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A New Life Eight months ago, when I told my friends and family back in Washington, DC that I was moving to Afghanistan to start a new career, none of us imagined this would become a regular scene from my life. Indeed, my friends’ initial reaction was to question my sanity. And who could blame them? So much of what the word “Kabul” evokes is negative. The nightly news delivers images of haggard children and bombed-out buildings, a land recently characterized by grotesque public executions and mistreatment of women. Everyone envisioned my new life as one of restriction–sleeping in bunkers, cowering from military operations, and being constantly surrounded by men with guns. So why did I decide to come here? Quite frankly, I was sick of everything. Sick of the security threats, the delays on the Metro, and the frantic pace of my job as a proposal writer for government contracts. Riding the train across the Potomac each morning, I’d watch the sun rise over the smokestacks down the river and dream of a different life, one with a slower pace, where people savored kindness. Maybe, I mused, I’d move to Mexico, Romania or India. I have to admit, Afghanistan wasn’t really on my radar screen, until an actual, well-paid job opportunity in Kabul presented itself to me. It was a perfect mesh with my skills, and I felt the fates had aligned in my favor. Therefore, in early January I crossed the world to reach the snow-capped country that would become my new home. But What’s It Really Like? The periodic
emails I get from home usually feature some question or statement to the
effect of, “Tell me everything about what it’s like to live there!” My
compatriots seem to have the impression that I’m either hunkered down in
a cave listening to bombs fall every night, or gallivanting Lawrence of
Arabia-style over the Hindu Kush on a camel.
The truth is, there are many days I forget I’m in Kabul at all. While office environments vary across the country–ranging from high-tech to primitive–chances are most expats end up working in very much the same context as at home in the West. Every morning, I ride into the office, grab a cup of coffee and sort through my emails, read the newspaper online, then get busy on my laptop with the numerous reports, papers and other documents I’m in charge of editing and publishing. It’s only the “in-between times” that I realize I’m in a different world entirely. Lunch is traditional Afghan fare eaten off carpets on the floor; driving to meetings means sitting in terrible traffic jams while beggars tap at the car windows or try to sell local papers for a dollar. And everywhere I’m surrounded by the sounds unique to this world–the lilting cadence of the Dari language, horses clopping along the roads, and the interesting tunes of Kabul’s bus horns. The Kabul of
my daily life is like any world capital, thriving with activity. On the
main streets, taxi cabs hustle for customers while vendors sell the latest
electronic gadgets. Young women in stylish scarves and platform shoes walk
to their jobs beneath signs advertising mobile phones. Even in the
areas most distressed from 20 years of war–those Soviet-style high rises
whose upper floor beams wave like exposed steel tentacles–the hubbub of
the market goes on. Living in Kabul today is what I imagine it must
have been like living in Prague after the fall of communism, except with
more dust and a few million landmines.
The major differences between life in Afghanistan and the West are related to its being a developing country. On a practical level, this means the basic infrastructures we are used to is simply non-existent. Electricity is sporadic and dependent on generators, water shortages are common, and the pot-hole filled roads leave much to be desired. There is also little access to reliable health care. The latter point should not be taken lightly. With poor sanitation and heavy pollution, Kabul’s denizens suffer numerous respiratory and gastrointestinal ailments. If you’re coming here for the long haul, bring a mobile pharmacy with you. But its status as a developing country also means that there’s always something interesting going on. Kabul is filled with the carcasses of airplanes, tanks and what were likely once palatial homes and gardens. In the nearby hillsides, one can sit in the shell of a looted hotel and sip tea while being watched over by a man with a Kalashnikov, or climb to the top of an ancient fort surrounded by a “garden” of military debris. The markets are overflowing with 1980s carpets emblazoned with guns and flowers. Sure, life may be taxing, but boring? Never! Security Probably the biggest misconception of Afghanistan is that it is a nation of fundamentalists, angry at America and ready to cut down the West at any cost. While there certainly have been (limited) attacks on military and UN targets, in short, this ain’t no Baghdad. Most Afghans could care less whether the Westerner in their presence is American, British or say, Belgian. Even finding out I’m from the country that is staging a war on their front doesn’t deter the Afghans I meet from inviting me to tea. Indeed, many Afghans take delight in the opportunity to convey to Westerners what they’ve been afraid of saying to other Afghans. A bookseller has taken me into his confidence and told how he hid his literature in ancient wood stoves to avoid confiscation. A local fruit seller shows off the scars he received from a Taliban soldier who accused him of not having a long enough beard. Each organization operating in Afghanistan has its own security regulations for employees. At the strictest level, such as for the UN and military, this means workers are not permitted free passage around the city, and are limited to visiting only a handful of security-compliant restaurants. Non-governmental organizations and other research and private companies like mine tend to be more permissive, allowing employees to walk to work and do their own shopping provided they check in or are home at certain times. It’s also a misconception that the country is teeming with soldiers. On any given day, its rare that I encounter one man in uniform, let alone several. The Coalition forces generally operate outside of the major cities, and the International Security Assistance Forces (ISAF) have a few set routes they monitor. Nor is the capital filled with Americans. I can count on one hand the number of fellow countrymen I’ve come across in my time here. I’m more likely to run into Japanese tourists than folks from home; the humanitarian expatriate community is largely European and Australian. Beyond The Capital While Kabul offers many job opportunities for expatriates, so too does the rest of the country. Often people forget about the size of Afghanistan, and don’t realize that while war is being waged along the country’s southern border, the north is relatively calm and stable. This is the area least ravaged by 20+ years of war, and as beautiful as any place on earth. About a month back, I had the pleasure of spending time up north, on an office-organized camping excursion. Camping?! you might say, but I assure you that there are some unsullied places left on earth, even in Afghanistan. After taking a short flight up to the city of Mazar-i-Sharif, our group gathered some cars and headed out to the desert, about a five hours’ drive west toward the border with Turkmenistan. The road was lined with poppies–Afghanistan’s opium economy in full bloom–then petered out to become a dirt path that wound along sand dunes and mud-brick homes. In the middle of a landscape that reminded me strongly of the Dakota Badlands, a group of Uzbek farmers set up tents for our party, then provided refreshments and entertainment. The first evening, we reclined on embroidered toshaks and feasted on lamb kebab and homemade yogurt. A local farmer brought in his steel drum, and sang the traditional songs of his people, while the Afghans among us danced. The following morning I awoke early to the sounds of farmers revving up their engines and preparing for the day’s work. Stumbling toward the makeshift toilet, I was greeted by a sunrise in varying bands of red, orange and gold. Prairie dogs chattered from their homes in the earth, and I was aware at once of the vast beauty of my new homeland. Yes, this too is Afghanistan, I thought, and if I can make it here, I’ll make it anywhere. To contact
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