My review of Afghan Women

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

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

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

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

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

“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?

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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.

Vacation in Kabul, anyone?

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

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

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

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?

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

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.