ENVOYfilms.com

Re: A post I just did on Quitnet.com (quitting my cigarettes 10 yrs ago)

2009-05-11T21:46:00.001-06:00

don't worry Sonia bhabhi .... he has other things which can make one very uncomfortable too :p

On Mon, May 11, 2009 at 10:44 PM, Sonia Laflamme <sonia@envoyfilms.com> wrote:

Okay Nikhat, take it easy, his head will get BIG, I have to live with him J lolol!

Seriously, I am very proud of him too.

From: Nikhat Qureshi [mailto:nikhatq@gmail.com]
Sent: Monday, May 11, 2009 10:42 PM
To: naeem@envoyfilms.com
Cc: Naeem Randhawa; family@envoyfilms.com
Subject: Re: A post I just did on Quitnet.com (quitting my cigarettes 10 yrs ago)

Jazak Allah Khair Naeem bhai for sharing such wonderful email I must say it didnt only address those who smoke but others like me who don't, with the last part of the email.

Thank you and congratulations for 10 years of your success mashAllah. One thing I always tell Imran about you is that there are very few people I know in my life who are determined and hardworking and Naeem bhai is one of them...as when you put your mind to something you DO IT. MashaAllah.

On Mon, May 11, 2009 at 9:16 PM, Naeem Randhawa <naeem@envoyfilms.com> wrote:

Hi folks;

I was thinking about you a couple of days ago, and felt compelled to write in, to share some (humble) advice, for those clutching at straws and desperate threads – just as I did when I started on this path to quit many moons ago. First my stats:

1.      Quit 3141 days.

2.      $25,520.62 saved

3.      20 months of life saved

I'm coming up on my 10 yr anniversary this October – I can't believe it's been that long. I'm not sure what I'm more happier with: The money, it ain't chump change? The fact that I no longer am an outcast? The fact that I can jog without heaving my lungs out? The fact that I don't feel like SH*T everyday? Maybe it's all those things, and maybe it's the fact that when I pick up my 3 year old boy, Zak, and swing him in my arms – I know that I'm not cheating him of our life.

You're not going to quit because, someone tells you to, you're not going to quit because you read something, you'll quit because at some point in time, after all the failures, time and time again, you'll wake up one day – and just as plain as day, quit. You'll quit because you decide one day that you have a fraction more of strength you didn't have the day before, and that'll push the pack back into the recess. You'll quit because, even though you did quit many times before, you'll win a small victory this time, and your will power will use another small victory to build a little momentum. You'll tread carefully, you'll slowly put the little victories together. No need to make loud statements, just be humble, and remember the bigger picture. Bit by bit, little by little.

I'll leave you with two of my favorite quotes; the first is from a story I heard. Long ago, in a Muslim land, a restless King asked scholars to give him something that would bring hope through the ups and downs in his life. They gave him a ring, and on it inscribed "This Too Shall Pass". The second, was in 2007, as I travelled in Kabul and other cities in war torn Afghanistan, I learned of a Dari proverb, "Drop by drop it makes a river."

Salam, Cheers, Shalom;

_naeem

--
Sincerely, Nikhat

Put aside your pride,
Set down your arrogance,
And remember your grave.
- Ali ibn Abu Talib (radiAllahu anhu)

No virus found in this incoming message.
Checked by AVG - www.avg.com
Version: 8.5.320 / Virus Database: 270.12.24/2108 - Release Date: 05/11/09 16:14:00

--
Sincerely, Nikhat

Put aside your pride,
Set down your arrogance,
And remember your grave.
- Ali ibn Abu Talib (radiAllahu anhu)

RE: A post I just did on Quitnet.com (quitting my cigarettes 10 yrs ago)

2009-05-11T21:44:00.001-06:00

Okay Nikhat, take it easy, his head will get BIG, I have to live with him J lolol!

Seriously, I am very proud of him too.

From: Nikhat Qureshi [mailto:nikhatq@gmail.com]
Sent: Monday, May 11, 2009 10:42 PM
To: naeem@envoyfilms.com
Cc: Naeem Randhawa; family@envoyfilms.com
Subject: Re: A post I just did on Quitnet.com (quitting my cigarettes 10 yrs ago)

Jazak Allah Khair Naeem bhai for sharing such wonderful email I must say it didnt only address those who smoke but others like me who don't, with the last part of the email.

Thank you and congratulations for 10 years of your success mashAllah. One thing I always tell Imran about you is that there are very few people I know in my life who are determined and hardworking and Naeem bhai is one of them...as when you put your mind to something you DO IT. MashaAllah.

On Mon, May 11, 2009 at 9:16 PM, Naeem Randhawa <naeem@envoyfilms.com> wrote:

Hi folks;

I was thinking about you a couple of days ago, and felt compelled to write in, to share some (humble) advice, for those clutching at straws and desperate threads – just as I did when I started on this path to quit many moons ago. First my stats:

1. Quit 3141 days.

2. $25,520.62 saved

3. 20 months of life saved

I’m coming up on my 10 yr anniversary this October – I can’t believe it’s been that long. I’m not sure what I’m more happier with: The money, it ain’t chump change? The fact that I no longer am an outcast? The fact that I can jog without heaving my lungs out? The fact that I don’t feel like SH*T everyday? Maybe it’s all those things, and maybe it’s the fact that when I pick up my 3 year old boy, Zak, and swing him in my arms – I know that I’m not cheating him of our life.

You’re not going to quit because, someone tells you to, you’re not going to quit because you read something, you’ll quit because at some point in time, after all the failures, time and time again, you’ll wake up one day – and just as plain as day, quit. You’ll quit because you decide one day that you have a fraction more of strength you didn’t have the day before, and that’ll push the pack back into the recess. You’ll quit because, even though you did quit many times before, you’ll win a small victory this time, and your will power will use another small victory to build a little momentum. You’ll tread carefully, you’ll slowly put the little victories together. No need to make loud statements, just be humble, and remember the bigger picture. Bit by bit, little by little.

I’ll leave you with two of my favorite quotes; the first is from a story I heard. Long ago, in a Muslim land, a restless King asked scholars to give him something that would bring hope through the ups and downs in his life. They gave him a ring, and on it inscribed “This Too Shall Pass”. The second, was in 2007, as I travelled in Kabul and other cities in war torn Afghanistan, I learned of a Dari proverb, “Drop by drop it makes a river.”

Salam, Cheers, Shalom;

_naeem

--
Sincerely, Nikhat

Put aside your pride,
Set down your arrogance,
And remember your grave.
- Ali ibn Abu Talib (radiAllahu anhu)

No virus found in this incoming message.
Checked by AVG - www.avg.com
Version: 8.5.320 / Virus Database: 270.12.24/2108 - Release Date: 05/11/09 16:14:00

Re: A post I just did on Quitnet.com (quitting my cigarettes 10 yrs ago)

2009-05-11T21:41:00.001-06:00

Jazak Allah Khair Naeem bhai for sharing such wonderful email I must say it didnt only address those who smoke but others like me who don't, with the last part of the email.

On Mon, May 11, 2009 at 9:16 PM, Naeem Randhawa <naeem@envoyfilms.com> wrote:

Hi folks;

I was thinking about you a couple of days ago, and felt compelled to write in, to share some (humble) advice, for those clutching at straws and desperate threads – just as I did when I started on this path to quit many moons ago. First my stats:

1.      Quit 3141 days.

2.      $25,520.62 saved

3.      20 months of life saved

I'm coming up on my 10 yr anniversary this October – I can't believe it's been that long. I'm not sure what I'm more happier with: The money, it ain't chump change? The fact that I no longer am an outcast? The fact that I can jog without heaving my lungs out? The fact that I don't feel like SH*T everyday? Maybe it's all those things, and maybe it's the fact that when I pick up my 3 year old boy, Zak, and swing him in my arms – I know that I'm not cheating him of our life.

You're not going to quit because, someone tells you to, you're not going to quit because you read something, you'll quit because at some point in time, after all the failures, time and time again, you'll wake up one day – and just as plain as day, quit. You'll quit because you decide one day that you have a fraction more of strength you didn't have the day before, and that'll push the pack back into the recess. You'll quit because, even though you did quit many times before, you'll win a small victory this time, and your will power will use another small victory to build a little momentum. You'll tread carefully, you'll slowly put the little victories together. No need to make loud statements, just be humble, and remember the bigger picture. Bit by bit, little by little.

I'll leave you with two of my favorite quotes; the first is from a story I heard. Long ago, in a Muslim land, a restless King asked scholars to give him something that would bring hope through the ups and downs in his life. They gave him a ring, and on it inscribed "This Too Shall Pass". The second, was in 2007, as I travelled in Kabul and other cities in war torn Afghanistan, I learned of a Dari proverb, "Drop by drop it makes a river."

Salam, Cheers, Shalom;

_naeem

--
Sincerely, Nikhat

Put aside your pride,
Set down your arrogance,
And remember your grave.
- Ali ibn Abu Talib (radiAllahu anhu)

A post I just did on Quitnet.com (quitting my cigarettes 10 yrs ago)

2009-05-11T20:16:00.001-06:00

Hi folks;

1. Quit 3141 days.

2. $25,520.62 saved

3. 20 months of life saved

Salam, Cheers, Shalom;

_naeem

Day 9: Kabul to Bamyan

2008-07-12T12:47:00.001-06:00

Kabul

Naeem Randhawa

July 12, 2008

Note: The name of the American has been changed for security reasons.

Meeting the Hazaras

The crew, including drivers, security and translator are waiting in the lobby at the Mustafa Hotel in downtown Kabul. My head filled with sleep, I briskly walk past them, not noticing the group. It's four-thirty in the morning, and I've only gotten three hours of sleep last night. I've been told that getting an early start will work to our advantage against the sun and heat of the day. I head up to Jefferson's room on the third floor, lugging a hardcase with my Sony HD cameras, a tripod, a backpack containing bare essentials - one change of clothes, toiletries, and my laptop. I get to his door, breathing heavy, his door's open, and he's finishing packing.

We move quickly. I call Imal, the photographer I hired, and he says he'll be here in 10 minutes - everyone's on time. Jefferson, asks if I bought a shalwar kameez, I tell him no. Between running interviews all day, every day this week, I just didn't make the time to buy anything. Jefferson snaps "I told you to buy it, you had all week!" He hands me an extra pair of his, and commands, "Put this on!" I tell him to relax, which only exasperates the situation. He replies, "If you don't put it on, I swear I'll leave you here!" At this point, we've only spent a few days together, and we've gotten along pretty good, but I don't respond well to demands or ultimatums. I do give in though, and change into the shalwar kameez, it seems a little over the top, but if he's been to the villages, I give him the benefit of doubt; he knows more about security than I do.

We finish organizing our gear, and head down. In the lobby, Jefferson introduces me to the crew I walked past, they look at me again, and I greet them realizing my absent mindedness. I need to be more alert, this trip requires it. The one looking like the leader of the pack is Chenghis, a Hazara, who's a spitting image of Genghis Khan, with a ferocious fu-man-chu mustache, over-sized turban, and an imposing demeanor. Even though, he's smaller than me in stature, he's not the kind of guy I'd want to face in any kind of altercation; he looks like he means serious business. His comrades include, Biani, another Hazara, who looks like a likeable guy, but serious enough under the friendly smile, and a third guy, Jawaal, a younger image of Genghis Khan again. He's Biani's younger brother, in his twenties, long, smooth hair down past his shoulders, and a thin mustache. The three Hazaras will drive us to our destination, into the province of Ghazni, to the villages where Jonathan is funding one school, and my family is funding a second.

With little sleep between us, Jefferson, Imal and I climb into the two Toyota Helix Surfs (off road SUVs sold in Japan and this part of the world). Jefferson, Chenghis and Biani in the first, and Jawaal, Imal and I in the second, the Hazaras look like they've slept all night, even though they've driven all night to get to us from the next province. Jonathan, Imal and I try to kill the rest of the sleep hanging on us. In the dark, with first light minutes away, we drive off.

Filming at Dawn

An hour later we're on the outskirts of Kabul, traffic's light, the early morning air's cool, I decide to do some filming. Chenghis decides it's safe, and allows me to film; I film through the windshield and out the passenger window of the second SUV. Fifteen minutes later, we pull over for water bottles for the long drive; I swap vehicles, and get into the first car. We start rolling again, and ironically the song blaring from the car sereo is Pink Floyd, "We don't need no education, we don't need no self control". Jefferson's a teacher, we're here to build two schools, and Jefferson bought this tape, which ends up as one of the first songs on the trip.

Pink Floyd finishes, and Jefferson pops in Billy Idol, we know the music is driving the Hazaras crazy, but soon enough they'll tire of our music, and we'll be stuck listening to their stuff. Throughout the trip, it's a running joke to see who gets to shove a new tape in, when the one playing ends. I open the sunroof, with one foot on the passenger seat, and one on the floorboard in the back, I stick myself out through the sunroof into the rushing air, and I pull the camera up, and start shooting film. The opportunity is too great, and I want the shot. The SUVs speed ahead on the paved road, pulling from behind big rigs, passenger vans, and other motorists. I see the surprised looks from the other cars - two SUVs, Hazara bearded men driving and speeding past them, and a crazy guy sticking half way out the sunroof, with a camera pointing at them and the road behind and ahead of the convoy.

Soon, the paved road ends, and we hit dirt. This country needs roads like a fish needs water, aside from some major roads in the larger cities, and the ring road outside Kabul, most of the roads are dirt, riddled with potholes, and every conceivable obstacle - rocks, detours, puddles, abandoned vehicles, and other surprises. The drive from Kabul to Bamyan would probably take a couple of hours in America or Europe, here we're optimistically hoping for six hours. From Bamyan, we'll drive on to Ghazni province - we're taking the longer route, because of recent battles in the villages on the more direct route. Villages fight and kill each other, and everyone pays the price.

Afghanistan doesn't just have some mountains, the country is mountains, no matter where you are, mountains surround you. Kabul is a bowl, in a ring of mountains; you see it from every part of the city. As we leave the city behind, the population of people and infrastructure become sparser. Stretches of brown and gray fields of low desert vegetation, dust, sand, and rocks cover the scenery on either side of us. Mountains and hills tower in the distance on the horizon. All along the highway, occasional mud huts, shops, and bazaars pop up at irregular intervals. Farms with fields of green crops line parts of the landscape, farmers dressed in traditional Afghan garb of shalwar kameez and turbans. Women in bright colors, with shawls or head covering tightly drawn around their faces gather the yield of the season, its harvest time. Nomads tend to sheep, grazing vegetation, and roaming the land. I observe all these sights, and soak in the apparent simplicity of the land, knowing that simple is furthest from what these people live through.

Driving to Bamyan

By early afternoon, the midday sun is out and we're hungry and getting hot. Bottled water is available; however finding anything to eat is usually a challenge for us outsiders. Our local crew can just pull up anywhere, and eat, but because we Westerners don't have the immunity of the locals, we avoid anything that might knock us out, including any meats and uncooked vegetables. The sanitary condition of food in third world countries is a big issue, although the quality of the food is actually better than we eat with much fewer pesticides and chemical treatments than our food. If you get food that is well washed, and prepared, a tasty meal in Afghanistan rivals any top tier restaurant meal in America. The problem is how the food is handled, it's a common sight to see big sides and chunks of beef and lamb hanging on hooks outside butcher shops, out in the open, exposed to exhaust from cars, dust, shoppers hands checking for quality, flies, and whatever else is passing by. Most outsiders end up eating at a dozen or so restaurants that cater specifically to them, with ex-pat adjusted pricing. So, while the locals might pay a few Afghanis for a burger, you'll easily pay four of five times the price, from the exclusive restaurants. Of course, some people who stay there for a while do build up their immunity, and have no issues with local fare, but most short-term visitors have a big issue eating outside of the big cities, as eating becomes a risky business. We end up skipping breakfast, lunch, and hope for a decent dinner, when we'll arrive at the hotel later in the day.

My mood's been getting worse since the morning, starting with the exchange with Jefferson in the morning. On top of that, I'm feeling more of an outsider than a part of the crew. It's expected, Jefferson has been working with these guys for almost seven years, and now I arrive out of the blue, it would be expected that some adjustment would need to be made. Still, I'm feeling out of place, and I express it every chance I get. Jawaal plays the radio too loud, I tell him to turn it down. Jawaal follows the first car too closely, and we're eating dust, I tell him to keep more distance between us. We stop for water, or bathroom breaks, I get out of the car, but am not interested in chatter with anyone. Jefferson comes over, checking up on us, I get into an argument with him about overpaying for the two cars. We're hungry, and tired after hours of driving and bouncing around, and I'm beginning to wonder if this trip was a good decision.

Jawaal pulls the car over, we've got a flat. The SUVs stop and the Hazaras look at the flat, and start fixing the tire. The cars may be old, and not in the best shape, but these guys are geniuses when it comes to car repairs. We're a couple of hours from our destination, when we come to another stop. A lone policeman tells us the road ahead is blocked, and we'll have to wait or try another route. On the route, some local tribes are warring, and anyone going through risks getting caught in gunfire from either side. Sunnis against Shias, Hazaras against Kuchis, village against village, Pashtuns against Hazaras, whatever it is - it doesn't take much to start a war. There's a running stream close by, we wash our dirt filled faces, and cool off a bit. Jefferson and I don't drink the water, not knowing the purity or what contaminants might be in the water. After some discussions with the locals, Chenghis decides we'll take the alternative route. The six hour ride just turned into a nine to ten hour drive. We were hoping to get into Bamyan in the early afternoon, it looks like we'll get there sometime in the evening now.

The alternate route is through more villages, and is used less frequently, it's bumpier, and slower going. Going off road for a few hours is fun, doing it all day, becomes tiring, and aggravating. When the car is dodging, potholes, mounting small hills, or dipping into a larger hole continuously, you can't pass the time by reading or writing. You can't sleep either, I close my eyes, and rest my head against the headrest, and a bump in the road will come along, whipping my head against the side of the car, or against the headrest itself. A few times I did bang my head against the inside of the car, and it isn't any fun. After a while, your head starts hurting, from your brain and entire body shaking for hours. Multiply that with six guys, who haven't eaten all day, are hot and sweating, and you begin to see how everyone can be edgy and nerves are frazzled.

Frenchmen Stuck in the Mud

A few more hours pass, the cars pull over again. Army vehicles are coming up the road, and they're pulling aside all traffic. We pull over, and get out, joining others, a passenger van, some Toyotas, and a couple of motorcycles. After some exchanges between our crew, and the army guys, we learn there's a French forces personal carrier stuck in the ditch up ahead, and they're trying to get it out. Until it’s out, everyone waits. It's too hot to stay in the car, everyone gets out. We hang out at the side of the road, we're in farmland. Our crew decides to walk ahead and see the commotion. Jefferson comes by to see Imal and me - and reminds us sternly that we shouldn't film anything, or take pictures. It's not so much what he's telling us to do, as it is, his presumption and ordering that I'm having real issues with. An American telling me what it's like in the villages of Afghanistan, just because he's been here a few summers? Or, him telling Imal, who's an Afghan and lives here? Seems like typical American behavior, and it's beginning to really grind into me.

We walk onwards a few hundred yards, and see the Renault military carrier stuck halfway into the ditch, with other military vehicles around it. There's chains tied to it, and the other vehicles are trying to pull it out. The scene gets a few chuckles from our crew, we can see why the French wouldn't want any pictures of this, I'm sure jokes about French driving and Afghan roads are going around in Dari. Imal has his camera, and sneaks in a few good pictures, Jefferson's not around. We sit around, and after a few hours of trials and errors, a surprised look as I speak French to one of the soldiers, and a few more incognito pictures by Imal - the carrier is finally out. All the cars load up, and we're off again, after losing another three hours. At this rate, I'm wondering if we'll get to Bamyan at all today.

More bumps, more sweating, more hunger, and more aggravation between the crew. I'm thinking about the differences between the two military forces we just crossed. The French forces were accompanying the Afghan national army; they had the latest gear in their vehicle, clothing, ammunition, guns, and looked to be in generally good health. By contrast, the Afghan soldiers had very basic vehicles, older models of guns, Kalashnikovs, trucks looked older, no personal or anti-tank carriers, and they looked weak and unfed. While we were waiting for the clearing, we spent some time with the Afghan soldiers, and struck up a conversation. Although, the commander wouldn't allow me an official interview, they were happy to have their picture taken. We chatted about our work, and their mission. One of the soldiers, Azizullah spoke Urdu, and became my go-between for conversations. After chatting for a while, he lay down, and fell into a small fever, he had diabetes, and hadn't eaten all day, he needed some treatment. Their medic came by, with a basic first-ad kit, and got an IV drip going for him. I handed him what water we had left, and a few crackers from our car.

I tried to put their life in perspective, but had a lot of trouble trying to understand it. The typical Afghan soldier made about a hundred dollars a month. Whenever we ate at one of the ex-pat restaurants, we could easily spend half of that on a single meal. Even spending money as a local, I couldn't see how these guys could survive on that little. On top of that, these guys had one of the riskiest jobs in the country, fighting the Taliban. Each one of them carried a thousand dollar price tag on their head. The Taliban had money, and set reward amounts for each position within the army, the higher your rank in the army, the more you were worth, alive or dead. In a country where, money is hard to come by, this was truly putting your life at risk everyday. Who knows when a Taliban sympathizer might decide than a thousand bucks for a soldier's head would be worth the trouble of an ambush? Azizullah finished the IV drip, ate a few cookies and passed the rest to his fellow soldiers. Of course being soldiers, everyone mercilessly started picking on each other, and we joined in. We got them to pose for some photos with us, and when the stuck vehicle cleared, we wished them luck, and went our way.

Colder Evening Drive and Making Washers

As evening arrives, we're riding further into rough country. The road passes through large plains, over mountain passes, mud hut villages and farms following the water paths between mountains. Life is more remote here, we pass time without seeing another vehicle or soul, and feel alone and vulnerable. We've been climbing to a higher elevation, over ten thousand feet, and the evening brings in cold air, from the open fields, we're all wearing shalwar kameez, and they are not much protection against the climate. We roll up the windows, the heat from the truck's engine, adds some warmth inside the cab. Every so often Jawaal lights up a smoke, and I crack my window open, the smoke doesn't seem to bother him, but I have trouble breathing. He smokes, and I freeze, with the window open, until he's done. At this point, he's been driving since five this morning, and I figure he can do whatever he wants, just so we can get there. My freezing for a few minutes is a minor inconvenience.

Coming down a steep hill, we stop at a passing creek, and the drivers need to take a break, we use the chance to stretch our sore legs. Mercifully, the constant bumping up-down and sideways motion comes to a stop for a few moments. We wash our faces; wipe the dust from our hair and clothes. Biani prays. I follow him, and offer the evening prayer, after washing in the stream. We're thirsty, and have no water, but hopefully that'll change when we reach Bamyan within a few more hours. At this point we hope to get in to the city in time to eat dinner and sleep. We've been on the road for more than fifteen hours, with a few unexpected stops.

An hour back on the road, and we're in the dark, the road ahead illuminated momentarily by the car headlights. Moonlight provides a ghostly light over the hills, and the stars are out. We continue to weave across the rough road, up and down over trails across the mountainous terrain. I'm in Chenghis' car now, we switched at the stream, and I needed a break from Jawaal's smoking and blaring radio. All of a sudden, Chenghis hits the brakes hard, and we come to a quick halt, the tires lock, as we skid a few feet. We're on a small hill, and the car is facing the edge, we're resting a few feet from the edge. The edge dips to a gentle slope, Chenghis has lost steering, and the steering wheel is completely free of the wheels. The other SUV comes to a stop behind us. Everyone gets out of the vehicles, Chenghis and Biani crawl under the first car, and start looking for the problem. They discover the problem, and find a small nail and bang it into a groove for the steering column. This somehow fixes the problem, and we pile back into the cars, gladly getting out of the cold. These guys really are geniuses with their cars. A hundred yards out, Chenghis loses steering control again, and we come to a skidding halt a second time. We're back out, and Chenghis and Biani are under the car again. The patch up job won't hold, and they decide the best way to fix the problem would be to replace one of the washers. I'm wondering how we're going to get out of this, stuck in the middle of a mountain range, no soul for miles. They decide to MacGyver the situation, by undoing a washer from one of the tire bolts, and use a rock to flatten and resize the washer to force-fit it into the steering column. This time, the fix holds, and we're back on our way. Geniuses!

By the time we finally make it in to Bamyan, it's close to midnight; we're all exhausted, and ready to hit the bed. The Hazaras decide to eat, I'm too tired, and the local food will probably make me sick anyways. Jefferson, Imal and I stick to naan and chai. We sleep at a local hotel on the main street, the bed sheets are dirty, but at this point no one complains, falling asleep is quick. I'm awoken at four in the morning, by drivers shouting for passengers, as they fill up their vans for Kabul and elsewhere. We're just outside of the local bus and van stop. I'm too tired to stay awake, I go back to sleep. An hour later the azan is heard, I stay asleep.

Day 4: The Bomb and the Permit

2008-07-07T12:21:00.001-06:00

Kabul

Naeem Randhawa

July 7, 2008

It's one-thirty in the morning. I'm at Qasim's house (name changed for security), sitting in the dining room, staring at the computer screen. One question in my mind. What the fuck am I doing here?

This morning I awoke, jet-lag keeping up part of the night. Qasim and I stood in the kitchen, making some coffee. Afghans drink tea, they do not drink coffee. He handed me the sediment and cream heavy bitter sludge, I sipped it, and appreciated it anyway, after telling him this was the worst coffee I'd ever had. Our chuckling was interrupted with a heavy rumble of a distant bomb. We looked at each other, Qasim casually blurted, "Bomb went off." I asked "Are you sure?". What the hell does a bomb sound like? I was trying to think what else it might be, but concluded, that I know nothing about bombs, and if Qasim says it's a bomb, then it's a bomb.

We headed out for the day, Qasim to work, and I to meet a young student filmmaker to help me get a film permit. Afghan Logistics runs a taxi service of Toyota Corollas with working air conditioners, it's what the expats use to get around, they cost a little more, but your chances of getting kidnapped are reduced. On the way to Afghan Films, the government film agency, the taxi driver filled me in. A suicide bomber had climbed into a Toyota Corolla (the irony didn't escape me), and drove the bomb filled car into a crowd in front of the Indian Embassy. He killed dozens of people, injured more than a hundred, including of course women and children standing in line to get visas, and also took down most of the concrete wall of the building. The streets were jammed, some closed around the area. Afghan Films was in that general area, after some delays and re-routing we finally made it there.

Engineer Latif runs Afghan Films, and is a pleasant man in his late forties, he let me into his office, and listened to my plans to do my documentary, while making last minute arrangements for the Afghanistan International Film Festival, kicking off tonight. I had met him last night, along with a bunch of other interesting folks at a dinner held by Islamic Relief. "You should have gotten the pictures like I told you for the permit!", he exclaimed. I wasn't going to argue, that I was with him at the dinner until eleven pm, and this morning I was in a taxi ride that should have taken fifteen minutes, but took an hour, cutting off my time to get the pictures. Imal, the young student filmmaker showed up, and we left Engineer Latif's office to get our ID pictures taken.

We walked down the main street, and found a photography place, sat down and put on our cheesy smiles, got the pictures. I paid ten bucks for the pictures, clearly getting ripped off, but didn't have time to argue. By the time we got back to the Afghan Film office, Engineer Latif had left, his secretary murmured something about getting one of his guests out of the police custody, for not having proper papers with him. We walked around the office, and found his second in command, and as gently as possible, convinced him that Engineer Latif had ok'd us getting the permit. We waited for his meeting to finish, and made our request again. He asked us to come back in a couple of hours, after taking all the details. I asked if we could hand out, and just wait, as we needed the permit urgently. He said to come back in a half hour. We sat in the outside garden, and returned in half hour. He looked at us, asked us to have a seat, and started the paperwork - I guess he meant he would start in half an hour, we heard he'd finish in half hour. Our mistake of course.

After writing all the details in Dari on a piece of paper, and noting all relevant information for the permit, like my fathers name, he announced the letter would now have to be typed to make it official. To type if, of course, a computer needs to be working properly, as this was not the case, we get routed to another building further in the complex. We get there, head to the second floor, and meet with a third official. He cross examines the hand-written note. I'm staring at the proximity of his carelessly waving hand with the lit cigarette next to my precious permit. He asks a few questions, we go through the whole story of what I'm doing here, why I want to make a film what I will film, what I won't film, and my father's name. He puts the paper down, and says we have to come back in a few hours the printers not working. I smile, and Imal translates, "How about I look at your printer, I'd be happy to help in whatever way I can?" He smiles, "Sure".

Having avoided an insult, I get behind the dust covered computer, that's at least 5 years old. It turns on, I check the printer connections, everything's connected, but the drivers are not installed. With the staff of four government officials watching me work, I install the drivers, and print out a test page. Smiles break out around me, and a chorus of "Tashakor" (thank you), I avoid feeling like a hero. They take the hand written letter, type it in, print it, glue our pictures on it, sign it a few times, then stamp it a couple of times. Everyone's happy. The official offers us some lunch, string beans and naan. With the running around and waiting, we're starving, we graciously accept, and eat with him. I promise him that I'll include his name in the credit of my film, for getting me the permit. He smiles and laughs. We've made a friend.

We finally leave, and I get home. I'm exhausted, and my jet-lag is making my eyes strain for sleep. We don't do any shooting for the day. I tell Imal we'll start tomorrow. I take a four hour nap, and wake up, with the news on CNN. They're talking about the bomb, pictures of ambulances, and people in bandages. Kids in bandages, rushed to the hospital. The hospital rep says, they had to turn patients away to another hospital, they were full.

Now it's one-thirty in the morning, and I stare at my screen. Still wondering, what the fuck I'm doing here. Life and death rolls around me, and I'm here to make a movie, seems to be pointless. What can I do with my camera? Haven't we seen this before? What can I capture and show that's different? What difference will this make to those victims? Did I waste my time coming here? Should I have just stayed with my wife and boy?

Maybe it's the jet-lag, maybe I just need to go and sleep. Tomorrow is another day.

Day 2: Dubai and the Dancing Russians

2008-07-05T12:07:00.001-06:00

Dubai

Naeem Randhawa

July 5, 2008

The jet rumbles, as it thrusts forward and begins its run down the track. Pamir flight NR 202, ten in the morning. Sunday. We're on time, and I'm staring at the back of the seat in front of me, the Boeing 737 must be at least twenty years old, maybe more. There's threads loose in the seat, the interior still bears the design from older days, 70's or 80's. The Russian crew, wearing deadpan faces as they guided the passengers in. There's around a hundred or so, mostly Afghans, with a few of us Americans mixed in there.

In the lounge, I watched the Afghans get ready for the flight, a mix of families, young men, kids, a few women in burqas. A little girl, maybe four, playing with her pink Pony Princess carry-on, wearing jeans and a pink top, a man in his mid fifties, wearing the traditional outfit, shalwar kamiz, black vest, and a head scarf, looking like a Haji, all eager to get home. And a few of us Americans, trying to fit in, trying not to look out of place, or nervous.

The flight last night from Atlanta, was too long, I shared a row of three seats with another American, she's also on her way to Kabul, to start a two year engagement with an aid agency. We swapped stories for a while, and slept in uncomfortable positions the rest of the way. I got in to Dubai in the evening around seven.

Dubai is still the crystal covered paradox that I remember from last year. After checking in at the Lotus Hotel, a few miles from the airport, I stepped out in the hot and humid evening. Walking around the city is to experience a mad mix of West and East clash of culture, architecture and progress. If you took that walk, here what you might pass on your way; McDonald's, Hardees, a Mosque, a master development company, a steel distributor, Aldo's, Mark and Spencers, a sprawling upscale shopping mall, another Mosque, Dubai Lamborghini, Burger King, Dubai Harley Davidson, Dubai tourism operator, more development companies, a brick manufacturer, Nike outlet, Pierre Cardin store, a local hole in the wall Indian restaurant, an antiques dealer, Toyota dealership with a sign that reads "Now Open 7 Days a Week", and Internet cafe, and on and on.

I was tempted to try the McDonald's out of curiosity, but decided against it. I ducked into a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Out in front, facing the street, an Indian or Pakistani man, probably in his fifties, was sweating over open flames, as he prepared a pair of spits of chicken and beef. Inside, young men from the sub-Continent ran around serving the mostly labor class. I took an empty table, ordered a shawarma sandwich, and a lemon mint drink. Half way through my sandwich, an older Arab took the seat in front of me, surprising me. I had forgotten how the circle of personal space is much wider only in America, and in most of Asia, it's perfectly normal to sit next to another man without any hesitation. It's even "normal" for two men to hold hands, something that always makes me very uncomfortable - but only because it's not something I'm used to. The skinny old Arab wore the traditional full white garb, but his clothing had seen plenty of wear, and some tear. He wore thick glasses, and seemed pleasant enough. I finished up, and went to pay at the cash. I decided to give the Indian guy taking my money and extra five bucks to cover the old man's meal. No sweat off my back, and there's plenty I'm needing to atone for - hoping the Big Guy was watching.

It was nearly ten pm, when I got back to the Lotus, and on crossing through the lobby, I decided to stick my neck into the restaurant on the first floor, from where I could hear pounding music. I pushed open the doors into the restaurant-bar, inside the lights were turned down. The music I was hearing wasn't from a stereo or DJ, it was coming from the three blondes dressed in tight shorts, and even tighter t-shirts. The blondes were crooning Madonna's latest hit, and gyrating to the music, the lead singer wailing the disco hit, and her two females backup singers chiming in at the chorus. The Russians were entertaining the local crowd. In the dim light I could make out about a dozen men, half of them in the traditional white garb, smoking cigarettes and hookah, booze all around the tables and bar. An Indian came up to me, guiding me to a table, I held up my hand, and told him I was looking for someone. I'm not sure why I lied, I guess it was easier than explaining that I only just curious. I turned and left.

I woke up at three in the morning, the jet lag was kicking in, I couldn't get back to sleep. At quarter to five, I heard the Azan outside, as I got up, took my shower and decided to pray, I thought of the men in the bar, and the dancing Russian ladies from last night. Dubai is a wild world.

I caught up with my fellow passengers a little later on, at the Pamir Air lounge in Dubai airport. The airport itself is also part of Dubai's commercial glittering sprawl, with it's designer stores, and high end fashion boutiques. A crystal decanter was unveiled at the airport Duty Free, and is on display, designed by Karim Rashid, who I'm assuming is Muslim. A Muslim designs a decanter for the Bombay Sapphire company for consuming alcohol - as I said, it's a mad mix. I thought about buying one, but decided that it was probably overkill for orange juice or water, oh yeah, and the price was slightly out of my price-range at two hundred thousand dollars. Did I mention, it's made of diamonds and sapphires?

The much less to do crowd of Afghans, and I got on the flight, and left the dust a few hours ago. The meals been served, now the crowd around me is getting comfortable, and people are beginning to doze off. I decide to do the same - and ease my seat back. I look around and see the older man, the Haji, and the little Pony Princess girl, we walked on board with. The older man, with his left eye missing, and the little girl whose missing her left hand. I breathe in and close my eyes and anticipate Kabul.

Day 1: Returning to Kabul

2008-07-04T12:07:00.001-06:00

Atlanta, USA

Naeem Randhawa

July 4, 2008

Email from Rolf, July 3, 2008:

"...let me implore you not to take this trip right now. It's one thing to make an interesting piece in a somewhat dangerous area, I have traveled there myself. It is another to misjudge the severity of the situation and I think this is really not a good time to go right now. I think it would be much better if you could go in a little while when things have cooled off just a tad. If it was my judgment at this point, and I have been known to take risks, this would not be a risk I would take.
Remember man, you have a family, wife and kid and all. You bear a responsibility for them.
God takes care of those that take care of themselves I have learned when I was little. I am pretty sure the Qu'ran says something similar.
Delaying it a bit is wise, not cowardly.
Whatever you do, be safe,"

I arrive in ATL, I wait for my connection, Delta flight DL8, a Boeing triple seven. We'll leave here at 9 pm, and get in to Dubai at 7 pm, minus the time-zones, it's a long haul, no matter how you cut it. The giant metal bird sits outside the glass wall in front of me, they're prepping her, cleaning out the left-overs, spilled drinks, crumpled magazines, and left behind cell phones. They'll bring in the airline food, including a half dozen Halal meals, for me and the hijabis in the lounge. She'll be vacuumed, cleaned and restocked for another hop over the Atlantic - and when she lands, lather, rinse and repeat again.

I'm thinking about Rolf's email, and everyone else's echo, Sonia, my parents and friends who found out my plans to return to Kabul. I smile at the irony of Rolf's email - an atheist quoting the Quran to a Muslim, I'm touched by his concern. Things have gotten much worse since last year. A couple of months after I left last year, a co-worker got his brains splattered on the sidewalk in front of the Serena hotel. I'd been to that place on several occasions. They weren't aiming at him, the scope was aimed at a government official, the co-worker just happened to be in the way at the wrong time. Bad timing. Bad luck.

My Google alerts don't read too well either;

"In Afghanistan, Taliban grows stronger
People's Weekly World - USA
On June 27, nearly seven years after United States and NATO troops ousted the Taliban government of Afghanistan, the Pentagon issued a comprehensive report ..."

"Bush Acknowledges Tough Fight In Afghanistan
By Human Security Report Project
EXCERPT: "June was the deadliest month for US and NATO forces in Afghanistan since the US-led invasion in 2001. It was also the second month in a row that coalition troop loses in Afghanistan were greater than in Iraq. ..."

I've asked Sonia to turn the alerts off on her laptop, and try not to get caught up with news of the region. It's too easy to let your imagination get the best of you, I think this will be tougher on her in many ways, than on me. I'll be too busy to sit and think about any of it, at least until I get back that is. I've shut out the voices of caution, not because I'm hard-headed, but because I've spoken to my contacts there, and while they agree it's gotten worse, it's not quite as bad as the headlines - as usual. I just have to work smarter, I don't know if I'll go through with my plans to meet with the Taliban, like I did last year. I'll rendezvous with Jonathan, the school teacher from Vermont, in Kabul in a few days - he's been on edge, more than usual, before going this year. If I do venture into Taliban country, it'll be without him. I'll have to have some serious conversations with my fixers, and figure out, if it's safe. Play it smart.

Yes, I'm going to film a documentary about Jonathan and me building two schools for village kids - but somehow it feels like I'm using that as an excuse to go back. Something under the surface is calling me back. Since I got back last year, I fell into a depression, I put on ten pounds, and have found it hard to focus on anything. Maybe my return will be healing. I remember hearing about a European photographer who took a world renown picture of a little boy during the Ethiopian famine, vultures crouched behind him, waiting for the sick and dying child to fall over from where he sat. The image is still burned in my memory. The photographer committed suicide some months after he got back. I've been asking "how" and "why" many times since I got back.

In the lounge, families are gathering for the flight, next to me, two girls are eating ice cream and playing. Across from me, three guys from Blackwater are sitting on the lounger chairs, one of them's reading the Lonely Planet Guide to Afghanistan.

I'm on my way back, where the silk road and the spice road cross, I don't know what I'll find, but beginning the search feels good.

God - grant me speed, God - grant me courage, keep Sonia and Zak in your embrace.

Memoriam: Letter for Jacques

2008-04-28T01:01:00.004-06:00

Jacques is dying.

At three in the morning, the phone in the room rings. Sonia dashes out of bed, and grabs it, I'm half-awake. She answers "Yes" a couple of times, and then adds "I'm on my way". She gets dressed, grabs the keys and leaves the room. I stay in bed, already tumbling back to sleep, baby Zak snores next to me in his bed.

Two hours later, I hear the bedroom door creak open, I hear the words I expect. "He died", Sonia says, and slowly climbs into bed.

Two days earlier we flew in, after her mother, told us he was in the hospital, and that it didn't look good. We got in Tuesday night, and went to go see him. I remember him as a fairly big man, he was always fighting his weight, like most of us, always sneaking in a cookie, or some chips, when he thought no one would find out. Of course, his wife always knew, and she dutifully scolded him, reminding him that his triple bypass didn't allow for frivolous culinary escapades.

We had a relationship divided across culture, language and religion. I was the boy who stole his daughter, converted her to Islam, and would one day surely take his little girl "back home" with me. I was barely out of my teens, and didn't help present my case, with the foolish rebelliousness of youth. Almost two decades later, we grew to a father, son-in-law relationship that had passed from ceasefire, into a more or less calm state. A few dinners during the year, Christmas celebrations, birthdays here and there marked with politeness, and talking about the weather. I don't know if he ever forgave me, but I hope after all the years, he learned to respect me a little, as I had him.

We landed in Montreal, and headed straight to Saint-Eustache Hospital. Sonia scrambled down the hallways, I carried Zak, we finally found his room, and entered. Her mom was there, and Jacques was in bed. We greeted each other. Jacques started stirring from sleep, as he heard us walking in. It was obvious then, that this was his deathbed, but of course, no one would utter those thoughts. Sonia went to her father, kissed his forehead, and held back the anxiousness, and tears from her voice. She announced to him, she was here, and how she had brought baby Zak and me with her.

Slowly losing his sight in the last year, Jacques was completely blind now, he was slowly cocking his head to the voices around him. I walked to the other side of his bed, and told him I was here. The dying frail man, slowly started lifting his hand from under his blanket. I could see that he was mustering what little energy he had left to shake my hand. Religion is shed, degrees disappear, in the end man only has his respect and dignity to hold on to. I slowly pulled the blanket over his trembling boney hand, and shook it softly.

He was slipping away, and as elusive as was becoming, we could still feel his will to be with his family. The man I knew, almost 6 feet tall, weighing 230 pounds, and demanding his daughter not run off with some "Muslim", lay before us now. He had disappeared into a 130 pound brittle, blind old man. He had survived heart-attacks, a daughter marrying a Muslim, the other a Jew, and in all his idiosyncrasies and worries of the day, still asked that his hand be shaken like a man. We may have never seen eye to eye, but in this moment, he was to me a father, just as my own.

Now, Sonia stood one one side of his bed, Zak and I at the other. I watched the dying man's daughter caress his forehead. Here, in front of her were the three men in her life, each a testament to the steps of her life. Her father dying - having carried her into this life, her husband - by her side in the moment, and baby Zak - her future. Life clings, life is bitter, and life is sweetness. Sonia spent the night with her father that night, along with her mother - the three of them in the emergency wing of the hospital, sleeping and waking until the morning. The next two days, was driving back and forth, stops between homes and the hospital.

It's the day after, and I'm sitting with Sonia and her Mom, at her parent's condo. I'm leaving to the airport, the family is making arrangements for the funeral next week. I ask her mom how she's doing.., she says it's hard. I can see that the shock hasn't set in yet, she'll crash soon, and hopefully Sonia can catch her, if she's not falling apart herself. Before I leave I tell her, that it's difficult for me to imagine and express what she must going through. I tell her that in my faith, we often have an expression that we save for moments of pain, and for moments of joy, and that I hope she may find some comfort in them, "This too, shall pass".

p.s. Jacques - I'm taking care of your little girl, like I promised I would.

Good-bye.

Your son-in-law;

Naeem

Wide Awake in Jersey

2008-01-05T08:58:00.001-06:00

I look at the alarm clock lying on the bed next to me. It's 1:11 am. Another sleepless night on the road.

I drove four hours south through the Poconos from Sayre, and got into Newark late. Checked into the hotel, and haven't been able to sleep, I'm glad I'm going home tomorrow morning. It's been a rough week.

Sonia called earlier today, and told me the news. It was a girl. We lost her. Something reached into my chest and stopped my heart, I didn't think we'd know if it'd be a girl or boy, it was too early. I was wrong. I lost my breath, images rolled in my mind. I could see her chasing Zakaria around our yard. I could see her in my arms, her sweet smile and face beaming. We were both silent on the phone for a little - there's not a need for many words. We got off the phone - and went on with our day.

Zakaria lost a little sister today, and maybe we'll meet her on the other side, and talk of what could have been.

Zakaria's Welcome.

2008-01-04T19:43:00.001-06:00

Heading West

As he packed his bags, and looked at his brothers, sister, father and mother before the long journey, what must have gone through his mind? Charting a course over the continents, on the other side of the world, to an unfamiliar land he would claim and call home, what unknowns did he anticipate? The first in his family to leave them behind, what hopes and fears did he encounter as he headed far from home?

When your grandfather made this trip, he left his home, he took the first steps, as millions other have done, and continue to do, with a purpose to anchor a better life for his family, and the ones that would follow। He left behind a middle class family in the fields and countryside of Gujrat, a father who served in the great war, and brothers who took care of the family। He also left behind his new wife, with two young sons at home. I was very a young boy then, and wasn’t not old enough to understand his absence. My world was my mother, my brother, and my little village. He had a vision for a new future, and with this, we all began a new chapter in our lives. From the East, he headed to America, he headed West.

Two generations later, more than forty years from that time, you are also about to embark on a journey. Your mother and I will take you on this trip. Another chapter has begun. We are again heading West. America’s West.

8:13, Dallas, Texas

Some men know and accept the expected, others struggle with themselves. Your uncle Wasim always knew he would be a father, and welcomed your two beautiful cousins to the world. Your uncle Imran knows that he too, will be a father one day, and his mind rests with this natural arrangement. I struggled, and struggled for a long time. Your mother and I had been married for fourteen years before you came into our life - understand that this was not her struggle, but mine alone. Why? I'm not sure I completely understand myself, I could say many things, but none of them would be relevant now. Also understand that your presence in this world, gives your mother and I, a feeling of over-powering elation, that you will only understand when you welcome your own into this world. This is a cycle, and just as I could not grasp the true power of these defining moments, until experiencing them for myself - you will go through similar circles.

On a windy and cool first day of the month in May, you caught your first breath in downtown Dallas. The moment is permanently painted in my head, etched clearly, like it was only today. You did not cry, eyes wide open - the first minutes more wondrous by your silence and curiosity. You looked at everyone in the room, the doctor, nurses, your grandmother, your mother, and me - no sound, just your silent glances. We were lost in the reverie, not knowing what to expect, a moment of bliss and tenderness.

I stumbled upon reading your welcome prayer, the first words entering your ears, "There is only one God, and Muhammad is his messenger..." I bit off a small piece of date, and placed it into your tiny mouth, your first taste in this world.

The Two Fathers

A pious man said that everyone has two fathers;

The first father brings your soul from the spirit world to this one - I am this one. I am the vessel that was chosen for you to begin your walk through this life. I was designated to be your father, we were bound together before either one of us were born. We will carry this link in this life and beyond. Through laughter and tears, through the hills and valleys - we are joined. Like my father before me, and his before him, and all the generations that came before, I make my intention to be your guide and to be your guardian. I ask the One to give me the strength to do the best job I can. Inshallah.

I will make mistakes, we all falter, but in the end, I hope that I pass on to you what you need, to walk the right path, as my father taught me. I know the duty upon me is great, and I know that in the line of eternity, our time will be short - over in the blink of an eye. I also know that I am a temporary custodian, not to own you, but to simply provide and shelter you, until you spread your wings. I hope that in the end, you will inherit from me all my strengths, and become a better man than me. I hope you will be a beacon of light and lead others to all that is right and good. I do not wish to place any burdens on you, you must decide upon yourself to carry the weight. Live up to the legend of the one that claims your name, Zakaria.

I am the first father, I've brought your soul from the spirit world to this one. The second is the one that elevates your soul from this material world to the spiritual. He is the one that will save your soul, he is the one that my father gave to me, and in time, I will give to you. He's the one that will carry you through the night and day. He's the one, that in the end, when everyone has left you, will be there to hold your hand. He will see you to the other side. He is the first name you heard in this life, and Inshallah, he'll be the last. The final envoy.

Welcome to Your Life

I welcome you to your life, welcome to this precious gift. Welcome to the path ahead of you, to the falls you will take, and the heights you will climb. Welcome to this big beautiful blue planet. Welcome, my son.

This world will not always make sense to you, and there may be times you will lose your way. Your grip may slip, you may lose hope. You may wonder of the sanity and purpose of it all. The poisons may try to spoil your innocence, and it may try to steal your youth, but at the end of each and everyday, remember that the struggle in this world is to always get back up. The fight is not when you are already standing up, it's when you are down. Never let anyone tell you that you can’t do something – not even me.

Remember this. Remember the ones who are not as privileged as you, never forget the innocent and weak. Remember the starving, and feed the hand that reaches for you. Remember your service. Remember your family. Remember your faith, never let go of it, protect it, and don't compromise it. Be tenacious of it. It is the only thing worth fighting for. It is your freedom, and it is your savior. Remember the dawn, morning, day, dusk and night. Remember the East. Remember Him.

There are those who are caught in ticking traps, and those that have claimed victory in a single facet of their life. You should do neither, like all great men before you, be a “man of all seasons”. Don't just be a singular victor, be a leader that can see all around himself, and claim strength from those before you. Be like no one, but follow the shadow of the prophets.

Remember who you are. There are many ill fates in this world, but the worst is to not know who you are. Always remember where you come from, and your ultimate purpose. Remember your service. Remember who you are.

From our union, you've arrived. You are the first son of the first son.

As your mothers love rains down on you, I’m watching you sleep in her embrace। A tear is wiped from my face.

This is my welcome to you.

Welcome to the world.

Welcome to your life.

Welcome, my son.

Lunch before War

2007-12-20T18:05:00.000-06:00

Her voice cracks, as she speaks. I look up over the monitor of my laptop and catch her in mid sentence, "... so young, it's not fair."

She peers over her shoulder, and back at me again. I follow her line of sight, and see a young man in military fatigues. He's sitting alone, finishing off a burger. He sits at a table with a drink in one hand. There's a wrapper and paper bag from Chick-fil-A, in a lunch tray, in front of him. He's wolfing down the burger, and seems in a hurry. He can't be any more than eighteen, twenty years old at the most. He's scrawny, and looks like he should be hanging around the hallways of a high school, his uniform seems too big for him, it seems out of place.

She turns back to me, and she's holding back tears, her voice trembles, "It's just not fair". She's waiting for me to respond. I fold my screen and nod, "Ya, it ain't.., maybe you should go over and say something". My wife gets up from our table, with baby Zak in her arms, grabs her purse, and walks across the shopping center food court, to the young man in the uniform.

From a distance, I see them start a conversation. I can't hear what they are saying, but see Sonia say something, he puts down the drink in his hand, stands up, and shakes her hand. Then I see Sonia take some bills from her purse, and place them in his hand. They exchange a few more words, I see him turn and look over at me. I wave at him, I'm not expecting him to come over but he does. His hand outstretched, he says "Thank you", I shake his hand, and say, "No, thank you". He smiles, and heads back to his table. I realize he's even younger than I thought. Is he going to Iraq? What does the future hold for him? How much of the future, if there is a future?

On the way back, a lady at a nearby table, grabs Sonia and tells her she's done a beautiful thing. The woman wipes a tear from her face. Sonia comes back to our table. She doesn't say anything, she doesn't need to. Outside of politics, and outside of partisanship, humanity beckons, and when we hear it, we try to answer in whatever way we can. A Muslim shakes the hand of a Christian, a mother exchanges a few words with someone's son. A boy wears a uniform, and a war carries on.

He walks off, and we pack up, and go outside to our car. We put Zak in his car seat, and head out of the shopping parking lot, thinking about the future.

Cyclone and the Saudi Prince

2007-11-20T22:30:00.001-06:00

It's Tuesday, and one of those rare weeks, where mercifully, I get to go home early and be with my family. I'm leaving work early, from my client in Sayre, Pennsylvania, going to spend the rest of the week, working from home in Dallas, and visiting friends. Black Friday's coming up, I made a list of stuff I need to get, new laptop for Sonia, new hard drive for me, and other stuff I'll look for online - there's no way I'd ever wake up early and stand in line. I think anyone who does is nuts!

Patargata - 125 miles south of Dhaka, Bangladesh. There's little left of the huts along the coastline. From the the wake left behind the cyclone, Azahar Ali climbs over heaps of destruction, barefoot, wearing a yellow undershirt and a "dhoti".

Flight 4336, from Elmira to Philadelphia, the plane has left an hour later, and when I land, I'm stuck in Philly for another couple of hours. I left at 1 pm, and will get home tonight at 9 pm, this really sucks! They're reporting that this will be the worst day in the year for air travel because of the Thanksgiving crowds, guess I should consider it lucky if I get home at all. It could always be worse.

Patargata - Azahar Ali looks like a farmer, his skin darkened by years under the sun. He must be in his 30's. Beads of sweat cover his head and body. He's searching among the debris, and heaps of garbage for signs of life. Who's he lost? Who's left? He emerges from a small hill of remains, and is carrying a frail old man. The old man's face wears a look of fear and shock. The old man clutches Azahar, his white hair cropped close, and long white beard flowing. In his other hand he hangs on to his cane. Azahar is almost as skinny as the old man, and struggles to hold him in his arms as he navigates through the carnage.

We're finally in the air, I push the seat back. I'm happy there's no one sitting next to me. USA Today, I grabbed a copy from the hotel on my way out this morning, I'm flipping through the paper - what's up with the nation today? Stewardess comes by, "I'll just have a water please". That's about all that's left for passengers, unless I want to dish out six bucks for some crackers, and a chocolate bar, and the airlines are having a great year financially. Is customer service inversely tied to company profits, I wonder?

Patargata - Is the old man, Azahar's father? What's left of his family? Nearby, Dhalan Mridiha, a farmer runs from one pile to another, listening for familiar voices, he struggles to hear over the din of the moans and shouting of the dying.

I flip through the paper, recent Gallup survey says that 78% people feel the economy is heading into the gutter - hmm, that's not good, I guess gas prices being at the prices they're at doesn't help any. Another of Bush's aide's resigning, Fran Townsend - never heard of her. What is it with this guy? Republican or not, it's never a good sign, if your friends are walking out the party. A snapshot poll by the Administration for Children and Families, indicates that of all the caregivers, mothers are the highest percentage of abusers to children, almost 40%. Wonderful! More good news. I'm assuming mothers are also the largest percentage of caregivers, so that statistics would be somewhat expected. Am I rationalizing this?

Patargata - Dhalan Mridha went to sleep the night before, like any other night. In the hut, his wife and mother fell asleep, only to be violently shaken awake. The earth and water were in a fierce battle, and the village disappeared under their feet. Now, Dhalan runs between the debris searching and listening for the voices of his wife and mother. He hasn't heard or seen them all morning, but he doesn't stop. He runs, and searches, and then runs again.

Flip the page. So the mystery shopper for the new largest commercial airliner turns out to be a Saudi prince, he's making the biggest private purchase of an aircraft in history, they aren't telling what the final price will be, or how much it'll cost to rig it with all of his requested modifications. Interesting. I guess it ain't that big of a surprise after all. Musharaf's been cleared of any legal disputes, by a hand picked Supreme Court - echoes of another country. The 2008 Dodge Viper SRT10 is out, nice piece of machinery. 600 ponies under the hood, 0 to 60 mph in four seconds. Damn! That's some serious attitude! $84,745, sticker price - my 3000GT's 10 years old, I could afford this, maybe it's time for a trade-in? Maybe if I keep thinking it, I'll convince myself, convincing Sonia - well that's another story.

Patargata - Dhalan finally stops running, he's found both his wife and mother. They are both now lifeless, their corpses hang on some uprooted brushes. Dhalan is now weeping. Dhalan is no longer running.

On the ground now in Philly, wish I had internet here, oh well, I'll work offline, answer a few emails, maybe grab a bite, read some more. M&M's now let you customize printed messages on them - huh, pretty cool. Steve Martin's got a new book out, about his life, before he got famous. Big review on the new movie based on Stephen King's old novel, "Mist". The review says it's pretty good. Haven't seen a good horror movie in a while. Well that might have something to do with the two foot little guy living on our house, who takes up all our time. I doubt he'd make it through the whole movie, without throwing a fit. I'll have to rent it on video. Kay Jewelers' got a sale going on diamond jewelry. Do I need to buy any jewelry? Any big anniversaries coming up? I think I'm safe for now. "Every kiss begins with a Kay" -not if I can help it. Britney Spears' driving again, without her license - I actually feel sorry for her, she's burning and falling, and we have front-row seats. Dominoes is advertising their new Oreo pizza - I can't believe anyone would actually eat this stuff. I mean, I eat junk food sometimes, but a pizza covered with Oreos? That is quintessentially "American", it's taking junk food to a whole new level, might as well, just give your kid a bar or butter, and a bucket of sugar.

Patargata - From above, Azahar Ali and Dhalan Mridha, are lost. They are multiplied, their stories lost among the others, dozens join them, each lost in their own search - then hundreds, each scrambling to hang on to a disappearing past. The hundreds become thousands, each voice breaking for prayer, hope and survival. All are waiting.

I put the paper down. Patargata - never heard of it, it sounds like a Thai dish. Do I need to worry about it? I've got enough on my mind.

In the distance, my plane is flying in from the rain and storm. At the gate, I am waiting.

Islamic Relief USA

http://www.irw.org/
888-479-4968

World Vision
http://www.worldvision.org/
888-562-4453

Care
http://www.care.org/
800-521-2273

Save the Children
http://www.savethechildren.org/
800-728-3843

The Space Between Us.

2007-11-02T07:55:00.000-06:00

As he sees me cross the small lobby, he snaps up from the terminal he's working on, behind the counter. He flashes a prepared smile, and offers a standard greeting. I wonder how many times he's repeated it tonight, thirty, forty times.., maybe more. But his greeting is not rehearsed, it's not the cold, feigned greeting I usually get - there's earnestness in it, and a fair genuiness that doesn't go unnoticed. I smile back, and engage in the businessman's conversation. Another flight, another town.., another hotel.

As I awoke this morning, I opened and closed at least a half dozen encounters with people that serve for a career. From the taxi driver, who is a regular, and is always pleasant, the two gate agents at the American Airlines counter, both with corporate delivered tones, the flight attendants with a mix of honest smiles and the regular drones, the car rental agent who loosened up, after I struck up a short conversation. For all of our technologies and communication - as a species, we have the least capability to communicate effectively with each other. The message interpreted and potentially misread at least three times in the line of contact with one another - once when thought is turned into words, then as audio is received by the auditory sense, and again, as the sounds as re-interpreted from sound waves to the brain. We hinge on this link to exchange the world within us. Do animals do a better job than us, even without an advanced language? Old people seem to share a secret rhythm that we often don't often share.

What is it about the need to communicate that is so strong in us? Is is in our DNA? Passed down from early man, sitting around fires, and sharing stories of the hunt, or did we acquire it on our road to civilization? How many wars started from a result of miscommunication between two people or countries? Even today, many would say, as we've become a global village - our ability to communicate effectively has deteriorated. Not just countries, but right at the family unit - are we losing our ability to communicate, ironically, by the very tools of technological communications - pagers, the Internet, cell phones, television, and others? The drive to increase communication seems to be reversing actual communication.

Several months ago, I remember I grabbed baby Zak, as he was reaching for my laptop, while I was working. I moved him to the side - it occurred to me in that moment, that the machine in front of me came between my son and I. I had unknowingly moved a barrier between my son and myself, showing him the order of priorities between us. In that moment, the slap of reality hit me, and being grateful that it did, I put my laptop down, and got on the carpet with my son, looked at his smiling face, and played with him. I made a promise to never let any communication get in between us again, I hope I live up to the promise.

Now, as I cross the country meeting and working with clients, the space between us, my wife and son is crossed with phone calls. Zak is only 18 months old, and recognizes my voice on the phone, but can't communicate with me - I have to satisfy myself with his yelps and laughter. Why would a communication of unrecognizable sounds from a baby give me so much pleasure? I don't know, but every father and mother lives for those sounds, and looks forward to them.

The rep behind the counter finishes checking me in to the room I've reserved. He's in his twenties, and I can tell he's eager to do his job, there's an air of energy around him, he likes his job, he wants to move up the ladder. I tell him, I'll be in town for at least three weeks, and ask him for tips about restaurants. He lists the only four of five of them around the area. I'm in Sayre, Pennsylvania - there's not much here. I tell him I appreciate his help and service, and head to my room. I get to my room, and set up my ammunition of communication. Turn on the laptop to communicate with work, check my PDA to communicate with email, and make a call on my cell phone, to communicate and listen to Zak's yelps and unrecognizable words.

From the Fog back to Blogsville.

2007-10-26T23:00:00.000-06:00

"So was it scary?"

"Did you fear for your life?"

"Did you really meet the Taliban?"

I try to muster an answer, but for some reason, I get sick inside whenever I am asked. Might as well ask me what it's like on the moon - what the hell do you think it's like? I haven't written for over three months, my last article was en route from Lahore, and about leaving. I was searching for closure, but didn't find any.

How can I answer the question? Ever since I got back from Kabul, I've felt removed from the experience. Providing an answer over dinner conversations and lunches seems so frivolous, it's better to avoid it all together. It's not being arrogant, and not for feeling any distance from friends or family, or strangers for that matter - it's simply an experience that is deeply moving, profound and shakes the very foundations of your belief and moral systems.

What purpose does it serve to go there, and come back with new eyes, if you can't do anything about it. Maybe that's been the dilemma, I haven't been able to do anything about it until now. I mean besides the radio interview I did at KERA, and the panel discussion at the screening of the "The Kite Runner" last month. Ramadan this year was a blur, everything since I got back has been a blur, I've been wading and navigating through depression and anxiety, and people asking what it was about hasn't helped.

Last weekend, a friend from there, Maria Witz, flew in to Dallas and stayed at our house, from Washington. She was only around for a day, but it felt good to touch someone from the near past. Some cathartic sinergies for recovery. We talked about plans for her street kids, making a documentary, a year long project. Shoot the kids, and follow their lives. Capture it all, and maybe, some people could help.

As I write this, returning from Sayre, Pennsylvania to Dallas, I think of the words of a friend. I've heard them before, but they are still a good reminder, "You are only responsible for the effort - the results are not in your hands." There is some consolation.

Radio Interview on PBS Dallas - KERA

2007-08-31T11:47:00.000-06:00

I was invited to speak about my experiences at Dallas PBS station KERA, on their program Think. You can listen to the interview here:

http://www.justsaygofilms.com/KERA_LifeInKabul_08292007.mp3

As mentioned in the interview, I am currently back in the US, and would love to speak at any group or association about my time in Aghanistan. My goal is to shed some light on the situation over there, in the hopes that people will understand life there, and help in whatever way they can.

I can be contacted by email at txnaeem@gmail.com for any speaking engagements.

30 Days in Afghanistan - The Curse of the Poor

2007-07-13T14:22:00.000-06:00

There's always two of them with me, a driver, and a security guy, who's usually just referred to as "shooter", for the Kalashnikov he carries with him. We're driving to Panjsher, shooter drinks and empties a bottle of water. He lowers his passenger side window, and tosses the bottle out, it bounces across the shoulder of the highway, and comes to rest in a heap of other refuse.

Since I've been here, I've observed this behavior many times. People just toss out their garbage from their cars, or in front of a street vendor where they're eating something. Outside houses, are piles of garbage, in front of offices, everywhere in the city, empty plastic bottles, overflowing open sewer trenches, the Kabul River, now just a stream from the drought, is filled with tons and tons of raw sewage and garbage.

This isn't an Afghan phenomenon, I've seen it in Pakistan, it happens in India, and China, and most other developing countries. I'm not sure if it's ignorance, lack of education or laziness. I know it's not because people don't care about their country, Afghans display their patriotism just as proudly as Americans, most cars, shops and homes carry a picture of Ahmad Shah Massoud, an Afghanistan flag, or other national symbols. Maybe its priorities, most people are busy trying to survive - cleanliness is not at the top of their mind, but Islam says "cleanliness is next to holiness", so I doubt if that's the case.

Mr. Edhi Sattar, the famous Pakistani humanitarian was once asked to visit a remote village, to help the local villagers. They villagers wrote to him, explaining that they had been ignored by everyone, the government and any NGO's. He finally made the trip to see them, after driving many hours to get there, he arrived, and started walking to the village. Upon arrival, he noticed the garbage piled high throughout the village, the polluted lake nearby, and when he came across the villagers, he lost his composure, and told them they had no right to expect any help, if they weren't willing to do anything for themselves. He told them that they had no right to expect anything from anyone, if they couldn't even keep the front of their houses clean. He promised he'd return once they did the bare minimum. He returned a few months later, to find a clean village, a lake that was filtered, and now had clean water, no refuse littering the roads or houses. They had done enough to move above the squalor, and were ready for the next step of building their village.

Development doesn't necessarily start with millions of dollars being pumped into a new construction project, it can start with picking up a piece of trash. Afghanistan has been through almost 30 years of war, it would be interesting to come back after 10 years to see where the countries goes from here. There are some great NGO's teaching exactly these types of basic standards, unfortunately they are in the minorities, but still, they could have more impact here, than the giants walking around throwing money at empty buildings that may never be filled.

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

2007-07-12T15:33:00.000-06:00

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

30 Days in Afghanistan - Dispatches to the Homeland

2007-07-11T12:12:00.000-06:00

I've received some very interesting feedback after the last couple of blog entries. Most of them have been encouraging;

"...You're a great writer. You are so strong and your writing so smart and vivid. Thanks for providing this resource that is unavailable here in the US...impartial reporting. Please add me to the blog."

"This is simply remarkable. I don't know what to say. I can't believe I've read what I just read. Congratulations to you. God must be protecting you. I agree with you - you did go there for a purpose. You give me so much hope with these dispatches; journalism still has meaning, Westerners can still do it, and maybe someday I can do it too..."

"This journal is simply breathtaking. I hope you consider publishing them officially..."

But a few folks sent me emails asking to be removed immediately from the subscribers list, with a note saying that they would explain later. I was somewhat puzzled.

Then a day or two later, a few others in that circle, started sending a similar request with the same cryptic message. Now, I don't write counting my readers, I write because I feel compelled to share what I see, but this puzzled me. These folks were patting me on the back a few days ago, so what was this about?

The explanation came a day later, it started with one, and spread to the others via phone calls and emails. I received an email explaining that apparently my writing was perhaps "un-American", and that at this "time of war" our responsibility was to support our troops "over there", and writing about the Taliban, showing kids with guns, was irresponsible, and was potentially putting these readers at risk (through association to me).

Hmm.., apart from the incredulous statements, I actually had to let this sink in before I responded. Was this a hoax? Could friends really be this scared of our government? Am I gullible enough to think that as a writer, I have the freedom to write about what I want? These are fellow writers, I thought we writers were usually at the forefront of documenting our observations, independent of where the story leads?

Maybe it's this international air I'm breathing, but having a world view enlightens a person doesn't it? Stepping into the shoes of someone else, even our enemies helps us understand our own humanity - does it not? Well, before this gets out of hand, lets' ban the writing. Let's also ban Rory Stewart's book, "The Places in Between", a New York Times bestseller, about his walk through Afghanistan, meeting with all kinds of people, Talibans, Mullahs, Americans, and his observations. Ya, let's ban his book, and anything else that doesn't adhere to the Reich, I mean the particular point of view of some Americans.

The fact, that my writing has little to do with politics, and more to do with watching people, whether they are Afghanis or Americans seems to have suddenly disappeared. Over the last few days, I've attended an Afghani wedding, shared a conversation with two Americans running business that help Afghani women and children, spoken to Afghanis on the street, and UN workers as well as Ministry civil workers on life and the future of this country. These conversations continue to give me insight into people - all people.

I also have plans to hopefully meet with Rory Stewart, and ask him what prompted him to start a charity in Kabul, to help save the old city, and other work he's doing for the locals. I'll be sure to ask him, if he realizes how many readers he's put at risk with his bestseller book.

30 Days in Afghanistan - Tea with the Taliban (Part 2)

2007-06-30T12:06:00.001-06:00

Entering Joibar Village

After three hours of high speed driving, bumpy roads, and a few stops, Shah's Toyota descends a hill into a lush green valley. The village in Joibar is a structure of many mud houses and buildings huddled together in the bowl of surrounding mountains. Above the distant range, white clouds hang in a high clear blue sky. As the car comes to a stop, some kids from the village come running up in front of a few villagers, towards us. Shah is immediately recognized and greeted, I stay a few feet behind him, and after Shah explains my presence, I am welcomed as a guest.

One of the villagers grabs my backpack, I hesitantly let him, unfamiliar with customs. We walk down a small hill, and through a farm field. Cucumbers, tomatoes, green peppers, and onions are planted in alternate rows. Shah picks up a dried seed from the ground, and tosses it to me, asking if I know what it is. I look at the walnut size polyp, it has ridges running around it, I tell him, it's a poppy seed, he looks back at me, and flashes me a smile. I ask him if they grow that, he says "Not right now, it's not the right season".

We walk into the mud village, the houses are mud, the arches we pass under are mud, the stairs are mud - it's as if the whole village was raised up from the ground. Inside the village, the temperature drops a few degrees, it seems there's something about the old ways. The village consists of about 100 houses, and a thousand people, there's no nearby hospital, and no formal school. There is a village mosque, and a madrassa, only boys attend the madrassa, as they cannot afford to build another room for the girls.

We walk pass rows of houses, kids are playing in alleyways, and as soon as they see our party, they turn to us, we have a trail of kids following behind us. We arrive at one of the village elders home, and I'm asked to go inside. I follow our group to a second floor. It is the hottest time of day, and the room is cool. The room is lined with red carpets, pillows are laid against the wall on all sides of the room, and opposite the door, there's a black and gold hang cloth on the wall, with a picture of Mecca, and Arabic text of suras from the Quran.

Lunch with Mohammad Omar

I put my backpack down, and take a seat. A group of men enter the room, including a village elder, Mohammad Omar. He's an old man dressed in white shalwar kameez, a white turban, and a long white beard. Everyone around the room gets up and bids him "Aslam Alaikum", and one at a time, go to shake his hand, I follow the lead, and greet him. He has a gentle face, and demeanor. We sit, and Shah explains, that I'm a writer, and a filmmaker, and wish to meet with the Taliban. He seems understanding, and we begin talking about things that strangers talk about, where we're from, names, family, and the country. I ask him about his family, Shah translates, Mohammad Omar is 65 years old, he has 3 sons, 7 daughters and 2 wives. I ask him how many grandchildren he has, after a pause, they start laughing. After a little math, and finger counting, Shah tells me somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 grandchildren.

One of his grandkids, brings a silver pitcher of water, and passes around cups of water. After one of the men drinks, he passes me his empty silver cup, the boy fills it. I'm parched from the trip, but wondering about the water, I decide to not offend my hosts, and drink up, hoping the water is from a stream. The water is frigid, and I inquire about the temperature of the water. I'm told it comes from a nearby stream, and it's always this cold. Lunch arrives, fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers, and celery from the fields, with rice, lamb, and the biggest nan breads I've ever seen, they're almost 2 feet wide. We all dig in, the food is delicious, and the vegetables have a wonderfully fresh taste, without all the chemical treated processing that I'm used to. The food everywhere in this country is a real treat, no chemical injections, no hormones or other additives. Apart from the handling of the food, I think Afghanis eat healthier than we in the West do.

After lunch, Mohammad's son Atif, asks me what I want to ask the Taliban. Shah explains to me that he is the liaison, and that they do not let foreigners just walk in, and ask the Taliban questions. The western media has never come this deep into this territory, the highway we got off, is the limit to where outsiders get to. Even Al-Jazeera, and the local Afghani media is scared to come down into the village. I'm the first one, they've ever let into this particular district. It's explained to me, that the road belongs to the government, and everything off the road belongs to the Taliban.

I explain to him, that I normally don't carry a list of questions, and usually will come up with them, during the interview. Atif insists that I deliver the questions before hand - so they can be cleared, they will not answer certain questions. I start giving him questions;

"What do you think about the current state of affairs of Afghanistan?"

"Why do you fight the Americans?"

"What do you think about Pakistan?"

"What is your view of the role of women?"

"What do you feel about President Karzai?"

"Why do you fight other Afghanis?"

"Why did you blow up the Bamyan Buddha statues?"

Etc...

While I pepper him with questions, Atif writes down each question in a notebook. I try to gauge his reactions, as I ask the questions, but don't get much of a read from his expressions. After a long list, he puts his pencil down, grabs a military walkie-talkie, and starts talking Pashto into it, repeating all my questions. He waits for a while for a response, and then the voice on the other side of the walkie-talkie, starts speaking back to him. He tells me, I can't ask anything about the Americans. I tell him that I agree to his terms, hoping they'll change their mind, during the interview.

The sound of Azhan is heard outside the room, and a couple of men offer their prayer. Shah and I make ablution, and offer our prayers as well. After a little while, we get up and leave for the meeting, everyone says their salams, I take a few pictures of the Mohammad Omar, and one of his grandkids. At one point, they hand a Kalashnikov to the youngest of Mohammad's grandkid in the room, Mujtaba, who's 7 year old. He can barely hold up the heavy weapon, they place the sling belt of the gun around his shoulders. I feel awkward taking the picture of such a young boy holding up a semi-automatic weapon, but I go ahead and take a few pictures. The country has been at war for almost 30 years, this is a society that has been drenched in violence, it's a different state of being, the effects of the war have seeped into the fabric of the people. I remember seeing two young kids in Kabul, fighting with each other, and while kids in American fight as well, I was shocked by the ferocity of their fight. Afghanis are known for their hospitality, but underneath the surface, wounds lie deep, and the long habit of fighting for survival is still very strong.

Tea with the Taliban

Outside the room, Atif pulls a veil over his face with the handkerchief around his neck, a friend with him does the same. Only their eyes show now. Both men are carrying Kalashnikovs, slung on their shoulders, Atif, starts talking into his walkie-talkie, and we start walking down narrow alleyways. Shah and I trail behind them, I snap a few pictures from the camera hanging around my shoulders. We make our way through winding paths, over channels, and through archways. A distance later, we emerge out into some farm fields, we continue walking through crop fields until we come to another village. At this point, after all the turns we've taken, I realize that I could not retrace my steps back to the main road. As we approach the first house in the second village, I see more men standing with their faces obscured with scarves, only eyes showing. They exchange salam with Atif, his friend, then Shah. I approach him, and wait for him to greet me, uncertain, then he greets me as well, and I respond in kind.

A couple of yards away, another veiled figure, same routine. While I'm following men with guns, and greeting others who also have guns, there's kids around us. I find it ironic that they are prepared for me with guns, and yet their kids are standing around us. We walk past a couple of more houses, towards a clearing, at what appears to be a central courtyard of the village. We're about 30 or 40 feet away from the courtyard, and for the first time in my entire trip, I sense a moment of panic. This is real, those guns are real. This moment comes to me when I see the courtyard filled with a crowd of about two dozen men and boys, and besides the veiled faces, and Kalashnikovs, I now see rocket launchers and full automatic Soviet machine guns pointed in my general directions. Not pointing at me, but close enough to make the point. I'm now in a heightened state of alert, aware of everything around me.

We walk into the courtyard, there's a carpet laid out in the middle, under a large tree. Atif, his friend, greet each of the men in procession, with handshakes, hugs and the usual salams. Shah and I follow, and shake hands down the line, and say our salams. We're led to the cloth and take a seat in the middle of the crowd. I begin to get my gear out of my backpack; pen, notebook, camera, video, tripod. As I'm taking out each item, I'm keenly aware of being watched by everyone around me. Two of the men, who appear to be leaders, take a seat in from of Shah and me, they greet us, and say that this is happening because they trust Atif. Shah translates, I tell them I'm here on my own accord, and wish to get their side of the story, which we often don't hear of in the West.

I tell them, how I will conduct the interview, I'll ask them questions, and if there's something that they do not feel comfortable answering, they simply don't have to answer. They agree. I also tell them I'm videotaping the interview, and we can stop anytime they want. They agree. I also tell them that I do not need to know their names, as that will not benefit the story, the pictures and videos will be fact enough. They agree. I finish explaining this and tell them, I'll need five minutes to set up my equipment, and will not record until then. The two leaders lower their veils, so I can see their whole faces, a few others around us do the same. I imagine it can't be too comfortable breathing through that, in this heat. I look at them, as they talk casually with our group, and realize these guys could be Arabs, Caucasian or European, they have green and blue eyes, their skin is white, and they don't carry the face of the devil, as imagined.

I realize the ice is beginning to melt, and we're all beginning to get comfortable with each other. They probably had the same apprehensions about meeting a foreigner, as I had about meeting them. I tell them I'm ready to start, one of the leaders looks at me, smiles at me, and says "OK", and pulls on his veil over his face. Others around him do the same. I start asking the questions, choosing each word, and Shah translates. Some of the responses are expected, and some less so.

"We're fighting Americans, not because their Americans, but because they are an invading force. Wouldn't they do the same if someone invaded their country?"

"We have no problems with the people of Pakistan, or Americans, or anyone, whether they are Muslims, Christians or Jews, it's the government of some of these countries that are killing our people - we have a fight with them."

"We think women can work, we think they can be doctors, or lawyers or whatever, but there's a right way to do it. They should be separate from the men, they should not mix freely with the opposite sex."

"Karzai is a puppet of the U.S., everyone knows this."

"We grow lots of things, not just opium, and when foreigners bring alcohol to this country, and poison our people - why does no one says anything about that?"

"Abraham demolished the idols, we don't want people in the future to worship idols, so we blew up the Bamyan Buddhas."

"Yes, we are worried about our kids exposed to guns and violence, but we don't carry guns because we like to, but because we have been at war for almost 30 years. One day our kids will not have to."

"We feel the pain of all Muslims anywhere Palestine, Iraq, or even in America, our issue is not with the people, but with the oppression of Muslims everywhere."

Shah, who's videotaping the interview, tells me the tape's full. I tell them we'll take a five minute break, they remove their scarves from their faces. I work on getting a new tape out. A boy comes to the yard, and brings water, and fresh apricots, and places it in front of us. The leaders grab a few and offer them to Shah and myself. I grab some, and eat the fresh fruit. We're less nervous now, the scarves are off the faces, we're eating fruit, and there's light banter about. As I relax a little, I think to myself - a Pakistani born Canadian, living in Bush country, sitting in the middle of a courtyard of a village in the middle of nowhere, eating apricots and sipping tea with the Taliban. This was not on the tourist map.

We are worlds apart, the Taliban ascribe to an Islam that I do not know. To the Taliban, I am a product of the West, and am probably not a representation of true Islam. I am not oblivious of the attrocities commited by them, the Northern Alliance, Americans, and others. The men in front of me may be simple farmers, but simple farmers don't carry Russian machine guns and rocket launchers. In this moment though, they are family men, I see their kids sitting around them, and they share their food with me. We're each looking into the other to see a reflection of ourselves, and a way to understand one another.

Supertramp on the Phone

I change the tape, we eat some more fruit, and they start pulling on the veils. Just as I start asking my next question, Shah tells me there a weird red light on the camera. I stop, and look at the camera, I turn it off and back on, hand it back to Shah. He starts rolling again, and I repeat my first question, Shah interrupts again, the red lights still on. I've been around cameras a long time, and I know they are finicky machines - but the three minutes of the Taliban, all masked up, and staring at me trying to fix my camera - are probably the most unnerving I will ever feel. As I'm calmly trying to re-start the camera, I'm thinking to myself, "Damn you! Start now! Gimme another half hour -Then you can die!"

The camera finally rolls without a problem, and I hand it back to Shah. The first leader asks if he should start answering the question, I tell him sure - thinking to myself, "Am I actually directing the Taliban?" A couple of minutes later, I hear Supertramp's "The Logical Song", from Shah's cell phone, at this point I nearly burst out into laughter - the irony is overwhelming. Middle of a village, hardly any modern facilities, and Supertramp on the phone! Another cell phone goes off, belonging to one of the Taliban men in the back of the crowd. Both men are fumbling for their phones, and turn them off. After a brief moment of silence, I continue, and we finish the interview.

They let me take a few pictures after the interview, and pose for the camera. The kids hold some of the rocket launchers, I feel the same twinge of unease, I take more pictures. I decide to take a few pictures with myself in the shot, they surround me, holding their we opens. At one point they jokingly ask me to hold a we open, I keep my hands to myself. We take more pictures.

I thank them for the interview, and we all shake hands down the line, and say our salam as we did when we met. They tell me their glad to tell their side of the story. I tell them, I'm glad they gave me the opportunity for the interview. Atif and his friend lead us back out of the courtyard and into the farm fields. On the way back, Shah admits to me, he was a little startled when he first saw them. I tell him I felt the same way. We walk back through the path we took to get to his village. At the village, we say our goodbye's to everyone. A group of village kids follow us back to the road. We get in Shah's Toyota, and start heading back to Kabul, three hours away.

On the ride back, Shah asks me, how I trusted him with my life, I tell him that the day I landed in this country I felt I was here for some purpose, and I would let destiny or providence guide me. I ask him, how does he trust that I will write faithfully about him and his people, he tells me, he just knows I will. As the sun begins its descent in the West, over the mountains, a turquoise blanket falls over the ridges, and gold light filters through the valleys. I roll my window down, Shah turns on his headlight, and asks where we should stop to pray Maghrib. I look at the sun setting over the mountains, and answer "Anywhere on this road".

30 Days in Afghanistan - Driving to the Taliban (Part 1)

2007-06-29T11:28:00.000-06:00

Tank Boys

The boys climb up the green battered flank of the behemoths, they swing from the turrets. They hop up on the gunners seat, and look to see if I'm still taking pictures. An unnatural scene, something so abrasively out of context, like a blemish on smooth skin. I'm out of synch with the normalcy of the setting around me, a foreigner observing a routine in a strange land. I try not to let on, and I take more pictures of the two boys staring at me. They're sitting atop two Russian tanks on the side of this remote stop in the desert north of Kabul.

My fixer, who was the first face to greet me in this country, is with me. He's standing by the car across the road, waiting for me to finish taking pictures of the boys on the tank. He's agreed to take me on this trip. I've been anticipating this since I stepped onto this land. I shoot some more, the kids climb back down, I fish out some Afghani bills from my pocket, and ask Shah if I should hand it to the kids. He says, they may be insulted, these aren't beggars, so I put the money back in my pocket, and wave at the kids, and say "Tashakor". They smile back, we get back in Shah's Toyota, and race onwards.

We've been driving North East of Kabul for over an hour, our destination lies another 2 hours ahead. Forty minutes outside of the city, we run out of road, and we drive at ridiculously high speeds, and brake sharply to avoid rocks, holes, cars, people, goats, cows, and occasionally the sharp drop-off of a cliff. Driving in this country is a discourse between the mass of a car versus the nerve of the driver. After a while, you begin to trust that every time you get into a car, you will not fly through the windshield, or be hit by the bus speeding toward your side. In order to make the trip in three hours, Shah's flooring the Toyota through rugged and winding roads, I cradle my equipment, and try to enjoy the contrasting serene landscape outside.

Remote Lands

The sweeping landscape of this region has been described well in many books, but witnessing the train of mountains rising and falling along the land, with the remoteness of the villages, and dusty valleys, is not justified by any words. The landscape emanates history, you feel the past reeling by, below the high sky is where travelers walked, and rode for centuries. This is where armies rose, and conquered lands, this is where the silk road, and the spice roads intersected, this is where empires fell. Along this unforgiving terrain, great valleys appear between mountains, lush with green fertile farmland, only to fade away into arid dry scorched earth again.

In the desolation, signs of life appear, in what would seem inhospitable, a mud hut alone on a hill, a great big mud castle, flanked by small dry patches of crop fields, a herd of sheep followed by a young boy shepherding his flock. Between two mountains I see an old man riding a donkey, I could only guess where he's coming from and where he's heading. Life persists, life stakes ground, wherever it can.

From an eagle's vantage, our Toyota appears as a yellow speck racing onwards, leaving a dusty trail behind us, every once in a while, braking and swerving violently off the dusty path. In the three hours, we've come across many small villages. We drive at the same speed through the villages until we hit occasional traffic. If Shah doesn't see around a turn he's about to take, he prevents an accidents by blaring the car horn while taking the turn. At one point, we nearly hit a little girl, and of course, I'm the only one who's alarmed. Shah, and the girl, somehow are oblivious to it all.

From Kabul, we pass through Bagram, where there's an American airbase, the lonely road between the villages we drive on is occasionally interrupted by the Chinook helicopters above us. I can hear the wup-wup sound of their blades before I see them. We'll continue onwards, and pass more villages, Shokhi, this is where one of these helicopters went down a few years ago, then Solanak, Tapa, Lal Pul, Mackteb, Sarboli, Landa Khail, Qila E Salah, Duran, Sayed Khail, to our final stop at Joibar, Shah's village.

We make a few stops along the route. Once at the top of a hill, with a majestic view of the valleys below us, and a river running alongside the mountain. We walk thirty or forty yards towards the edge of the hill, overlooking the river snaking through the valley. We come across a square cement embankment two feet high on four sides that is off to the side of the main path. The West side of the cement enclosure has a small minaret on it, the short walls are painted green. A mosque for the traveler in the middle of God's country.

We walk towards the edge of the cliff, Shah leans down, picks up an empty Kalashnikov bullet shell, and hands it to me. I toss it around in my hand, trying to figure out what a bullet could be doing here, in this barren patch of earth, suspecting the answer. Shah confirms it, Russians fought the country throughout these hills and valleys. I put the shell in my pocket, we get back in the car and drive on.

Along the drive, at various places in the desert I notice small areas where piles of stones are painted white, and green. I ask Shah, what they represent, wondering if they have some cultural or religious significance. He explains, the white stones are where mines are still lying in the ground, and the green stones are where they have been cleared. There are more white stones than green.

Graveyards in the Desert

Throughout our drive, I've notice areas near the foot of hills, where small flat rocks jut out of the ground in small grouped areas. It is the work of humans, and at first, I don't make the connection, and then it dawns on me - graves. I ask Shah to stop again, at what appears to be a larger graveyard in the middle of a field. The flat rocks are burial markers for the martyrs and the dead, some have flags attached to them, usually with very colorful cloths placed repeatedly at the grave site.

We get out of the car, and I wander through the rows of graves, it is midday, and the sun is high above us, there's a breeze blowing from the mountains. I walk a distance away from Shah, around a square embankment, that holds a few more graves in it, these must have been either rich families or heroes to be given this prominence. Around the corner, I nearly stumble into an old man, who was hidden from view from our direction. "Salaam Alaikum" he says, extending his hand, I reply "Walaikum Salaam", and greet him. I don't understand his words in Dari, Shah comes over and translates, "He says his name is Nasir Khawray". I tell him "Nice to meet you". We stay together for a few minutes, and I look into his face, and he represents Afghanistan to me in that instant, old, rugged, weathered, and yet still filled with warmth and hospitality.

We get back into the car, Shah explains the word "Khawray" means mud in Dari. I ask him if he thinks the old man was a farmer, and earned his name from his pre-occupation. He replies, "No, he calls himself mud, because he thinks he is as insignificant as mud before the Almighty". I realize this is one of those moments that will mark my life.

A month from now, I'll be back driving with Sonia and baby Zakaria, in our Lexus in North Dallas, smoothie in hand, and PDA in the other, but here I am now, in the desert with a stranger who I am entrusting my life with, and an old man who probably hasn't traveled more than a day's walk from the village he was born in. In his face, I see God, I see His Shadow among the hills, the barren road, the grave markers, the white and green stones.

We return to the car, and drive onwards, passing more hills, graves and villages.

30 Days in Afghanistan - Tomorrow I Meet The Enemy

2007-06-28T13:05:00.000-06:00

Too tired to write tonight..., tomorrow I meet the Taliban.

30 Days in Afghanistan - Dinner Conversations

2007-06-27T12:58:00.000-06:00

I feel the room getting smaller, I want to find an excuse to leave. Why did I decide to show up? I've managed to stay away from all invitations since I got here, and now here I am in the middle of a dinner I'm dreading. I'd rather be at the dinner from last night, with Mirwais the driver, and Reza the security guy, locals. Around the table, more than a dozen of my co-workers, are enjoying food, drink and conversation. A young Pakistani, from the firm invited me, he wanted to have a dinner for the new folks on the project, and I got the invitation. I hesitated, but decided that I'd already missed two dinners, and should show up this time. I regret the decision.

I'm not one to judge others, I believe that we are responsible for our own destinies, we charter our own path, and it's difficult enough without others telling us what they think. But just because I think we are our own masters, doesn't mean I'm comfortable in circles that down turn in the same direction I'm used to. I'm in Kabul, Afghanistan. Actually, I'm in the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan - and across and beside me, people are beginning to get drunk. Muslims are getting drunk.

Between a saint and a sinner, I'm like most people, I fight my demons, but when I'm closer to being a sinner, I will try, as I think most people do, hide my vices. I'm ashamed of them, I try to do them incognito. But here in front of me, is a man, named after the prophet, a director with the firm, toasting to the group, and to my right is another Muslim from Iran, also a director, and the young Pakistani who invited me, all enjoined in the delight of drink. The first director who is from Egypt, is now mimicking a belly dancer, and the women around the table are giggling. He's re-enacting a dance from another recent dinner, where he apparently displayed this skill for the group. He's shaking his pretend breasts, it's all a great big laugh. I'm mustering a half smile, and sick to my stomach.

I don't want to be here, I want to be with the local Afghani's I had dinner with last night, the ones who talked about their families, and of the provinces they came from. Mirwais from Parwan, the driver, in his early 30's, complained about working for a month straight with no days off. Reza, from Bamian, not married yet, the quiet one, only talking when spoken to. Both complained about the low wages. We enjoyed local fare, they introduced me to "mantu", an entree made with flour and minced meat. Kebabs, rice and dough, a drink made with yogurt, we ate and shared the meal, and left nothing on the plate. Enough to fill us.

I look around the table, food is abundant, there's half eaten plates, and cans of Heineken, glasses of red wine, and the conversation's getting louder. After what seems too long, dinner ends, and I make a excuse, and get up to leave. I pay $20 for my meal, an exorbitant amount in Kabul, the night before I paid for 3 meals for the locals and myself, for less than that. I feign interest for another invitation to an upcoming party at the Iranian director's new house, where he assures me, there'll be plenty of beer, he's taken care of it all. I mention to the host, the young Pakistani, that he should consider wrapping up all the left over food, and offer it to the guards, back at the compound. The lady next to me raises her eyebrow. I know that the food won't make it out the door, I hope that the restaurant will not throw it out.

I left America, I'm in Kabul, in the midst of millions of Muslims, and I feel more alone tonight than I did in the 2 weeks I've been here. I get in the company car, an Aussie joins me, we are driven back to the compound. I get the feeling that he's one of the few at the dinner that may be sharing my paradox of feelings, I realize, he was also pretty quiet over the dinner. Tomorrow, I'll pretend I had a great time. I make a resolution to not let myself go through this again, while I'm in the country.

30 Days in Afghanistan - Climbing Qassaba

2007-06-26T07:20:00.000-06:00

By TxNaeem

Kabul Afghanistan, 23 June 2007

I'm breathing heavy, eyes wide open, and watching every step I take. Since I'm the biggest among the 3 of us, I insisted on carrying the back pack, which has my camera, gear, 2 tall water bottles, and our lunch of Afghani burgers. I've already slipped a few times, and had to catch myself from falling off the cliff. I re-double my efforts, and focus on each step, one at a time, strategically placing feet on rocks that won't give under my weight. Huge boulders, too big to walk over without a climb, cut into our trail. I have to remove my backpack, sling it up to Masoud, then find hand holds, and climb up over the rock. I'm sweating, and breathing hard, partly from the exertion, and partly because Kabul is 5876 feet above sea-level. I'm enjoying each pang of effort, I'm feeling alive.

Masoud, the young Afghani I befriended, who works at our company house as a cook, and also goes to school at night, agreed to take me up the Qassaba Mountain. His older brother joins us. I'm wearing trekker gear, including trekking shoes, breathable clothing, and a baseball cap. Masoud is wearing a shalwar kameez, and running shoes. His brother's wearing knock off designer clothing, and slippers.

We parked at the base of the mountain, and are probably several hundred feet up now - the car looks tiny below us. On the way up, we pass kids herding goats along narrow passes. I'm in unfamiliar territory, and enjoying the mind body journey, they are at home, easily walking and climbing ahead of me. Masoud lives with his family in the apartment building complex near the base of the mountain, he's played here since he was a child, with his 5 brothers. Now, he's taking this foreigner from America, up the hill, where only the locals go.

As we get closer to a clearing, massive boulders are sitting together, creating a somewhat flattened area, we hear singing, and music. We get closer, and it's a friend of Masoud's brother. He's hanging out under the only tree on the hillside, a battery-operated radio is cranking out some Hindi songs, and he's crooning along. He sees us, recognizes Masoud and his brother, greets them, and then eagerly shakes my hand. He's talking Dari, Masoud translates, I talk back in English and Urdu. I ask him who's the girl that caused him such heartache - he laughs, and tells me, through Masoud, how he's the best Tai-Kwon-Do teacher in all of Kabul. We all laugh, I notice he's somewhat inebriated. Masoud tells me, he's upset over a financial transaction. He grabs a plastic cup, and offers me a drink from a bottle of Russian vodka. I refuse politely, we drink our water, and get ready to keep climbing. He wishes us well, continues crooning, and talks about Tai-Kwon-Do belt colors.

Bismillah on the Mountain

We climb for another half hour, and the sun sinks closer to the horizon, we decide to stop at another clearing, and have our lunch. I remove my back-pack, take the water out, and hand it out. I bought "Afghani" burgers from a street vendor for all of us. The sandwich is a thin slice of salami, with french fries, onions, boiled eggs, spices, all wrapped in a pita, and rolled in newspaper. We've worked up an appetite, we devour the sandwiches.

The view from up here is breathtaking. We're north of Kabul, and can see the entire city spread out like a big spread cloth of streets, buildings, houses and tiny cars. We can see airplanes landing and taking off, birds fly to and from their nests below us. We see sand storms, giant columns of sand engulfing buildings and houses, and disappearing as quickly as they appeared. It's calm up here, we hear the wind, birds, the far off din of the city, and our own voices.

With the sun setting, on cue, echoes of the Azhan break out from a half dozen mosques below us. Some in clear voices, others muffled by their distance from us, all reverberating in a beautiful chorus. I am compelled to answer the call. I pray. I kneel between the uneven bedrock, pebbles jab into my knees as I kneel, and I have to steady myself as I get back up. Near the top of the mountain, someone has painted on the side of a huge outcropping rock the words in Arabic, "Bismilla al Rahman al Rahim". Here on the edge of a mountain in the North of Kabul, overlooking the city, I pray.

The sunset colors of orange, pink, blue, purple come out, and settle in across the mountain range above the city. The sun turns a hazy orange, and city lights begin to dot the landscape. We decide to climb down, before we lose all daylight. On the way down, it's the same procession - the brothers clambering down the rocks, and me carefully picking my path down the mountain.

Masoud's Mother

We get to the car and climb in. Masoud drives a quarter mile from the foot of the mountain to his neighborhood of buildings. I take out my camera and continue filming, as I've done throughout the day. We walk through open grounds, families are out, kids are playing games, and goats are herded across dusty trails. Through the fields towards his house, we come to a dusty open field. There's a makeshift soccer net, a game is being played by kids who are probably not teenagers yet. I stop and look at them run around, kicking up dust as they race for the ball. Shalwar kameez, pants and shirts, muddy, and dirty from the game. I see their faces, the concentration, focus and glee in their expressions is the same as kids from Denver, Dallas or New York. They yell after the ball, the ball goes off field, and some younger kids race after it, their slippers flying off their feet. We walk on.

Past the soccer field, we walk into another smaller field, where younger kids are playing. I don't see the playthings I'm used to seeing, no jungle gyms, no see-saws, no monkey bars. There's a well for water in one corner, some kids are taking turns filling buckets with water. Others are playing their own games, as kids will do.

At the edge of the playground, 3 younger ones are sliding down a dirt hill on some kind of makeshift slide. As we get closer, I see that the makeshift devices they sit on, are crushed plastic bottles of pop. The little boy, playfully pushes the older girl in front of him, and she slides down, giggling loudly. I wonder if the two girls are his sisters. They ignore me, as I get closer to film their little game. They're lost in their world of play. I look at the little boy, I see his little dirty clothes, I see his little dirty hands, and his little dirty hair and face. I see him smile, and cackle with laughter. I'm frozen for a moment as I think of my little boy. We walk on.

We wind our way past some buildings. We get to Masoud's building, enter through the door, and start climbing the stairs. There are no lights on the first three floors we're climbing up, and we're passing people on their way down. I smell mold, and a smell like places get when they haven't been cleaned in a long time. At the fifth floor, Masoud's little niece is peaking at us through the open door. His mother comes to the door, and greets her sons, then stands back looking at me, with a smile. We enter, I'm led to the biggest of the three room apartment, the living room.

The room is furnished with floor pillows and carpet, Masoud's other brothers, some nephews and his mother all join us. His mother tells me, how she wishes she had time to prepare food for me, someone brings me a glass of juice. I take a few sips, and realize I may be drinking tap water, I don't want to offend, so I continue drinking. I tell his mother I'm honored to be in her home, Masoud translates my broken Urdu to Dari. We talk some more, she tells me how much she loves Masoud the most, as he's the youngest, and how he's told her about me. I tell her about Sonia and baby Zakaria. I thank her for her hospitality, and prepare to leave, she tells me one final thing, that will be hard to forget, "While you are in this country, I am your mother".

Afghanistan Pictures 2: Climbing Qasaba Mountain

2007-06-22T04:10:00.000-06:00

Some pictures of a hike I took along with some local friends in the Northern Kabul area, this weekend. Weekend here means 1 day - Friday.

We hiked up, watched the city, and sun, ate lunch, and then came back down. In the process I tried not to get myself killed from the slippery slopes. The locals just flew up and down in slippers, while I tried to catch up.

Click here for the pics: Afghanistan Pictures 2: Climbing Qasaba Mountain