Afghanistan: a promise
Kabul 2004:
I was pushing my cart out of the airport in Kabul, and it was chilly. I asked myself, “what are you doing here?”
A voice whispered “where there is ruin, there is hope for treasure.” Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi. “ The voice continued “And you? When will you begin that long journey within yourself?” Mawlana asked.
“Not in vain am I roaming around lanes and fares (Bazaars). Having a taste for love, I am wondering to see the beloved one.”
I had to come to Balkh, where the Zoroastrians built their temples. Following the footsteps of Nasir Khosro, the wanderer, the traveler, the seeker.
Young Nasir Khosro dreamed he was summoned to seek wisdom. He awakened to find himself traveling, far and long. This was centuries before Marco Polo.
I was back to my roots.
***
I am returning to Kabul, it is October 2009. At six in the morning, our airplane circles before landing. The city sits surrounded by mountains, nothing green from the distance.
During the long trip from Dubai to Kabul, Michele, my fellow traveler and colleague, has told me a few stories about his life and travel. The one that remains in my head is about when he had to hop on a helicopter with no doors during the war in Congo. He is the perfect person to accompany me on this trip. I am with the right crowd.
”This place, this is it?” Michele my fellow traveler says.nding the city. I have no response.
What does he want me to say? This is my second trip and I still have no idea why I keep returning.
”This is where all the fight is about.” He continues. He could not understand all that was happening in North America, especially in the landscape of Canadian politics around Afghanistan.
I had joined Michele on this trip through Alternative International, a Montreal based NGO after discussing a project proposal I had for Pierre Bordeaux, someone with a vision and a mission. He liked my project and started networking. Pierre was someone who knew the progressives in different parts of the world. Pierre had found the Sustainable Development Organization (SDO). Now, a few months later, here we are, Micheel and I on a joint project between Alternative International and SDO. Something warm inside me keeps me vibrant, almost bouncy as we find our driver and head to pick up my suitcases.The airport has doubled since I had last been there in 2004. We see Alternative International on a large placard. An older Afghan man, a Pashtun is holding it. The Pashtuns, unlike the Hazaras, have features similar to Pakistanis and they typically dress differently from the Hazara, who are the Shi'a minority. I am walking slightly faster, sometimes ahead of Michele, sometimes behind him. I have to push through a hall filled by male passengers without bumping into them. The overcrowded airport early in the morning with many flights arriving at the same time, had me look hard for my language through a pile of languages. I pick mine, Michele has his carryon and we leave and we follow the Pashun old man with broken English. Oh, the sign “NO GUNS ARE ALLOWED” is still here, just where it was the last time. Still no guns inside the airport, I guess outside of it, it is ok.
A long trip from Montreal to Dubai and then with delays from Dubai to Kabul, we still sit behind the four wheel drive for a long drive on a dirt road full of bumps and dust, where cars, tanks and military vehicles travel. Now that we will soon be at the hotel I feel the pain in every joint of my body. All I need right now is a hot cup of tea, then a warm shower, and a clean bed and nothing else. Yet, I ask.Michele.
”Our hotel, is our hotel safe?”
”Of course, what do you think? The hotel owner has checked with the Taliban, we're going to be fine.”
We both burst into laughter. Although later on I find that this is not really funny and it is partially true.
When we arrive, the room smells of sewage. I have learnt to complain when I do not like my room. They change and give me a large room with a heater in their larger section of the hotel. Next morning, I jump out of bed, and in no time I dress myself and head to the restaurant. The hotel is just the way I like it. It is a place where local people choose for their travel. There are foreigners but there are also many Afghans. I hear English with a British accent mainly, French with a Parisian accent and of course Farsi with Afghan accent. I am right at home here, I am not a stranger but I belong to this place. Breakfast is like my childhood breakfast, tea with Afghan bread which is the same as what we always eat, feta, rose petal jam. The bread is freshly based the way we like in Iran. I am fully aware that the driver is waiting for me but I will stay as long as possible. This is a breakfast from my childhood, I am home! I could understand all the languages that were spoken and the main language is my mother tongue. The aroma of rose from the garden was just the same as the ones we had in our garden. I am home in the smile that spreads on the face of the busboy, the woman who comes to change the sheets and brings fresh towels. I was home, I could stay here for good. I have finally arrived. Yet, it is cruel to keep the driver waiting, yet how cruel it was to be away from home for so many years.
Michele is waiting for me in the lobby.
”Sorry I am late. Why do we have to go by car?”
Michele shrugs and the look in his eyes is very different from mine. I am at home, he is not!
Our drive takes six minutes. Outside SDO two gunmen are at the door, they let us in.
”You have to stay in the car.” the driver tells us.
Then another set of guards come to examine the car with detectors. Once they are done we are allowed to leave. Now I know why they drove us, it was possible that someone had attached a bomb to our car. SDO is in a building with brick walls and iron doors just like those I am accustomed to in Iran. We see shoes outside the door, and I immediately take off mine. Michele hesitates for a moment then pulls himself together and takes off his. We enter. A tall young man dressed in spotless fine fabric white pashtun dress comes to greet us.
“Welcome.”
He pronounces with a high class British accent.
“As ashnai shoma khosh vaghtam ( I am happy to meet you in Persian.)”
He is almost shocked. This is my habit, wherever I travel, I learn a few phrases in the native language, often from the Lonely Planet Guide which buys me lots of warm smiles and a great deal of friendliness. But this time, I am speaking my native language. I am not sure how he feels about me. He is a real British bred, in spite of his pashtun dress, he carries himself and acts like a Brits, highly reserved. My guess is he has been raised in one of the rich London boarding schools. I am hoping he likes me as I pass on to him my Iranian passport. I am told to travel with my Iranian passport instead of the Canadian one, that I am safer as an Iranian.
“Ma ham (we too in Persian.)” Then he smiles with traces of a compatriot.
Within the next few days we go from one meeting to another. We meet with high profile officials, the ministry of agriculture, the minister of interior, I meet with the ministry of women’s affairs. There are many NGO activists and one of them is an Iranian. S. works with an Iranian NGO for a micro credit for women program. Every night I return to bed and thank God, the university, Alternatives International, SDO, Afghanistan and run out of all the names and people for whom and for which I am grateful. This time I am in Afghanistan not by myself, I have brought a Canadian NGO, I am not just an academic, I am part of a program with joint organizations. I am somebody who can get things done. How we want to believe in our dreams!
Michele has to leave soon and together with S. we plan to have dinner in my room which is big with a window to the garden. The three of us in a simple room, this is a real party. We are exhilarated and laugh out loud over nothing. We don’t care if it is past 8 in the evening and ordered food to celebrate. We are successful, Michele has signed a contract, I am part of it, S. is getting ahead with her project. The world is a wonderful place. Michele is getting used to Persian cuisine. I invite S. to join me on my trip to the woman’s park and then to meet Gisoo Janghiri the head of IranShahr NGO. S. is busy but promises to see IranSharh NGO later.
I had met Giso in Paris a few months before my trip to Afghanistan.
”Roksana, I’m tired of all these North American and European NGOs having a branch in Western Asia. I want to have my NGO in Afghanistan and have a branch in the West .”
”Oh I totally agree. This is still postcolonial. It is time we have a branch of an NGO which is from Western Asia.”
Gisso sipped her French coffee and we talked on a coffee shop terrace about each other’s work enjoying the view of the bypasser in the heart of Paris. Later she introduced me to an Afghan official who happened to be in Paris at the time. Gisso and I hugged but then we shook hands, the two of us, we bounded and we committed to help this happen. IranShahr was going to take the lead. Yet, when I was in Kabul, she was in Paris still looking after her sick mother. Nothing is going to break my side of the deal while I am here or back in Canada. I am sure I can convince Pierre to become a sister organization of an Afghan based NGO..
When I return to the hotel, I see Michele has left a note saying goodbye for an early night because he is flying early in the morning. It is Wednesday night, tomorrow I will be going to a girls’ martial art competition and then to the market for filming. My driver, who is also the camera man, will pick me up. Thursday is the “ me” day. I am going to a spa with Emma, a Phd student from London whose work on women in Afghanistan is from a post colonial perspective. We have bounded.. The two of us can barely afford it but we have planned a spa session at Samira Hotel. We have even booked a massage session. I guess a bit of luxury feels harmless after such a highly successful trip.
I turn the key and open my room, being grateful, looking at myself in the mirror and putting on more face cream, night cream for dehydrated skin. The new Burt's Bee hand cream over my dry hand, moist and melon taste lip balm on my chapped lips, all of this before going to bed. The room is unwelcoming with the cold, but once I slip under a pile of blankets, the white cotton sheets feel as fresh as those hot nights which we used to sleep on, and when I slept on the roof tops in our childhood house to a comfy and cozy temperature to sleep under the moon light. As soon as I curl up and a smile spreads on my face. Then I drift to a world of dreams, the oceans, rainy in lush forests, and a sunrise. Next thing I know it is close to the sunrise, soon there will be a call for prayer as it has been. Instead of calling for prayer, there are blasts nearby.
Boom, Boom, Boom.
I hear them but I drift right back to sleep. Soon, there are non-stop flights, helicopters one after the other. It reminds me of the time Iraq was bombing Tehran, but I don’t care, and I put a pillow over my head just like what I used to do during those nights.
With non-stop helicopter and gun shots, I get dressed to see what is happening. At the restaurant, there is nobody. Is it too early, or something has happened and everyone is scared? I sit at a table hoping the busboy will arrive, the TV is on, there images of suicide bombing in Pakistan. But this is Pakistan, what is happening here? Suicide bombing had killed hundreds of people in Peshavar, a city known for its high Afghan refugee population. But this was Peshawar not Kaboul? Finally, the busboy comes with freshly baked nan.
”Please tell me what is going on?” I ask.
He peaks at me with a condescending look and a sense of victory. I feel the oppressor, the foreigner, the invader.
”Nothing, there has been suicide bomding next to our hotel where UN officials stay. Look how many have died in Peshawar.”
Gruesome images of hundreds of people covered in blood are broadcasted on CNN Western Asia.
“My eye pupils widenes, suicide bombing, here, right next to us?”
”What is the matter? Are you scared of a couple of bombs, we have it here all the time.”
This young man is absolutely right. This is real Afghanistan people have to face this all the time, just like us in Iran during the Iraq invasion. We lived through many nights of bombings. How soon, I have forgotten.
”Don’t be afraid.” He leaves for the kitchen.
Perhaps that is what Michele meant, the Taliban was not going to plant bombs in our hotel after all. People start to appear for breakfast. Everyone is quiet. Noone speaks with a loud voice, CNN keeps repeating the news and showing the images. At the far end of my table there is a Tajik man. The Tajiks are very distinguishable for me from the Hazar and the Pashtun, their faces are more bony and their eyes are more elongated.
”May I sit next to you?” I ask him.
He shakes his head politely and tries to swallow the piece of break in his mouth. I want to know more about what is happening.
”Shouldn’t we be afraid?” I ask after the busboy has told me not to.
”Of course we should. They are after us. Me, you, anyone who works with and for the foreign governments.”
He paused to nervously take a sip of his tea.
”I work for the Americans. They give me bodyguards. They are stupid, I tell them, I don’t need a bodyguard, you are making me a target with your bodyguards. But they don’t understand.”
”Even you're afraid with your Tajik face and nationality.”
”Of course, we work for the invaders.”
He leaves and I hang around the breakfast room to find people with whom I can commiserate with but noone wants to talk to anyone. I leave for my room, to wait for my driver. The phone rings.
”Ms. Dr. Bahramitash.”
”Yes, that is she.”
”SDO has canceled all your plans, you must stay in your hotel until further notice.”
The phone nearly drops from my shaking hands.
”But what about the martial art competition…”
”Everything has been canceled.”
I pause and look around, look at my suitcase fully unpacked, and pick up the phone to dial SDO.
”Bahramitash speaking.”
”Yes, mam, what can we do for you.”
”I want to leave, I want to leave asap.” Hiding my shaking voice while my children’s questions circle in my head. “Mum, why do you have to go to these dangerous places?”
”No problem, we will bring your passport and pick up your ticket for emergency departure.”
”Thank you.”
Was this the answer I expected, did I wish they would say, this is nothing, it will pass and you should stay. Then I sat in my room, now I was part of the invaders, the unwelcome guest, no longer a native but a foreigner. My presence was unwanted, useless, futile. My whole fairytale about being able to make a difference had fallen apart in a few minutes, my house of cards destroyed.
The same old driver came to pick up my ticket and arranged almost the same day. Tomorrow, I can leave. I have no idea how to bear another twenty four hours in this city. At night someone knocks at the door. I jump and open the door, hoping there would be some good news.
”Your passport mam, bring your passport.” I pull out my Iranian passport. He looks at it and is pleased.
”Why do you need my passport?”
”We want to show the number of Muslims who stay in this hotel, the more Muslims, the less likely we will be a target.”
Thank God for my Iranian passport and now I am sure the hotel manager communicates with the Taliban, he must. Tomorrow morning, the same old Pashtun driver comes to pick me up for the airport. It is not a four wheel drive but an ordinary car. We return taking the same bumpy dirt road that brought us here. It looks different now. There are more cars, trucks and minivans with people, women and children on the back. We finally reached the airport and the first checkpoint. I go to the woman section and he goes through the men.
”Khanom, man be shoma mypeyvandm. (I will join you.)”
It was reassuring that he would be with me after I crossed the checkpoint. But then there is the second one. As before, I am happy there is him after the checkpoint. At the last checkpoint he tells me that only the passenger is allowed to get through. Ah, I had no idea, it means he will not come to the terminal to see my departure. I am suddenly sad, I do not want to leave this old Pashtun, I do not want to leave this country, this project, the dreams that I had. I want to stay. My impatience to leave has dissipated. I want to return to the hotel and open the window and smell the rose garden that took me to my childhood dreams.
As I bend down to pick up my suitcase, he says:
”Khanom shoma barmigradin, na (Ms. You will come back, won’t you?)”
The lump in my throat presses, I stop breathing and the tears in my eye gather to roll.
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