30 Days in Afghanistan - The Boy, The Burqa Lady, and The Dar-Ul Aman Families

He can't be more than 14 or 15 years old, I wince every morning as the company car takes the turn onto the intersection he waits at. He's not waiting for me, I don't think he'd remember me, I'm just another company man, driving in the back of a company SUV, like the many ahead and behind me. He knows that the company cars carry men with money, and he waits for any of the company cars that slow down, or get stuck in traffic.

When my car first got stuck in traffic, he ran up to my window, his extremely short arms flailing on his sides. He stood at my window, looking at me, I asked the driver to wait, while I hit the button to lower the window. I took out 40 Afghanis and handed it to him, he reached up with his short arms, I lowered my hands further, and he grabbed the bills. His face expressed gratitude, then he spun around and ran back to his position between the intersection, while we started rolling again. For the rest of the ride to the office, I tried to push him to the back of my mind, but his face has kept coming back up in my mind. He's about 14 or 15, and his arms are abnormally short, probably a birth defect, and his job is to stand all day under the scorching sun, and beg for survival.

Most days I try to brace myself for that street corner, and on the days that I don't see him, I hope I will the next day. He's a part of my daily drive to the office, just like the teenager selling Areeba calling cards on the side of the street, the store owners keeping shop, the school children walking to school, the street vendors pushing carts of vegetables, fruits and other items for sale, and all the other Afghans who make up my vista each day and night. I see them when I leave in the morning, and I see them again, still waiting, still selling, still standing under the sun, when I'm tired at the end of the day from sitting and attending meetings all day.

I carry a wad of rolled up 20 Afghani bills with me all the time. I hand out these bills from my car window when a woman, or child approaches the car. The drivers have gotten used to me asking them to stop at least a few times en route to my destinations. On a recent trip, while stuck in traffic, a boy approached my window, as usual I lowered my window, fished a few bills, and handed it to him. His dirty face smiled, but was soon replaced by three other boys, all dirty faces, dirty clothes, and pushing each other to get in front of me. My driver jerked the car forward, I asked him to wait, took out a few more Afghanis, and handed a bill to each kid. No sooner had I finished, that a growing crowd of kids, boys and girls began clambering to my side of the car. Dirty hands reaching into the window, open palms, and pained expressions on their faces, each child pushing the other to get in front of me. The security gaurd in the front seat, rolled down his window, and started shouting at them in Dari. The driver, used the master control of the window and started rolling my window, one of the kids hands stuck at the top of the window, I lowered it, and he pulled his hand back.

Our car, stuck between vehicles in front and behind us. I never felt as if I were in danger, they were just kids, what I felt was helplessness. I could empty my wallet in five minutes, and there would still more open hands, and hungry faces. The driver honked and maneuvered sharply to find an open space, and we started moving forward, as we drove, the kids ran beside the car, still begging, until they could not keep up with the pace of the car.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in a meeting discussing capacity planning with a bunch of business men, trying to ignore the everyday dilemma of the streets. How do I do that? Some days are better than others. You have to go on, you have to ignore what you see, you do what you can, and you move on, what other choice do you have?

The Row

There's a large square in downtown Kabul, with a large bazar filled with shops surround the square, congested with traffic and people, I pass by this square once a week or so. On one side of the square, there's a row of invalids and beggars that line the street. They sit on the hot ashpalt of the street, and beg for their lives all day. They are harder to ignore, I can't say that I've gotten used to them, will there ever be a time I'll also ignore them like most people swarming through the street?

There's an old man who sits quietly, arm extended waiting for a few pennies, between these beggars, there's one that disturbs me more than the others, and she has stayed with me from the first day I saw her. A blue burqa, like so many blue burqas in Kabul. But this burqa is worn by a woman sitting on the street, and half of it is raised over her lap, and what I see on resting on her lap, is carved into my consious, and is a memory that will leave with me from this place. It will stay with me long after I've forgotten many things about this country, a small bundle resting on her lap, breathing slowly in and out, chest rising up and down with each breath, a child. An infant, asleep in the unbearable heat of the day, and around it's head rolls of surgical gauze. I ask my driver to stop again, the security guy and I get out, and I hand over some bills to her, and the others nearby. Who the hell am I to have this money to give? Am I just adding a drop into this chasm? I don't know, but I'm doing what I can, I'm trying to forget these things, trying to move on, but they keep bubbling back up.

Living in the Shell of Dar-ul Aman

There's a place where some of the heaviest fighting during the Soviet and civil wars took place. The Dar-ul Aman palace was once a wonderous palace, splendour and grand regality built by King Amanullah Khan in the 1920's. Now I walk through the bombed out and mortar shelled area, buildings reduced to piles of debris, and crumbling rocks. The palace is a shell of it's former self, it's enclosed within a fence, with gaurds posted at corners with Klashnikovs. I don't know what they're protecting, the building's in such ruin, they might as well level it and start again. Surrounding the palace, all buildings are destroyed, I can see the holes from tank shells, and machine guns bullet holes in almost every wall of the buildings. The dust sweeps through the brick skeletons. I ask the driver to wander through some of the lost neighborhood streets. He weaves the SUV through what remains of a street, and drives arounds buidling foundations. Wall crumble around us. I ask him to stop, we get out.

I decide to walk around a little, the security gaurd asks the driver if he's sure that the mines have been cleared. the driver responds, "Yes". I walk through the debris, I can't tell where the street ends and houses begin, everythings flattened to the ground. The three of us walk further into the neighborhood, we come across a row of rooms against a long wall of what was once a building. As I climb over a small hill, the stench of human feces, causes me to hold my breath, and walk over. We come across some kids, a girl maybe close to ten, and a younger boy, maybe five, they could be brother and sister. I ask them their names, one of the guys with me translates, they're shy, and start giggling, I take some pictures of them, they pose for the camera. I show them their pictures on my camera screen, and they smile at themselves.

From one of the rooms behind them, a man comes out, holding a baby, and I see a few women peeking out from some of the other rooms. "Salam Alaikum", I say, he responds, coming in our direction. "Do you live here?", I ask him an obvious question, he does, and he tells us, how his family, and a dozen others have taken over these bombed out dilapidated rooms, because they have nowhere else to live in the city. Now that there's been an introduction, some of the women start coming over, and more kids. I ask them their names, and their ages, and how long they've been here. I take pictures of the kids, of the man and his baby. I ask permission to take pictures of the women, and they allow me to take the shots, I shoot, I look at their faces, I see the kids, and I shoot some more.

I thank them for their time, and take out some money, and give enough to go around, the driver translates and tells them they should share the money equally. They thank us. We walk back to our car, their kids follow us back to the car. I take a picture of an exploded tank shell on the floor near the house. We get in the car, wave at the kids, they wave back, and we drive out from the neighborhood. On the way back the driver tells me, that they thought I was with the government, there to ask them questions, so I could provide aid to the families. I sit silent in the back of the car, as we drive past the debris, and the city suburb that's been shot to hell.

I Am Aware

I am an IT project manager, I am a Canadian, I am here to work, I am not here to save the world. But I make sure I always have a roll of small denominations with me at all times. I stop the car to hand them out, not because I am some kind of saviour, but because I am human. I am aware that an Afghan lady at my office had a toothache that hurt so bad, that one of us found her kneeling in pain in a stairwell, she can't afford the day off. I am aware that whenever I pass that main square there's a small boy who lies on the hot sidewalk bare-chested, I'm not sure if he's lost his mind, or if he just doesn't care about the burning heat. I am aware that the blue burqa lady's child was asleep both times I've seen them. I am aware of the boy in my path everyday that has disfigured arms. I am aware that the cleaning ladies that wash my clothes make a pittance of wages, and so do the drivers, the cooks, the security gaurds, and most Afghans. I am aware of all this.

I am also aware that there are heroes here. Heroes who choose to fight against the worst that humaity throws at them. I am aware of men like Destagir who runs Islamic Relief Afghanistan, and gets help for kids and women, who drives to the provines to establish an opium addict recovery center. I am aware of women like Kerry Jane Wilson, who runs Zardozi, a shop that sells clothing made by Afghan widows and refugees. I am aware of men like Rory Stewart, the New York Times bestseller, who established Turquoise Mountain to preserve the old city, and help the people of Kabul. I am aware of men like Jonathan Hoffman, who runs Direct Aid International, and takes a month off teaching every year in Vermont to fly into this country, so he could set up schools in remote villages for Afghans. And I'm aware of men like Greg Mortenson, who risks his life to go where others won't, to educate young Afghan girls, and raise hope for fogotten villages. I am aware that there are people here to save the world.


Dari proverb, "Drop by drop it becomes a river."

Ed Note: If you feel obliged to do something to help these souls, please contact these organizations, and tell others about them.

Islamic Relief Afghanistan

http://www.islamic-relief.com/submenu/Appeal/afghanistan.htm

Zardozi

www.afghan-artisans.org

Turquoise Mountain

http://www.turquoisemountain.org

Direct Aid International

http://directaidinternational.org

Greg Mortenson

http://www.ikat.org