This old woman

It is not easy to get good photographs of women in Afghanistan. They are notoriously camera-shy and frequently cover their faces whenever someone has a camera. I am extremely careful when I photograph women, and always ask their permission. But when I do get a willing subject I try to use the opportunity to portray the beauty and the variety of the women in this incredibly diverse country. I could not help but fall in love with this old woman's face, not to mention her bubbly personality....

Grassroots groups aim to resolve conflicts

Photo: After a tie for the position of deputy representative, there was a run-off election to determine the winner.

Yesterday I attended the inauguration of the female side of the Conflict Mitigation Committee of one of the sites where we are presently implementing a conflict resolution project. The premise is simple, two communities are in conflict over natural resources (in this instance the right to a river that flows near both communities), we set up a conflict mitigation committee that comprises 50% men and 50% women with equal representation for each committee. It is the task of this committee to conduct meetings to actively try and mitigate the conflict and come up with a solution. A self-identified, jointly-implemented development project acts as catalyst for the communities to work together to improving the conditions for both. These are some photos from the event; this is democracy at its truest grassroots level as women vote.

Photo: Ballots are counted for the positions of Chair, deputy Chair, and Secretary

Anyone who has worked in Afghanistan will tell you the significance of an event such as this. Not only for the overall participation of Afghans in their future and the governing of their communities, but more so even, because of the participation of women in the process. What made this particular event even more significant, was the difference between the two communities, one which is predominantly Pashtu, the vast majority ethnic group of Afghanistan, while the other is the much-discriminated against Kuchi people. In this unique instance, the mostly nomadic Kuchi community settled in this area many years ago, and is now embroiled in a conflict over natural resources with the newer, yet more powerful and more educated Pashtu community. So to bring the women from these starkly different backgrounds together in a room, and to have them vote for a joint committee to represent all of their interests, is to say the least, remarkable.

Haleh is Freed!

Some of you may recall my post about the Iranian scholar (Free Haleh! May 15, 2007) who was imprisoned by the Iranian government earlier this year while visiting her mother. I am very happy to report today that she has indeed been freed from the notoriously brutal prison where they kept her for the last few months. She has since flown to Austria, and this BBC article reports that she is due back in the US shortly.

Scholars and activists across the globe continuously face persecution for their beliefs and their work, always remember there are many people out there actively engaged in fighting for the freedoms we so often take for granted.

The ice cream shop

Despite the limitations on women, particularly in public, those fortunate to live in moderately affluent homes, manage to enjoy a fairly active social life. They have innovative ways to enjoy a day in the bazaar, shopping with friends, and even stopping for a much-needed ice cold refreshment - a welcome break from the heat of the burqa in 35+ degree Celcius weather.

This particular ice cream shop is approximately three meters wide and about twenty meters long. At about the half-way point, it is divided by a curtain that stretches across the width of the room. Women head straight for the curtain, alleviated from the heat of their chandris as they emergy on the far side to lift the blue or white burqas over their heads exposing warm and friendly faces. The room is small with tables and benches packed tightly for maximum capacity. On the walls are the faces (sometimes in erotic fashion-advertisement style) of favorite Indian movie stars. There is a plastic container with complimentary water, and soon a young boy emerges through the curtains to collect the order.

The ice cream is a somewhat icy soft-serve type served either in a pink or yellow cone, or in a bowl with a spoon. The taste has a distinc cardamom flavor, not unpleasant. I am informed that the ice cream is "from the milk from the cow."

Afghan Hospitality

Tonight, for once, being a female in Afghanistan turned out to be a good thing. I was invited to participate in a ritual that will elude many males, dinner at an Afghan colleague’s family home – with all members, including the women present.

After dropping a few local and one expat colleagues back at the office after our site visit to the Pistachio Fields, J takes me to his family home – only five minutes away from the large square building that serves as both our expat guesthouse and office in the town of Maymana in Faryab province.

The cozy family compound is situated on a busy corner in the bazaar area of Maymana. Through the entrance, past the Toyota mini van parked inside the garage we emerge on the other side into an inviting courtyard. Approximately 40m by 20m the compound consists of three sets of buildings each flanking one side, the fourth is the periphery wall facing street-side toward the busy bazaar. Against this wall I later learn, are the enclosures where J’s father-in-law houses his rooster-breeding business (he doesn’t fight them they tell me, although some of his clients purportedly do).

I am first welcomed by a pretty young woman who immediately averts her eyes when I smile at her. Not knowing exactly what is appropriate she hovers on the raised mud square that serves as the dining area, festively covered in red rugs and the habitual mattresses and lean-on pillows. I hesitate for a second then extend my hand while respectfully clasping my extended elbow with my other hand (interestingly a habit I learned from the Zulus, apparently applicable many thousands of miles away as a sign of respect).

Through a cloud of delicious aromas more women emerge from the traditional kitchen where fires ablaze a multitude of dishes are carefully being prepared for their guest. Wiping their hands on their skirts, nervously eyeing J, I continue to offer my hand, until finally I lean in and kiss one of them in the traditional manner – three times on the cheeks one on each cheek. With the ice broken a short period of usual staring ensued before they busily returned to their kitchen duties and I was ushered to a prime seat on the mattress (note to self: get sandals without a buckle for easy removal at dining opportunities).

Two young men are introduced to me as well as an older woman, J’s mother-in-law and the rightful owner/heiress of the compound. Her husband joins us and immediately starts playing with his gleeful grandson who is rolling around in a tightly rolled blanket tied with a ribbon that gives him an unmistakable Anne Geddes appearance.

The compound belongs to J’s in-laws; his mother-in-law’s family to be exact. She is one of two children, with a brother in London; she lives there with her five children (three daughters and two sons) and only son-in-law and two grandchildren. A science teacher for the past 24-years, she is an incredibly friendly woman who speaks enough English to explain how many of her old students have gone on to become engineers and doctors, and to touch on the standard questions ranging from my marital status to how many children I have, usually followed by the aghast “why?” (note to self #2: start telling people I am newly-wed, eight years without children do not translate well in a culture where we count the average family size as somewhere between six and nine).

Dinner was laid out family-style with plates of meatballs, rice, okra, and a kind of meat-filled dumpling with yogurt sauce spread across the traditional plastic tarp that is laid out before meals. Notably while most plates were spread evenly across the table, an entire set of food was placed in front of me, exclusively for me. After eating as much as I could, my insistence in sharing the food was first met with skepticism, but later appreciated by the growing teenage boys at the one end of the arrangement. J’s mother-in-law who has since firmly attached herself to my right, found great joy in watching me comfortably break off neat pieces of bread to soak up the okra sauce, intermittently asking me “is good?, is good?”.

A few bottles of Sadat “Safe and Healthy” 500ml mineral water bottles were neatly arranged on a tray for the weak expat stomach while the family drank from a pitcher of their well water. J’s two-year old was much smitten with my water bottle and continued to try and chew the top off while sitting happily on her father’s lap.

The setting was comfortable and welcoming. Family banter, kids laughing and babies crying pierced the mild evening air while the television on the porch entertained the men with an episode of an Afghan stand-up comedy show a-la Idol that depends on viewers’ text message selections at the end of the night to determine the contestants that advance to the next round. J points out his favorite, a young man with a funny hat and very elaborate hand-gestures; “from Jalalabad” he tells me, “I like him because he makes many jokes about Pakistanis.”

After dinner we drink tea and eat watermelon and another type melon akin to honeydew. The women are very curious and J translates snippets of humoristic anecdotes about husbands back and forth. I am really surprised at how open they are toward me, and just in general. As closed-in as the society appears on the outside, within the family walls the family is a unit, regardless of gender – illustrated even by a cousin discreetly breastfeeding her baby in the presence of the family. We laughed together and J's wife bullied him for not giving her enough warning of my visit to prepare an outfit for me. Speaking of outfits, I asked whether they all wear the burqa when they go out, to which they replied "of course."


This started the discussion on whether I have ever worn one, which automatically prompted a sister of the wife to go and fetch the famous blue covering associated with women's oppression the world over. A big commotion erupted as I was urged to try it on, and I gingerly obliged. Two eager helpers assisted me in pulling the surprisingly tight-fitting head piece of the burqa onto my crown, and amidst roaring laughter I clumsily pulled the rest of the blue fabric of the burqa over my head, with expected result.


One more cup of tea, many invitations to come back, and more reassurances sought about the goodness of the weather and the people of Maymana – more invitations for my return, and the presentation of a necklace as a gift from J’s wife to me.

I leave with J’s two-year old on my lap in the vehicle back to the guesthouse. There is a song in my heart as I clutch the small girl tenderly and thank J for the incredible honor and hospitality for having me over to his family’s home, the reason, I explain – for surviving the distance from my own family.

The beggar of Kabul

The car slows to a crawl at one of countless ineffective traffic circles scattered throughout Kabul. Left-indicating vehicles sporadically swerve right, while hazard-blinking vans force their way straight, all the while bicyclists risk it all for point B.

Near the yet-to-be-completed “pink” Mosque (not officially known as such, but it seems fitting since Mazar has a “blue” version), she emerges from behind a large official vehicle with tinted windows. Her dirty blue burqa outdone only by the filthy rag wrapped around her left hand. Her right hand extends in my direction. The hand is much older than she. Dirt occupies the thickened nails and prominent cracks in the skin. When last did this hand see water, or a decent meal?

Entering the campus gates of Kabul University, amazingly on time for my meeting with the good professor of History who agreed to see me on such short notice, the hand haunts me. Passing a smattering of burqas, but clearly more young women enrolled in a more modern outlook on life, I wonder about it. This hand so permanently cupped in the action of begging for survival. This hand caked in the dregs of society’s unwanted discards. This hand so randomly attached to this image, this woman, this person. Has it ever been loved, and has it ever loved someone.

This woman comes to represent not only the poor, not only the women, but much more of Afghanistan to me. I don’t even know what she looks like, but I think of her today shielded from the world, or perhaps the world shielded from her, as the beggar of Kabul continues with her day, and I have to with mine.

Lady of the House

Beautiful Kurdish mother and wife.