Nomadic Musings

A Response to Sean Penn

2010-05-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

I read a CNN article about Sean Penn and his work in Haiti.

http://edition.cnn.com/2010/SHOWBIZ/05/08/sean.penn.haiti.aid/index.html?hpt=C1

It's a quiet morning here in London so I took the time to write a response. Who knows, maybe I'll send it to him.

Dear Sean –

First of all, let me say that I think you are doing great work. I am glad that you have embedded yourself into what is a no-win situation and you are using your fame and money to literally save lives. More than that, you’re working your ass off. In the weird world of celebrity humanitarianism, you should be lauded. I’m on your side.

However, I shuddered just a bit when I read that you felt that most aid workers have been in the business “too long.” You called them “dispassionate.” Well, thanks. At just the moment I was feeling really impressed with you, you loaded up a pillowcase with soda cans and took a swipe.

We’re easy targets, us aid humanitarian types. Failure is part of our daily ritual. The world, it seems, doesn’t change. Yet, day in and day out, we’re at it. Whether in an office or on a forgotten field of disaster or oppression somewhere on the planet, we’re working for not very much pay and even less reward. And you call us “dispassionate.”

People ask me all the time if my job is fulfilling. Not really. In fact it is the most unfulfilling enterprise I’ve ever done. There is always more to do. There is never an end product to look at and feel good about. The hardest part of my job is measuring success. Someone, somewhere is always dying needlessly. You called it murder. I agree. Over the years, I’ve forgotten so many names of needless death and tragedy. They haunt my dreams. I live with the fact that I failed every one of them.

Yes, us professional humanitarians might seem dispassionate on the outside, but be assured, on the inside a slow rage festers. We guard it closely because we’ve learned that to let it out so loudly only pushes people away. The only thing people dislike more than injustice is hearing about injustice. We’ve had to figure out how live a dichotomous life of relative means while living and working in a world of abject poverty and misery. We are a protective bunch, maybe a bit cliquish, but dispassionate? Go to hell. Oh wait, you’re in hell. Welcome to our world.

I wish I had the wealth to upstart an organization in just a few months to bypass all the bureaucratic nonsense that you so abhor. I wish I had another livelihood to fall back on when the burn-out and anguish over human suffering overwhelms. I wish Anderson Cooper would interview me so I could vent my frustration and anger over injustice in such a public way. That must feel really good. But I have none of these things. I have a family to care for, college to save for, and on top of it all, a job that barely pays my bills in which the job description reads, “change the world.” And here you are, reminding me that I’m not doing very well at it. Thanks a lot.

We have a secret – us career humanitarian types. Deep down we know. We don’t need you or anyone else to remind us. All we need to do is look around or turn on the news. Most of us, however, find it impossible to do anything else. What else is there to do but keep trying? Stubborn? Yes. Difficult to work with? Absolutely. Protective of our industry? Yep. Disappointed in ourselves? Every damn day. But dispassionate we are not.

Keep up the good work in Haiti, Sean. I want nothing less than you to fully succeed in transforming a dire and overwhelmingly hopeless situation into what only our imagination can articulate.

If there is any way I can help….

Sincerely,
Andrew Syed

Photos

2010-03-02T09:20:00.000-08:00

I uploaded some photos on facebook. Here's the link:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=160649&id=708981085&l=e3f4b2e19e

I'm back in London now, by the way. Hopefully home very soon.

First Step Home

2010-02-28T21:13:00.000-08:00

I’m on a plane today. From Kabul I fly to Dubai for about an 8 hour layover, then through Istanbul and on to London. I’ll be working in London for a couple of weeks before getting home to Colorado. I won't be blogging much more regarding this assignment, except for maybe a reflective post in a week as well as uploading some photos (since I’ll have better internet speed). Whether or not I truly incorporate writing here in my daily like remains to be seen.

I have no idea how many people have been following along over the last couple of weeks. I hope my daily reflections have been enlightening or at least revealing as to how I work through these types of assignments. I haven’t been able to write the details of every meeting as some things demand confidentiality in the public sphere. I’ve withheld all names to protect those we interview. And I’ve left out names of key organizations for a number of reasons. That being said, I’ve tried to be as honest and as open with my own thoughts and feelings as possible.

Not all assignments are equal, and this one for me has been particularly poignant. I’ve worked in several countries with Amnesty International, but working in Afghanistan has been something different. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s because I’m two years into my post and more confident in my research skills. Or maybe it’s this tense but rich environment. I really don’t know. I do know that I want to come back, and soon. As much as I long for home in this moment, I also want to continue what has only just begun.

Professionally, we will have a job to do based on what we’ve uncovered. The next several months should reveal that. I would imagine a follow-up research assignment, more focused on 2 or 3 communities on 1 specific issue. We’ll see.

Personally, I fear a relationship has begun with this place, and like any other relationship there is no telling where that might lead. It’s happened once before in my life in Kenya.

I will never look at Afghanistan the same way again. Now for me it is not a mere object of our foreign policy but a place with communities and families and individuals trying to carve out life like the rest of us. I knew that going in, but now it’s personal. That always changes everything.

Right now, I just want to go home. I miss my boys. I miss my wife. Hell, I even sort of miss my dog.

Thanks for following along. I’ll post some photos soon. As always, comments and/or questions are welcome. I do like a good discussion.

Besyar tashakkor -

Andrew Syed

What Goes Around Comes Around

2010-02-28T09:18:00.000-08:00

I met a gentleman last night who invited me for tea and for dinner. He was somewhere in his mid 50s and spoke a little bit of broken English.

In the early to mid 1970s, he had built a business that was flourishing. He started a guesthouse that catered to foreign tourists and expats, which makes sense because of his natural sense of hospitality. It was a very successful business that earned him a very nice lifestyle and lots of money.

According to family and friends, this gentleman was overtly generous. Whatever he had he was always helping someone else in need. Taking care of siblings, of neighbors, whoever, this guy could be counted on to help out.

Then the Soviets came. They took everything. They seized his assets and imprisoned him for 3 months for consorting with foreigners from the West. He had a guesthouse – for that he was guilty.

Today, he doesn’t have much. Except for family and friends who now take care of him. I asked someone why he didn’t start things up again. Still traumatized, they said. He is still too nervous and a bit too broken to go that road again. Instead, he is reaping what he has sown. For years he took care of others. Now others are taking care of him.

He still has that gift of hospitality, though. It was the best meal I’ve had here. Home. Simple rice and beans with some fruit on the side, and of course, tea.

Follow the Money

2010-02-27T10:21:00.000-08:00

After a slow morning of trying to evaluate our security situation after yesterday’s blast, we headed to the north of Kabul to visit a settlement camp. My colleague had visited before and we needed to get some more information from some residents. The term ‘settlement camp’ is much too generous for this place. These were some of the more deplorable conditions I have every been in.

I can’t describe both the scene and the human desperation in this place. Literally, just off of a road and between some “investment” buildings being constructed were these temporary dwellings where most had been for around 2 years. Some were returnees from Pakistan. Others were there because the “development” happening in Kabul has caused inflation to rise so dramatically that they can no longer afford housing. As they took me around, each was anxious to show me their shelter.

The women of this place were much more open with me than anywhere I had been. They were not shy about speaking to me or showing me their face, or even inviting me into their place. My colleague and I spent a lot of time just sitting on the mud floors and listening. That’s all we could do. We had no answers and carried no promises. We just listened. It was by far not enough.

I left angry. Really angry. Billions of dollars are pouring into this country. Billions. And relatively little of it is being spent on people. Development dollars are being spent on infrastructural projects that look good on paper and in the media but then sit empty. Nice new school buildings sit empty. Hospitals and clinics are empty. Large projects that show well but were not utilized. Meanwhile, people live in the squalor and can’t afford basic housing because of the inflation and the lack of accountability that donors require of where the money is going.

Yes, our hands are not clean in this. 80% of Afghanistan’s income comes from international aid mechanisms. That money is everywhere here. Funding politicians, warlords, no-bid infrastructural contracts, on and on. Meanwhile, the suffering here is acute. We prop up puppet politicians, watch them invest aid money in places like Dubai or buy up land and property here in Kabul for their own investment interests so we can continue our war for our sense of safety in someone else's yard.

Sorry if I’m sounding political, but today was ridiculous. There is no excuse for this on this planet. None.

If we are going to invest money into Afghanistan, and I believe we should, then we need to adopt a new development model that flows from the bottom-up rather than the top down. While we say we abhor corruption, we continue to prop up systems that perpetuate human misery rather than address it. As my colleague has written in a piece where she bravely took on her own government, “We Afghan people believe that the laxity with which the international community has provided unconditional aid to the Afghan Government has created an atmosphere in which war criminals and human rights abusers have flourished.”

The bottom line is this. As long as we are here under the reasoning that this is about us and our national security only, then honestly, who gives a damn about where money is going? In the 80s, we fought a proxy war here against the Soviets. That war gutted this country. Now, we are here firsthand fighting the Taliban, an entity made up mostly of Pakistani's. The Afghans wanted neither the Soviet invasion or the Taliban regime. Yet, if we are honest, we know these conflicts have never been about the needs of the Afghan people. It's been about us and our desperate need to feel safe. Only until we believe that we should be here as a partner and friend to the Afghan people as they strive to reclaim their country after 35 years of invasion and war, only then will we demand that resource be spent in legitimate humanitarian ways that actually make a difference in the lives of real people.

That would mean that we would need to look to the needs of others as well as our own, and then adjust our actions likewise.

A New Day

2010-02-26T22:41:00.000-08:00

As odd as it is, daily life here has returned to normal. Traffic, work, people scurrying around attending to whatever business they have. Already on the CNN International website yesterday’s bombing is indeed yesterday’s news. Obviously, for the 30+ injured and the 17 families who lost a loved one, it won’t be yesterday’s news for a long time.

Apparently, the men from India who were killed in the attack were medical doctors here treating children. They were targeted because they were Indian, and Pakistan and India don’t get along but are at least trying in recent days, so the Taliban (with a message to both Pakistan and India) wanted to make its point. It also wants to let the world know that as the International Forces bombard the south of Afghanistan the Taliban can still strike in the capital city of Kabul at will. Some things I just can’t wrap my head around.

There is no glory here. There is no glamour in being here to witness such things. If I’m honest, the whole thing disgusts me. I have no idea how to process this. None at all.

Tomorrow, my son Tanner has a soccer game. I’d much rather be there, yelling at him from the sideline. But I find myself here instead, in this strange place where war and daily life go hand in hand.

Throughout history, Afghanistan has been famous for its hospitality. I have felt this first-hand as we have trekked around various communities. Even the poor and the displaced have offered us food and plenty of tea. They have taken us into their homes and told us their stories of struggle, hardship and survival. They have allowed us to photograph and video their meager shelters and neighborhoods. As I near the conclusion of this assignment, I find myself scouring my notes and studying my 700+ photographs for hints and clues on how we or I can contribute something, anything to bettering these situations. My weakness is that I’m always interested in systemic change rather than merely what might be needed just for today. It’s not difficult to find things that need changing. The hard part is figuring out how to change them.

Top ten things to do during lock-down due to terrorist attack:

2010-02-26T22:39:00.001-08:00

- Pushups, situps, run in place,….

- Read Kantian philosophy that someone left in the room

- Watch an entire mini-series on DVD

- Reevaluate several times what you really need in your grab bag

- Organize your expense report

- More pushups and situps

- Ask the security guard if you can hold his gun

- Try to calculate how far away the sound of gun-fire really is

- Watch CNN to find out news about what is happening right outside

- Write a top-ten list

Bomb

2010-02-26T06:33:00.000-08:00

After spending most of the day locked down on our compound, my colleague and I ventured out. We hadn’t eaten so we needed some food and to stock up in case of another attack. So we went out.

Our place is literally less than ¼ mile from where the bomb blast was today. So we headed that way. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The pure power of a car bomb was on full display. A crater in the ground about 10 yards by 10 yards, maybe 5 feet deep. A completely obliterated guesthouse where tragically 17 people were killed laid in rubble. Windows were blown out everywhere. And across the street, a tree, completely uprooted, laying on its side.

I was taking photos, but also hyper aware of my surroundings. I might look Afghani but let’s face it, I’m not. The gunfire had long since stopped, but risk is still in the air, as poignant at the lingering sulfur smell from the two bombs this morning. After a long day sitting around and having long phone calls back and forth to London about our next course of action, I was just glad to get out a bit. I’ve been witness in my life to the impact of ethnic cleansing, but never a terrorist attack. The randomness is overwhelming.

As crazy as it seems, daily life is already back to normal. Just 11 hours later, the city is moving again. Tomorrow, I’m told, will be as yesterday was. Strange reality, this.

I’m ok. And after witnessing the bomb-site, very thankful to be ok. I have no control over what happened, or what will happen. Never was that more evident than as I walked by the Safi Hotel and the now non-existent Residence Guest House.

Fortunately for me, the body parts had been cleaned up already by the time we got there.

Explosion

2010-02-25T21:11:00.000-08:00

This morning at 6:30am, I was woken up by a huge blast that almost knocked me out of bed. My room in our compound is on the back-side of the building. The front side had windows shattered. Immediately following the blast, gunshots could be heard. I dropped down beside my bed, grabbed my clothes and my “grab bag”, and went out to the hall to see what was happening.

A couple of journalists grabbed their video camera and headed out the door. They were back in about 2 minutes as the fighting out on the street prevented them from going anywhere.

Not much to say. Here at the compound, we’re watching CNN to find out what’s happening literally outside our doors. Strange.

But I’m ok.

I can’t imagine having to live with this threat everyday. I just can’t.

My Drug of Choice

2010-02-25T04:55:00.001-08:00

We took an early morning flight from Mazar back to Kabul today. Domestic air travel in Afghanistan is quite an adventure. Security is tight as you might imagine. My bags were hand searched three times and I have never been patted down so much. There was one scanning machine, but I’m not sure it was actually working.

The terminal (or lack thereof) in Mazar consisted of waiting outside a gate until you were let through to another gate, and then a third. After the third gate, you were taken to a building where the dilapidated scanning machine was, patted down once more, and then let through to the tarmac where you tossed your bag in the back of a pick-up and headed out to the plane. The general idea is that your bag gets loaded on the plane, but as I’ve heard a lot here, “Inshallah.”

If any of you are skiddish about Middle-eastern men on your plane when you fly, you really shouldn’t come here. Keeping with my habit of being the last passenger to board every flight I take (why sit longer than you have to?), I climbed the stairs, boarded the plane, and looked up to see 200 potential targets of racial profiling. In front of me were a few women in burkas, along with a couple hundred dark-skinned men with beards and most with turbans. I laughed inside as all eyes looked up at me as the objective of curiosity. Funny, though, the only difference with me on this flight is my red Columbia ski jacket and my white ipod earphones hanging from my ears. I haven’t shaved in about 10 days, so other than that, I look the same.

Speaking of that ipod, I immersed myself in some music today. A little bit of Counting Crows, Modest Mouse, Eddie Vedder, the ever wise Jackson Browne helped me take the edge off today. I’m not sure if I process the injustices I encounter very well. From the very desperate (street kids tugging at my bag, begging women looking for a dime, the disabled crawling in the dirt) to the displaced people with temporary shelter, food for today but no more with their simple request that someone recognize them – my only counsel has been music. Lost away to the real world, I turn up the volume of the little red ipod I carry, and I imagine a coffee house in Boulder, or bike ride up to Jamestown, or the view from any peak I’ve bagged. I imagine the streets of my hometown. It’s how I survive.

I don’t want to ignore the realities I’ve been presented with. Yet, over the years I’ve grown more comfortable with my duality in this world. Where I live and the opportunities my family and I are afforded are not available to most in this world. There are generations of girls and boys who will grow and die without knowing peace or a life that is anything but daily toil and hardship of the hardest kind. We can fool ourselves easily by claiming that this is why we are here in Afghanistan, but the dirty truth is that we are here not for them, but to protect our reality. There is not much benevolence in foreign policy.

Anyways, I’m rambling now. My point was that today I miss home. I always miss home, actually. My wife and 2 boys are the only three I truly am obligated to. Most days when on assignment I am torn between what to do with the injustices I immerse myself in and the reality of the life I’ve been given. But today, as I sank into my airplane chair and listened to a sweet live acoustic version of Mr. Jones, I thought of home and where I belong.

Maybe I’m not as comfortable with my duality as I claim. I really don’t know. There are many days I wish I didn’t know what I know. But it is too late for that now.

Wheels touch the ground here in Kabul now. We scurry off the plane praying that our bags are not in Iran or Pakistan. There are street kids outside offering to carry my Northface Terra 30 in exchange for a few Afs. I don’t need it, but I choose a kid anyway to carry my stuff as an excuse to hand over some money. He must not be more than 10 years old.

Konner is 10 years old.

I better put my headphones back in.

News From The Other Side

2010-02-25T04:54:00.001-08:00

Last night I was in a small restaurant that happened to have a small TV in the corner. The news was on. Local news. Specifically, they were reporting on the killing of civilians in the South during the recent air raids by international forces. It’s not that far from here. It is, but not really. Think Denver to Grand Junction. The US commander had visited the President of Afghanistan, Hamid Karzai to offer his condolences and apology as well as confirm that a full investigation into the matter would be undertaken.

We call it collateral damage. We understand it as an unfortunate by-product of war. To be honest, we don’t even feel it. But it is felt here.

There is a weariness here of all this. We might see it as necessary and it is not my point to argue that, but they are tired. I can feel it in the air. I hear it because they tell me over and over. “We are tired.” I felt it in that small dive of a restaurant as the smell of lamb kebab and black chai dominated the atmosphere. Through the smoke from the grill we watched the news in Dari with script in English seemingly just for me. I scanned the room and people looked tired.

Balkh

2010-02-24T03:40:00.000-08:00

Apparently, I was almost kidnapped today. We were doing some research in a small settlement outside Mazar in town called Balkh. While conducting interviews, my colleague noticed that a young man was making several phone calls. She overheard him telling someone on the other line about who we were and where we were. Suspicion grew as the young man noticed he was being listened to and quickly moved away. She followed him just enough to determine that there was the very real possibility that someone was on there way to “meet” us.

So, we left rather quickly. Best to avoid being kidnapped by not being in the location the potential kidnappers expect you to be in when they arrive. That’s my hostile environment training kicking in.

Strange morning, really.

I’ve gotten more comfortable each day here, trekking out more and more to explore. This morning was a reminder of the real dangers and possibilities out there. I didn’t feel afraid, just alert, and very thankful for a colleague who understands Dari.

By the way, according to Islamic tradition, after the great flood Noah settled here and founded the city of Balkh. Now that's an old town. I looked around for an ark, but didn’t find anything. Of course, we were speeding out of town as I was reading that tidbit in my Lonely Planet guidebook.

Mazar e Sharif

2010-02-24T03:38:00.000-08:00

We arrived in Mazar from Herat two days ago and have had several meetings with local communities. Most of the IDPs here are what we call ‘protracted IDPs’, that is they have been in these settlements for 10 to 15 years, some as long as 18 years. A temporary situation has become home, and what was once home in a far off province in all reality no longer exists. It is a precarious legal predicament these communities find themselves in. What little they have, i.e., the land they are on and the housing they have built, other entities are laying claim to. And yet, there is nowhere to go and no means to get there by.

Mazar is a small city, less than 1 million people, just about 60km south of the Uzbekistan border. If I had a visa, I’d take an afternoon and head up to Uzbekistan, just to say I did. But I don’t, and it is outside of my security protocol anyways, so I’ll stay put. This province was the first to witness the Soviet tanks in Afghanistan in 1979 and there are literally junkyards around town with the remains of old Soviet weaponry. They are both a testament to how vigilant the Mujahideen were in fighting the Soviets as well as how badly scarred the Soviet invasion left this country. It has been said that the Cold War was won without firing a shot. Bull shit. The front lines were here. Just because we didn’t see it or feel it doesn’t mean there weren’t casualties. And while we helped fund the resistance against Soviet occupation here, we left very quickly after our own interests were realized. The black-hole that was left was filled later by the Taliban. The suffering here continued while we celebrated the victory of our way of life.

For whatever reasons, defense of our way of life continues in Afghanistan. It’s odd to see fully armored convoys drive by, guns fully exposed. They are a part of the scenery here, sort of like seeing a soccer fields in the USA on a Saturday morning. War is culture here, and I don’t think that’s what they wanted. Mostly, the Taliban – our latest enemy – are reviled here. They are as foreign to Afghanistan as the international forces from around the world. Yet, the battlefield is here.

Lucky us.

I Wonder What Her Name Is

2010-02-22T04:49:00.001-08:00

This world is a brutal place. We forget that in our comfort. I might struggle with debt, a mortgage, keeping my grass green, paying my comcast bill, trying to make sure my kids have their activities and luxuries and opportunities. No doubt, I made my life from otherwise difficult beginnings. But let’s get one thing straight. I won the lottery of life by just being born in the right place.

Every now and then in my experiences I come across a situation, an image, a moment that brings to the forefront the pure and raw and uncomplicated injustice that is poverty. I hate these moments. Today, I had such a moment.

There’s a young girl outside on the street from where I am staying. She sits there everyday. She can’t be anymore than 16 or 17 years old. Maybe younger. I don’t know, and I can’t ask. She has three very small children with her. None of them are more than 4 or 5 years old. They sit there everyday, hoping that the Muslim value of charity will shine upon them. It was rainy, cold and windy today and all they had was their thin shawl to protect them. She struggled to keep it over her little ones while they ate the bread someone had left them. It was in every sense of imagination a miserable sight.

I don’t know how they got there, where they came from or where they are going. I do know I’ve encountered these scenes all over the world. Travel has taught me that the world is on the surface an amazingly beautiful place that hides a more brutal reality. Call it poverty. Call it whatever you want. Blame it on culture, government, corruption, capitalism, socialism, war. Blame it on whatever you want. Our debates don’t change her reality. She still sits there with those three young children with no shelter, no money, and just some bread to hold them over for now.

I have good friends and family who remind me quite often that I can’t change these realities. Deep down in a place I don’t like to go, I know they are right. I hate to hear their admonishments as I rant on about what is right and what should not be. But I’ve found another truth as well. I might not be able to change these things, but I can’t ignore them either. I just can’t. That is a fiction I will have to leave for others.

I can’t sit next to this young girl and ask her name and listen to her story. It would endanger her more than she already is. So I did what I could. Given the Muslim value of charity, I was allowed to give her all the Afghani’s I had without violating the distance between men and women here. I reached down slowly and handed her something like 400 Afghanis which amounts to about $10. I touched her hand as I gave it. A human touch. A touch that I can only pray communicates if only for a millisecond that I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. That I don’t know you but I want so much more for you and these three innocent souls you carry. That if there is a God or Allah or whatever at all, that somehow in someway this will be made right. I don’t know how and in what way, but that better damn well be the way it works out. The last will be first.

My interpreter told me that I pleased Allah by doing this. Charity is one of the pillars of Islam. I don’t care about this. Allah should be less concerned about me doing my duty and start paying attention to this little girl.

She’s such a young girl. She should not have three little ones. She should not be there at all. She should be in school somewhere. She should be laughing and playing with friends. She should be dreaming of her life to come. She should be anywhere but there on the side of that street.

I know I can’t change it. They will eat today, though.

I also know I can’t ignore it.

Can you? If so, please tell me how, because I am tired.

Internally Displaced People (IDPs)

2010-02-20T07:18:00.000-08:00

Internally Displaced People (IDPs)

I doubt that anyone reading this can relate to being uprooted because of war. Leaving home, community, culture, and all that is familiar in order to simply stay alive is not something most of us can imagine. Whether it be recent or 15 – 20 years ago, living life as a refugee or as an IDP (Internally Displaced Person) is certainly the hard life.

The IDPs we spent time with today have been so for over a decade. Some 16 years ago, they arrived to a small plot of land outside Herat that the UNHCR had designated as safe. From the ground they built their homes and forged a life. They left everything and found a way to build something, however small and meager.

These days they are looking for more. They want the government to fulfill its promise and obligation to provide the infrastructure for electricity. They are willing to pay, they just need it to be built and connected. They want to be formally recognized with proper documentation rather than live in the relative nomadic status as refugee. Basically, they want their dignity, their humanity, their existence recognized. It’s not a lot to ask.

I always marvel at the ease at which people have allowed me into their homes. For hours today we sat on the floor inside colorfully carpeted mud dwellings, drinking chai and discussing the things we all have in common. Providing for family, wanting to work, the need for security, and the desire for change. As I sat there listening and taking notes, I smiled to myself – loving these moments that I’ve been given to sit amongst such people. They are not perfect, and I do not mean to glamorize their plight in anyway. What I am saying is that there is generosity where there is poverty. There is hospitality where there is no space. There is hope where there really should be no hope. And today there was anger. A righteous anger. An anger that demands justice. An anger that demands humanity.

This place has been an oasis for me, personally. It has been, as the Jason Elliot’s book title suggests, “an unexpected light.” Every time I sit down to write, I stare at a blank page and wonder what words will describe what I see, what I feel, what I am witness to. Even as I type, I am at a loss for words. I know this, though. I can’t wait to bring my children here.

As we walked around the IDP camp today, stepping over open latrine lines in the dirt and watching children gather water at the community water pump, I wondered what I must have done to continually be in such situations all over the world. I count this as a privilege, an honor, and am forever grateful to walk these streets. I am even more grateful to be in a position to address these injustices to those that can or should listen. I might not change these situations, but I won’t stop exposing it. Sorry if that makes you or anyone else uncomfortable.

As Bono says, “Am I bugging you? Don’t mean to bug you.”

That’s what tomorrow is about. Bugging someone.

The Limits of my World-view

2010-02-20T07:16:00.000-08:00

While poverty and war might seem inevitable (they are not, by the way), there are some things to me that continue to boggle my imagination. Specifically one thing, over and over again, that is evident all around. That is the issue of how women are treated.

What is it about culture and religion that continues to demean women and treat them as 2nd class citizens, or even worse? I have tried to tread very lightly on this issue as to not create any sort of incident or scene, but the rules are very clear here for me. Don’t talk to any woman, don’t take their photo, and don’t even look at them at risk of reprisal. This is not out of respect, rather it seems that it is out of a sense of unworthiness that the woman has in the presence of men. And it is not me that might face the reprisal, but the woman.

Even as I reflect on our own culture and the religion(s) that we are familiar with, the role or place of women has always been in contention. It wasn’t that long ago in America that women could vote. I’m struck (and angered) by the fact that the religious community in the USA was adamantly opposed to the Equal Rights Amendment to the US Constitution. Before we decry the outrage of how women are treated here, we should reflect on our own history. That being said, it’s really bad here. And it seems endemic and never-ending. I hope these days will soon be seen as historic shame rather than present reality.

In my life, the heroin is the woman. A Master’s Degree. A career. Respect in her community and amongst her colleagues. A professional educator. An expert in her field. A great mother and a hell of a wife. Yet, unbelievably, even she had to battle against both family expectations and a sub-culture that attempted to define her role for her in this life rather than give her the freedom to explore life for herself. I didn’t have those hurdles to clear. She did. And she cleared them. She cleared them by a mile.

The hurdles for women here are much larger. They seem insurmountable. That being said there are a few who have overcome. For the sake of Afghanistan, I hope that more and more can follow.

Part 2: (3 hours later)

I should caveat the last posting regarding women with the brutal fact that I don’t understand most of what goes on here. During a deep conversation with my Afghani interpreter regarding such issues, he reminded me how he respects and treats his wife, how he cares for and loves her, and how he works hard to provide for her. The mistreatment of women, he insisted with me, has no place in Islam.

Also, just because women are wearing the traditional blue burqa that cover the face completely doesn’t mean they are oppressed. In fact, late today as I wandered around a local clothing mall, there were three burka clad women all looking into the window of a shop that had very western looking clothes in the display window. I wish I could have taken a photo. Were they dreaming of something they could never have? Or were they shopping for their own wardrobes to be worn at home, or underneath their traditional burka? The bottom-line is that I don’t know. The more important point might be that I don’t need to know.

It’s a continual lesson to not filter everything I see and hear through the filters of my own world-view.

Don't Drink The Water

2010-02-19T08:53:00.000-08:00

Thursday, February 17th

Sick. All day. Better now. But pretty much wasted the day. No meetings. No community visits. Nothing but ibuprofen and sleep.

Tomorrow we travel to Herat, which lies along the famed Silk Road. I know nothing of the Silk Road, but apparently it used to be a big deal. Sort of like Route 66. Maybe. Of course, we’re flying. Safer that way.

My colleague bought me a hat today. A traditional Afghani hat. I look ridiculous in it. I’ll post a photo later. Maybe not.

Camera

2010-02-19T08:50:00.000-08:00

Before coming on this assignment, Melia and I got a decent tax refund, so we used part of it to buy a camera. A nice one. I had a small camera stolen last year when I was somewhere in SE Asia, so we needed a new one. We bought a Canon Rebel XSI. Literally, it arrived at my dad’s flat in London by Fed Ex 8 hours before my flight from to Kabul.

So, I have no idea what I’m doing. Any of you camera freaks out there, feel free to pass along some quick and easy advice. I’ve read the manual and taken almost 300 photos in two days. From my own evaluation, I have about 5 photos that I like.

I thought great photos were all about the equipment. I guess it has something to do with the photographer as well.

Any advice would be appreciated.

Herat

2010-02-19T08:47:00.000-08:00

Today we flew from Kabul to Herat. About a 1-hour flight west on Ariana Airlines (locals call it Inshellah Airlines, which literally means “God-willing”) Herat is about 60 miles east of the Iranian border. It is a smaller town, slower, quieter, a nice tempo change from the capital city Kabul.

How does one take in all the sites, sounds, and smells from these experiences and capture them so that others can taste the pure depth and richness of what I am seeing? I can’t seem to capture the essence of this place with my camera, either. It is both frustrating and liberating, yet I know upon returning home I’ll be asked to describe what can only be tasted. I hope patience is returned for my lack of ability to answer with any clarity.

I spent about 3 hours this afternoon just walking the streets of Herat, something I cannot do in Kabul because of security concerns. It’s Friday in Afghanistan, which means it is a day of prayer. People are coming and going from the mosques. Most shops are closed. A few street vendors offer their wares. There is a busyness, but believe me when I say, peace is in the air.

It feels as if I’ve stepped back in time. I really can’t find the words to describe it. This is an ancient place. Some would call it “underdeveloped.” That’s not the right word. Old, in a way that demands a respect and awe. Old, as in wise and has seen much. The central citadel of this city was built on foundations laid by Alexander the Great. Genghis Kahn passed through here, leveling it along the way. The British came. The Soviets came. So did the Taliban. It has survived all of them.

This city was along the old Silk Road. Some of you might have paid attention in history class and actually know what that means. For me, Herat is my Kisumu to Nairobi, my Boulder to Denver, my Brighton to London if you will. I like it here so far. Of course, I’ve only been here 6 hours. But at least I can go outside.

How Do You Change the World if All People Want is Bread?

2010-02-18T02:38:00.000-08:00

Slum communities are not all the same. Then again, they are very similar. Evaluating long-term need in light of short-term demand has been a challenge for me my whole career. Changing systems and moving from the daily grind to the bigger picture of what is really needed is desperate work. Relief work is much easier. Back up the truck and unload the bread and blankets. We all feel better at least for the present moment. Development work is much harder. Tomorrow’s hunger pangs are not yet felt. And human rights? Well, that seems to be a concept the most vulnerable know nothing about. On second thought, they are completely intimate with what it doesn’t mean.

While the world watches the US and Taliban fight it out in Helmond Province, I spent the day with some of the refugees from that area. Innocent people caught in the middle. Children. Women. Old men who have seen way too much war. “We’re tired”, they said. “Tired of the fighting.”

The small refugee camp we visited today was make-shift at best. Very small mud houses that seemed to raise right out of the ground they were built from. Two recently installed water-pumps serving 780 families. No sanitation infrastructure at all. Two small schools with two classes each. One class for boys and another for girls. Young children eager to have their photo taken by the strange foreigner. Women eager not to be seen or spoken to. And men all too eager to tell you their story.

Some had been in this camp 2 years. Some 2 days. Almost all from the south where the majority of the fighting has been and is today.

The camp had a small NGO funded pharmacy and clinic. The tarps for the roofs and the tents for the school were provided by UNICEF and UNHCR. The walls were provided by the earth itself.

Every family we spoke with had made a deal. They traded livelihood for security. They left farms, food, jobs, home for the more than real sense of being safe from being bombed or shot. To them, it didn’t matter where the bullets came from, they just wanted to be somewhere where they weren’t coming. It also didn’t matter that there were pledges by the government and the international forces that civilians would not be caught in the middle. War is never so clean. I observed more than a few bullet and shrapnel wounds today.

A few anecdotal images from today:

Mountains: this place could be a paradise, but it’s not.

Women: I can’t figure out what to do or not do. In some cases, I should not even speak to them. My colleague told me not to even reach out to shake a hand. Making eye contact seems like I’ve gone to far. If it sounds like I don’t understand women, well, that has always been true. But here, I feel like I’m ignoring their very existence, which feels wrong. But, I seem to be left with no choice in many instances. Certainly, their discomfort with me is at times very evident.

Desperation: Take an already poor people and mix in a war that none of them want or asked for and you get something that can only be described as desperate. Bread. That’s all that they said they needed. Bread.

First Impressions

2010-02-18T02:24:00.000-08:00

Mountains. The flight into Kabul was amazing. Snow covered mountains everywhere. Jagged, unexplored peaks. Kabul is surrounded by them. From the plane they stand rival to anything Colorado has to offer. We flew circles around the city it seemed and all I wanted to do was go climb and ski.

Americans. My flight from Dubai to Kabul was probably 80% American. A few college-aged looking kids who were military. Mostly, contract workers. Hired security. They all had a similar look – stocky, shaved head, the kind of guys you wouldn’t want to scrap with. MMA guys. They weren’t impressed with my Amnesty International credentials. “You guys just get in the way,” seemed the sentiment. I took it as a compliment.

Africa. Upon leaving the airport, I was reminded of Kenya. Small businesses along main roads. Rubble. Pollution. The pollution keeps the previously impressive mountains out of view. Bad roads. Like India. Like Kenya. Insane traffic. I could drive here. That’s what I though to myself as we bumped along to our guesthouse.

Guns. I’m sort of used to seeing security guards with very large guns, but here they are everywhere. There is a bit of the wild-west here, whatever that was really like.

I’m here. And just like I suspected, Kabul, Afghanistan is a place where real people live, work and try to carve out a life. The mountains really are amazing. As I crash tonight, that’s what image I’ll have in my head. Unexplored mountains.

By the way, it’s cold. Normal cold, like a Boulder winter. Dry. Crisp. Around 30F during the day, 20F at night. Outside feels fine. The problem is that when I come inside, the temperature doesn’t change all that much. I should have brought my sleeping bag.

I never thought I’d be here.

Listening

2010-02-14T04:41:00.000-08:00

A lot of people have asked why I'm going to Afghanistan, or more precisely, what I'll be doing there. While there are some detailed and professional ways of responding to this question, the bottom line is that I'm going there to listen. I, along with a colleague, will be immersing myself in some local communities and will take a posture of simply listening while hopefully asking the right questions. That's about it.

The most important thing I've learned in my travels to various countries and communities around the world is that people want to be listened to. Really, when going through tough times, it's what we all want. If you haven't noticed, Afghanistan has been going through a tough time lately. The world is there, trying to save and fix Afghanistan, but has anyone really listened? I'm not sure.

Here in the UK and also in the USA, it's all about the troops. Fair enough, as many of us have family and friends in harms way. Afghanistan seems just a foreign, dangerous place that we would rather not need to engage with. It's important to remember, however, that it is also a place that some 28 million people call home.

I am a bit nervous. Mostly, I want to do my job well. I'm there to listen, and then to tell a story that moves certain entities to action. That's the dominant thing on my mind as I prepare to leave tomorrow.

Afghanistan

2010-02-12T07:09:00.000-08:00

So, I'm headed to Afghanistan.

That is if I get my visa in time. It is supposed to be ready at the Afghan embassy here in London by noon on Monday. My flight is at 4pm. That's a bit tight. But, I've been assured that it will be ready. If not, I'll have to resort to having my bosses at Amnesty International call someone and get it taken care of. It's all who you know....

Anyway, my plan is to blog regularly. Hopefully at least once a day. If you're interested, feel free to read and share. If not, then don't. I would ask that you'd keep a few things in mind, though. First, know that I'm writing from my personal perspective here. I won't be speaking for Amnesty on this blog. That's important. I take full responsibility for what I write. It is my personal blog. The opinions expressed here do not necessarily reflect the position of Amnesty International.

Second, I'll be writing from observation, interaction, and reflection. That might leave you in disagreement with what I write. Feel free to comment, but don't forget - I'm the one in Afghanistan. Process is a strange, well, process.

Third, please be respectful. I've noticed that people tend to bleed all over my facebook page whenever I write something. I hope that won't happen here.

This is something I hope to do more often on my travels. Blogging from the field each day. I should have started this years ago. But I didn't. So I'm starting now.