Ramblings and somewhat self-important reflections!

Somewhere in between our visit to Delhi during the first elections and the announcement of the forthcoming second round next month, we celebrated one year of being here in Afghanistan. We’ve seen four seasons of the Afghan climate; snow, dust, storms and sun, lived in three different places, made and said goodbye to many friends and celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary. Some days have felt like a week, some weeks like a day!

Today we are both suffering from dry hands, faces and lips. The roses might still be in bloom, but recently the temperature has plummeted so that today feels like a late November day in Britain. We have just stopped eating our meals outside which brings an official end to what I was still calling the summer just a couple of weeks ago! Suddenly the mosquito nets have been taken down to be replaced by the bukhari sawdust stoves that we used last winter.

I’m still amazed and slightly embarrassed by the wonderful place where we live. Sitting in our new living room in the far corner of the courtyard sun is streaming in through the windows partially covered by morning glory. There are bright red pomegranates and furry green quinces on the trees and the scent of basil hangs in the air. Men are on the roof above my head laying down a fresh coat of mud and straw in preparation for the winter weather. It has always been a great relief to arrive home from work every afternoon. Immediately the dust disappears, I push off my headscarf and Pahlawan the dog comes to walk me home to our front door. Kaka (Uncle) Nabi will have carefully arranged our shoes in a neat line by our door and the bathroom will be gleaming. I remind myself to enjoy it while it lasts – we won’t live like this again, free of housework, cooking and utility bills for a long time (if ever)!

I was telling my mum and dad the other day how the time here seems to go by in waves of highs and lows. I don’t think I’m the only one who experiences this. Ex-pat workers who have happily been here for years will suddenly announce one day that they’re leaving Afghanistan – the next day they’re gone. And yet a satisfying day’s work will enthuse a person enough to argue, rant and rave for hours at dinner time, encouraged by their colleagues who have equally exciting stories to tell. Some days I arrive at my workplace and cringe – the last thing I want to do is to have to pretend not to notice the incessant stares and exclamations of kharigi (foreigner) wherever I go. I dread a knock at my office door, knowing it’s the 200th student coming to ask for an impossible group change. I’d like nothing better than to fly off to Dubai and indulge myself in the real world (ironic, as Dubai couldn’t be any more synthetic). Other days I must have taken my aid worker pill – I love seeing boys selling balloons, colourful kite shops, marble workshops, three people crammed onto a motorbike and old German buses that have been decorated with elaborate designs and names, often mis-spelled, like “Horny Bus” and “Fart Bus”. I love working with our student teachers who are so enthusiastic to learn and teach. I’m proud to see that our project is moving faster and more efficiently than many other foreign-funded programs in the country, and on a fraction of the budget.

Funny then, that I’ve never really noticed an Afghan going through these same highs and lows. In fact I find Afghans to be very passive people, happy to sit and wait it out. Wait what out? Well… the conflict, the day, life itself … I know very little about the subject, but I imagine this might be an illustration of traumatised society. People who had everything in their lives turned upside-down, and now that normality has returned they don’t know where to pick up again. It’s the ‘not knowing where to start’ feeling that we all have when faced with a huge amount of work lying ahead. The passiveness has varying levels of intensity. Mostly it’s the older generation that I notice – men squatting by the side of a road, seemingly waiting for absolutely nothing, women sitting in a dark corridor watching the people come and go.

What gives me hope for Afghanistan are the young people. The university graduates, male and female, who all express a deep desire to serve their people and country in the future. Young men and women who want to get to know me and the culture that I come from. I am privileged to work with them, impressed by their diligence in attending training sessions, planning and delivering lessons during their free time. Many of them do this alongside their final year studies. These are the future teachers, lecturers, managers and politicians of this country and they hold its destiny in their hands.

So when I have a low day I very quickly have to kick myself. I remember that I can home one day, back to what is comfortable and easy, back to my family and friends. But until then I have precious days in which to make a difference. It doesn’t matter if I stick out like a sore thumb – the kharigi – what matters is sharing what I have learnt from a privileged Western education and helping my colleagues here to become the best that they can possibly be!