glitter. Within an hour or so, children were pulling my hair, teenagers were telling me to get up and dance, guys with video cameras were filming me as I was doing nothing but sitting on a chair. One of the highlights was getting to know Sharifa, the only other woman not wearing a vail, who is Afghan but lives in Sweden with her husband and two insanely cute little daughters. See picture: It was an amazing evening. Boring, for sure, and the food, service, and music were terrible. But it was such a bizarre setting that I enjoyed every single moment. I still feel like I have very little in common with Afghan women, and I still don't really know what to talk to them about, but at least now I have some insight into their world.

Picture It

2006-07-13T07:16:00.000+03:30

Yesterday, at 7:15 in the morning, I looked out the window of the old Toyota minivan that takes me to work and saw the following: Amid beat-up old yellow-and-white taxis, starved horses pulling carts loaded with carrots, and buses spewing black smoke, an entire Afghan family floated down the street on one very shiny motorcycle. The man was driving, his henna-dyed red hair flowing in the wind, his Paris Hilton-like sunglasses reflecting the bike's chrome. Sitting in front of him on the fuel tank was a boy of 3 or 4, desperately clutching his father's elbows, but looking like he was enjoying the ride. Behind the man was his wife. The wind caught her shiny blue burqa to reveal the brightly colored, vividly patterned outfit and high-heeled shoes she was wearing underneath. Finally, squeezed in between the parents was the newest addition to this picture-perfect biker family: a tiny baby girl dressed in pink from head to toe. I am not sure how to explain it, but for some reason that image stuck on my retina and made me happy for the rest of the day.

Never a dull moment.

The Kabul Catwalk

2006-07-10T09:23:00.000+03:30

This past week, bombs went off in Kabul, the Taliban killed some British soldiers in the southeast, and unthinkable amounts of opium were harvested in Helmand province. But I've had more important things to worry about. Fashion. After many long evenings of dressing and undressing, pinning needles to skin, and practicing something as basic as how to walk, the big day finally arrived on Saturday. Two designers, seven models, and lots of beautiful Afghan-inspired clothes made for an awesome opening of the Kabul catwalk.

The event got picked up by the BBC--check it out: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/5163282.stm.
(and yes, that little picture is me on Afghan television!)

The clothes are all made here in Kabul, from Afghan materials including old turbans and raw silk. Some of the pieces have the most beautiful traditional embroidery. Zolaykha and Gabi, the designers, are incredibly talented and deserving of fame and fortune. Pictures of their older collections are available at www.zarif-royah.com, and I'm sure they will post pictures of the new collection soon.

Priceless Irony

2006-06-23T22:51:00.000+03:30

I saw this kid crossing the street and couldn't get over how funny his baseball cap was given the very Muslim nature of our surroundings. Somehow I managed to take a picture, even though crossing a street here is terrifying enough without the photography aspect. What is the story behind this cap? Is he Kabul's only Christian? Does he think it is the name of a sports team? Are there missionaries in Afghanistan handing out "I Heart Jesus" paraphernalia? If so, does the Taliban know? Ah, so many questions.

The World Cup Perspective

2006-06-14T21:56:00.000+03:30

As little as five years ago, playing soccer in Afghanistan might have cost you your life. Under Taliban rule, soccer was forbidden, along with television, chess, egg-rolling, and the national pastime of kite-flying. The sports stadium on Kabul's outskirts stood empty, except when the Taliban assembled an audience for its public beheadings.

Today, this is hard to imagine. World Cup mania has descended on Kabul like you would have never thought possible in a country where grass is as rare as guys wearing shorts. But it's a fact: The Afghans are crazy about soccer.

In the car to work every morning, I have to pretend that I watched the game the night before; anything else would make me a sorry excuse for a European. The men--and sometimes even the women--will talk about the game, the shots, and the exceptionally tall Czech goalkeeper. The morning after Sweden's pitiful draw, my commute turned into a geography lesson, as nobody had ever heard of Trinidad and Tobago--let alone of their soccer team.

My coworker Basir takes this general soccer craze to a different level. This is a guy who walks out of a rusty tin door of a mud shack every morning looking like he's about to host a show on MTV. When a few nights ago electricity went out mid-game, he packed his TV into a car (might have been a donkey cart) and went to look for a place with a generator. Now, that's committment.

I have made a habit of asking Afghans if things are really better now than under the Taliban; the riots two weeks ago made me doubt whether the people of Afghanistan think that this invasion-turned-assistance mission has done anything for them. This past week, everyone I've asked has said the same thing: "You are joking, no? Under Taliban, we cannot watch football!"

In a country where I rarely manage to make sense of things around me, it's good to see that football transcends even the most vaste cultural differences.

The Other Afghanistan

2006-06-10T22:08:00.000+03:30

Yesterday we went with a few friends on a daytrip to Panjshir, a fertile valley surrounded on all sides by mountains. Though it is no more than 100 kilometers from Kabul, it is like a different universe. This was my first time out of the city, and it was simply amazing. Offroading in a Toyota minibus, through flooded creeks and over narrow bridges, I got to see an entirely different Afghanistan. Here are some pictures:

This is probably what most people expect the Afghan countryside to look like--dry, deserted, and war-torn.

This particular spot looked like an art installation, or as if the Soviets just gave up one day, got out of their tanks and walked home.

As you get closer to the valley, the landscape gets a bit more green. The man in traditional white garb provides such beautiful contrast.

You enter the valley through a narrow pass, no wider than the river plus the dusty road running alongside it. This is as far as both the Soviets and the Taliban ever got--the Pansjiris wouldn't let them enter the valley.

Through the gorge and over a few hills, then the valley opens up like a garden of Eden. It is majestic, awe-inspriring, and absolutely stunning in all its colorful glory.

Cows grazing in a field surrounded by water; three men walking by in a neat row.

We hiked up a dirt road into a smaller, connected valley. As the road got smaller and rockier, it looked as though we had left civilization--but then we would come upon a group of houses perched on a hillside, or an old weapons and ammunition cache with a seemingly cheerful guard.

As we sat down for a picnic, we were joined by a few locals. They were incredibly friendly and nice, admired my friend's hiking boots, and had a bite with us. I don't think they get a lot of tourists.

Except for the strangely misplaced shipping container (how did it get there?), the headscarf, and the questionable dishrag on O's head, this could definitely be Switzerland. Note the snow on the peaks farthest off in the distance!

On the way home, we stopped in my coworker's village to meet his cousins. They brought us to their garden and shook down a mulberry tree to give us plenty of the sweet berries to munch on.

It was so amazing to get out of Kabul and see the clean, beautiful, and peaceful side of the Afghanistan. I kept thinking how this country has such potential for adventure tourism. Once the whole place has been cleared of landmines, that is.

Sweden Day

2006-06-06T21:36:00.000+03:30

We had been drivng up and down the streets of Wazir Akhbar Khan--the Embassy Row of Kabul--for a while when I finaly saw it: the Swedish flag. The sight of the familiar blue and yellow against the brown backdrop of the afternoon dust storm was mesmerizing. Faroukh the driver smiled a toothless smile at my visible excitement.

The overwhelming sense of joy and belonging that strikes me every time I enter a Swedish embassy abroad is somewhat paradoxical given how lost I have come to feel in Sweden proper. Having been away for a few years, I now feel like a stranger among my fashionable, well-coiffed, and somewhat superficial countrymen. Indeed, I am not hard-pressed to criticize Sweden and the Swedes. But with Swedes abroad it's different--with them, I am in my element.

There are some real benefits that go along with being from a small country. Most notably, you never have to be lonely. Wherever you show up, provided it's big enough to house at least a couple of Swedes, you belong to a community. I came to Kabul a month ago not knowing a soul; tonight, at least a dozen people came up to me and said "hey, you must be the new girl working for the research organization!" The soldiers told me to come over for waffles on Sunday and the embassy women invited me over for a movie night. And they don't even know me.

All of this went through my head as I gazed up at the flag. Moments later, I was sitting at a table from IKEA, talking to people named Johan and Fredrik, and eating cured salmon that had traveled from Sweden to Kabul via Mazar-i-Sharif. And I felt at home. On the table were meatballs, smoked trout, and two kinds of pickled herring; waiting underneath it was a yellow cat named Svensson.

So it was that just off an unpaved street in a country far from the motherland, the Swedes of Kabul celebrated National Day with a feast fit for royalty. But the soldier who suggested that we cheer the king was quickly silenced.

Thoughts in the wake of riots

2006-06-03T08:47:00.000+03:30

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.

Kabul's iron chefs

2006-05-27T10:36:00.000+03:30

It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that Oren and I like throwing dinner parties. We like hosting, we like coming up with three-course meals, and we like seeing guests happy. So we figured that we'd try it out here as well, despite the somewhat limited resources. Better start small, we thought, so we invited Oren's coworker, Mary, and a short-term consultant who happens to be a former member of the Canadian parliament.

When we wake up the next morning, Mary has left us a note next to the coffee maker: "Anja and Oren--I invited the Canadian ambassador to join us for dinner. Menu?" Like that, our little get-together just turned into a dinner featuring a former parliamentarian and the ambassador of a fairly important country. This became clear when two camouflaged security guys, sporting bullet-proof vests and huge guns, show up to give our house a firm-fisted thumbs up.

We make the interesting trip out to the PX--a heavily fortified supermarket, armed by Nato troops, where you need a non-Afghan passport to get in. That place is a blog post in and of itself, but to give you an idea, I'll just say that they sell shotglasses that say "Operation Enduring Freedom, Afghanistan." We buy some very expensive fish, cheese, and ice cream and some very cheap whisky and wine.

Oren spend the afternoon wondering whether it's appropriate for him to handle food, considering the plethora of parasites the German doctor found living in his stomach, while I decide on the menu. Broiled cod with herb-roasted new potatoes and a butter-lemon sauce. We start cooking, all seems to go smoothly, until all of a sudden the electricity goes off. It turns out our generator isn't powerful enough to support the oven.

So, the ambassador is on his way, and in our kitchen there is raw fish and potatoes. Without electricity, what to do? Oh yes, fry things on the countertop gas range. We find two old, rusty frying pans, and use up half a bottle of oil trying to make things not stick too badly. Meanwhile, the ambassador arrives. He's got a very formal air about him, leading me to lose my mind for a few seconds in anticipated embarrassment over what we're about to serve him.

Anyways, in the end, what we put on the table in front of our guests were plates of something that looked like day-old fish and chips. To my surprise, they all liked it. The ambassador even said that it was good to have a real home-cooked meal for a change.

Donkey kong?

2006-05-25T14:43:00.000+03:30

One of the researchers I work with took this picture at a market in Jalalabad. The Afghans seem to think that donkeys are somehow related to Superman. Sometimes you see an entire family riding on one donkey--the funny thing is, the donkey just keeps walking.

I'm lovin' it

2006-05-23T20:17:00.000+03:30

Quite a few times in the past couple of days, I have been overcome by a strong sense of satisfaction. Somewhat paradoxically perhaps given the recent surge in violence around Afghanistan, but I am just so happy to be here. Why? I have a few ideas.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to make a difference in the lives of those less fortunate than myself--the poor, the vulnerable, the politically oppressed. Growing up in an obsessively equal society somehow made me want to fight injustice in all its shapes and forms. And now I feel like I've taken a step in that direction.

In my new job, I will play a role in making sure that policy makers, donors, and aid organizations get information on how best to spend their money. What I like the most is that it's on a very hands-on, grass-roots level: I am learning what a difference a couple of goats can make in the life of a poor family and how even a part-time job can mean that they don't have to "sell" their daughter in marriage to an old man.

Anyways, the bottom line is that I am so incredibly happy to be here. Even with the sound of explosions in the distance, I do not regret the decision to come hear. And that's just a wonderful feeling.

A first round of pictures

2006-05-21T21:44:00.000+03:30

The flight from Islamabad to Kabul is insanely scenic. Still I couldn't help wondering if Osama was down there somewhere.

Western Kabul, where we live, was almost entirely destroyed during the civil war, when different mujaheddin factions fired at each other from the surrounding hills. Even though a lot has been rebuilt or torn down, there are still plenty of ruins like this one.

In the city center, there are a lot of small shops that sell Afghan rugs and handicrafts to the international aid community.

Kabul is home to around 3 million people, the vast majority of whom live in mud houses perched on the hillsides surrounding the city center. It looks beautiful from a distance, but I can't imagine what it's like to haul water up there.

This high school is not too far from our house. The school uniform for girls seems to be a black shalwar kameez and a white head scarf, while most of the boys wear t-shirts and baseball caps.

The Setting

2006-05-16T17:25:00.000+03:30

Kabul is a city of a unique breed: equal parts Middle Ages, Soviet Union, and post-apocalyptic science fiction.

On its streets, shepherds with biblical faces graze their goats on the plentiful garbage dumps; burqa-clad women float like ghosts through the sidewalk bazaars; and school-aged pedestrians skillfully navigate the stinking chaos of UN Landcruisers, buses, and donkey carts. Everywhere are the jagged-edge ruins of buildings--torn apart by explosions so that you can see the pink or green interior walls of what were once people's homes. There are telephone poles bent like drinking straws and bullet holes in the few surviving street signs. In Kabul, two decades of war make themselves known on every block, around every street corner.

From the comfortable distance afforded me by the car window, I observe it all on my daily commute to and from work. Between the walled compound where we live and the walled compound of the office are 45 minutes of what at first looked like complete misery and destruction.

After only a week in the city, however, I have realized that my first impression was flawed. Kabul is not on the verge of death. Despite the apparent destitution, the city is actually booming with energy and entrepreneurship. In the skeletons of old buildings there is a multitude of tiny shops and offices and lining some roads are old Russian storage containers that have been converted into grocery stores and bike dealerships. Every street, every sidewalk is a market, where people come to shop and to make a living. On one street it is all about tires, on the next, furniture. Few of Kabul's streets have names, but it is clear which one is Butcher Street and which one is Flower Street.

Every morning I see a man performing his beauty routine by the sidewalk water pump--brushing his teeth, soaping his face, shaving. How foolish of me to think that life stops in the absence of running water and electricity. Even in the most destitute of situations, people somehow carve out their livelihoods, they manage to celebrate weddings and funerals, and they find time to maintain friendships and social networks. Indeed, most of them appear to be living, not, as I had expected, merely surviving.