It is so hard to believe, but here I am, at the end of a string of goodbye parties and packing sessions, I am writing my final post from Mazar e-Sharif, for now. My time up here has been some of the most rewarding months of my life, both professionally and personally. I have met people with a resilience and will to survive I did not think existed. Now, as I rip pages out of forlorn notebooks, and donate stationary, colleagues keep popping their heads into my office, offering best wishes and home-made crafts in the form of almonds strung into a necklace, homemade yogurt and a hard white home made ball of cheese.
I am nostalgic but also inspired. What I am most proud of is the team spirit we fostered, where people learned the importance of dialogue and "putting heads together". According to the staff what they will remember from me is the fact that "my door is always open", and "I don't like I problems, I like solutions". In addition to one female who proclaimed she will always remember my standard response when someone walks into my office "what can I do for you".
I will miss my friends, and the crazy nights dancing the night away at one of the bi-weekly Mazar Social Club gatherings, a self-driven solution to a rather entertainment-challenged city. And who could forget Sebastien's Tenderloin at the Royal Oak English Restaurant. So many nights spent eating steak and drinking Becks in what fast becomes one's home away from home in the approved restaurant-deprived Mazar. I remember fondly Fridays a the WFP pool, followed by long sessions surfing the web on the Oak’s wi-fi, while sharing G&Ts with girlfriends, discussing previous and future conflict postings. I said this in Baghdad, and I'll say it again, it is remarkable how much faster friendships and other relationships are fostered and strengthened in these environments.
With that, "goddafis Mazar e-Sharif, Tashakor, Tashakor".
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Friday, October 19, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Dodging the dust
...or not, as the case may be.
In my office in Kabul where I sit with my back against the window, I suddenly sense a change in weather. Without looking back, in any other location in the world, the sound I hear would be accompanied by a rain storm. In Kabul, it is a storm of a different kind: dust. And when I say dust, I refer to the complete white-out that occurs when the city surrenders to the forces of the wind. The atmosphere quickly turns from its usual grey to an almost glowing yellow as (what I imagine to be tons) of sand, dust, dirt, trash and who knows what else whizzes about frantically. Gaping doors and windows are quickly slammed shut in the NGO land of no-air conditioners.
The trees are bent like rubber toys, the roses vandalized by the vicious gusts. Clank clank goes the satellite dish as it makes its way unceremoniously down the side of the building to a painful landing on the front porch of the house that serves as our office. I choke on the air. I look down at my hands. Dirty again. I washed them not thirty minutes ago. My nails look like that of a twelve-year old boy's after playing a game of rugby on the school playground. And my feet, even worse. Admittedly not as bad as Chris's whose heels have turned to frequent bleeding from the deep cuts and dried out skin. I apply cream frantically but realize I will have to get some bigger balmy guns to counteract the adverse affect that the dust and sand has on our delicate western skin.
The dust is everywhere. My nose is caked with it, my hair is an unattractive grey (like when we used to add talcum powder to our hair to give it the appearance of being grey during stage productions), and my clothes seem dull. I wonder what the purpose is of washing it and hanging it out to dry in this air. Not to mention my lungs - who knows what they must look like? I decide that my colleagues who regularly light up may have a point, smoking in Kabul might actually be good for your health.
During these frequent dust gusts people and animals scurry out of the way as they are covered in a thin layer of Kabul. The city seems to permeate completely to become a part of you. You inhale, you taste, you feel between your fingers, you wear on your clothes, your face and in your eyes. You become one with the city, through the dust. And then, as quickly as it appears, it dissapears, and life in Kabul resumes.
In my office in Kabul where I sit with my back against the window, I suddenly sense a change in weather. Without looking back, in any other location in the world, the sound I hear would be accompanied by a rain storm. In Kabul, it is a storm of a different kind: dust. And when I say dust, I refer to the complete white-out that occurs when the city surrenders to the forces of the wind. The atmosphere quickly turns from its usual grey to an almost glowing yellow as (what I imagine to be tons) of sand, dust, dirt, trash and who knows what else whizzes about frantically. Gaping doors and windows are quickly slammed shut in the NGO land of no-air conditioners.
The trees are bent like rubber toys, the roses vandalized by the vicious gusts. Clank clank goes the satellite dish as it makes its way unceremoniously down the side of the building to a painful landing on the front porch of the house that serves as our office. I choke on the air. I look down at my hands. Dirty again. I washed them not thirty minutes ago. My nails look like that of a twelve-year old boy's after playing a game of rugby on the school playground. And my feet, even worse. Admittedly not as bad as Chris's whose heels have turned to frequent bleeding from the deep cuts and dried out skin. I apply cream frantically but realize I will have to get some bigger balmy guns to counteract the adverse affect that the dust and sand has on our delicate western skin.
The dust is everywhere. My nose is caked with it, my hair is an unattractive grey (like when we used to add talcum powder to our hair to give it the appearance of being grey during stage productions), and my clothes seem dull. I wonder what the purpose is of washing it and hanging it out to dry in this air. Not to mention my lungs - who knows what they must look like? I decide that my colleagues who regularly light up may have a point, smoking in Kabul might actually be good for your health.
During these frequent dust gusts people and animals scurry out of the way as they are covered in a thin layer of Kabul. The city seems to permeate completely to become a part of you. You inhale, you taste, you feel between your fingers, you wear on your clothes, your face and in your eyes. You become one with the city, through the dust. And then, as quickly as it appears, it dissapears, and life in Kabul resumes.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Jonah, Ninewa and the Assyrians...
You know how some days you are having a quite ordinary, daily grind, nothing special kinda day. Today was no different – went to the gym for 45 mins, stuck in management training for eight hours, did a yoga DVD before heading to the 18:15 “contemporary” protestant service at the Palace. I can’t help but think how this the “Republican Palace” of Saddam Hussein, has remained exactly that, the “Republican Palace” – only now, the halls crawl with GOP ideologues here for a thrill, and for their president. This article highlights how resumes of incredibly qualified individuals were thrown out in exchange for 24-year olds who gave the right answer to where they stood on Roe vs. Wade.
Wait, this is not the reason for this post at all. But I do encourage all to read the article in the Post to understand some of the frustration we deal with everyday. Back to the reason for my writing tonight however. The sermon, and how a seemingly ordinary day, turned out to have a very special gift at the end. His name is Canon Andrew White. His 6’5” posture is overpowering, and that is before he opens his mouth. The late’ish-thirties Brit who is a visiting pastor to our largely military congregation, save for the development folks like ourselves, towers over the podium, and the congregation is glued. “How many of you were here when I talked about Jonah?”…he briefly scans the room “…ah, maaaahvelous then, you won’t mind if I repeat myself then would you?”, joking with the handful of folks that raised their hands.
He continues to explain that he will preach from the book of Nahum. Something he has done “about once, I think it was about ten years ago”. Explaining the only reason for preaching about this obscure prophet is that one of the members of his Iraqi congregation told him that he is from Ninewa.
As it is, our friend with the Monty Python sense of humor and little tolerance for unwanted political correctness, has worked in Iraq since 1998. He used to live in the Karada district in downtown Baghdad, and had a congregation on Haifa street. That was until the US Embassy told him to move his operation into the IZ after they discovered he had a $5 million bounty on his head. Pastor White continues to worship with his dedicated Iraqi congregation however, albeit within the confinement of the IZ. Every Saturday from around 10:30 or so – apparently last Saturday after 5 hours he tried using a Blessing to end the proceedings, alas, he was there for two more hours as the mostly Caldian Assyrian Christians continued to worship. I was waiting to hear where these proceedings took place so that we might attend next week, when the entire congregation went deathly silent when he explained that it actually takes place in the office of the Shiite Muslim Prime Minister. The reality of that is slow to sink in, when he continues.
People ask Pastor White, “wow, when did the Iraqis convert to Christianity”. Did the Baptists come here? He responds “sure they did, in 2003, right after the invasion – I met them at a Southern Baptist Convention in Baghdad” (sic). After all, how do you explain to people that Iraqis have been practicing Christianity for roughly 2,600 years? At the tale of Jonah and the whale the Pastor exclaims “…and to think Jonah didn’t want to come to Iraq, instead he wanted to go to Spain, I mean REALLY, who WOULDN’T want to come to Iraq???...” we laugh. He continues “not to worry, that’s when God sent him by submarine”. More laughter. The congregation is gripped with his tales of Saturday worships in the PM’s office and quick stabs like “…yes, I am indeed Anglican, but not American Anglican, I’m British Anglican, the side that still believes in the Bible”. Nervous laughter.
To listen to a man preach the Bible that spends his Saturdays working with the people who are in the Bible, is something way beyond spiritual. Just this past Saturday during his Jonah tale, he asked his congregation, “how many of you are from Ninewa” (the town Jonah was sent to save), over 60 people raised their hands…And here they were 2,600 years later. Islam has come and gone through their towns and villages, and they still worship God… and we read about them in the Bible, and they are here, in Baghdad.
I am going to try and get a copy of the service on DVD to share with those interested (and you can be sure I’m trying to go to the service in the PMs office).
Wait, this is not the reason for this post at all. But I do encourage all to read the article in the Post to understand some of the frustration we deal with everyday. Back to the reason for my writing tonight however. The sermon, and how a seemingly ordinary day, turned out to have a very special gift at the end. His name is Canon Andrew White. His 6’5” posture is overpowering, and that is before he opens his mouth. The late’ish-thirties Brit who is a visiting pastor to our largely military congregation, save for the development folks like ourselves, towers over the podium, and the congregation is glued. “How many of you were here when I talked about Jonah?”…he briefly scans the room “…ah, maaaahvelous then, you won’t mind if I repeat myself then would you?”, joking with the handful of folks that raised their hands.
He continues to explain that he will preach from the book of Nahum. Something he has done “about once, I think it was about ten years ago”. Explaining the only reason for preaching about this obscure prophet is that one of the members of his Iraqi congregation told him that he is from Ninewa.
As it is, our friend with the Monty Python sense of humor and little tolerance for unwanted political correctness, has worked in Iraq since 1998. He used to live in the Karada district in downtown Baghdad, and had a congregation on Haifa street. That was until the US Embassy told him to move his operation into the IZ after they discovered he had a $5 million bounty on his head. Pastor White continues to worship with his dedicated Iraqi congregation however, albeit within the confinement of the IZ. Every Saturday from around 10:30 or so – apparently last Saturday after 5 hours he tried using a Blessing to end the proceedings, alas, he was there for two more hours as the mostly Caldian Assyrian Christians continued to worship. I was waiting to hear where these proceedings took place so that we might attend next week, when the entire congregation went deathly silent when he explained that it actually takes place in the office of the Shiite Muslim Prime Minister. The reality of that is slow to sink in, when he continues.
People ask Pastor White, “wow, when did the Iraqis convert to Christianity”. Did the Baptists come here? He responds “sure they did, in 2003, right after the invasion – I met them at a Southern Baptist Convention in Baghdad” (sic). After all, how do you explain to people that Iraqis have been practicing Christianity for roughly 2,600 years? At the tale of Jonah and the whale the Pastor exclaims “…and to think Jonah didn’t want to come to Iraq, instead he wanted to go to Spain, I mean REALLY, who WOULDN’T want to come to Iraq???...” we laugh. He continues “not to worry, that’s when God sent him by submarine”. More laughter. The congregation is gripped with his tales of Saturday worships in the PM’s office and quick stabs like “…yes, I am indeed Anglican, but not American Anglican, I’m British Anglican, the side that still believes in the Bible”. Nervous laughter.
To listen to a man preach the Bible that spends his Saturdays working with the people who are in the Bible, is something way beyond spiritual. Just this past Saturday during his Jonah tale, he asked his congregation, “how many of you are from Ninewa” (the town Jonah was sent to save), over 60 people raised their hands…And here they were 2,600 years later. Islam has come and gone through their towns and villages, and they still worship God… and we read about them in the Bible, and they are here, in Baghdad.
I am going to try and get a copy of the service on DVD to share with those interested (and you can be sure I’m trying to go to the service in the PMs office).
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