Gazelle the Tomboy
The night before last my cousins came over with their kids. It’s a good form of birth control to see a room full of wandering, crying children. It was a little bit awkward in the beginning because I hadn’t seen them in a year and a half. I brought some pictures of my aunts and uncles in the US and showed them to them. I also had some pictures of John, which I was reluctant to bring, but I knew I had to be honest about what my life was like. They were like, who’s that “khorijee” (foreigner)? You’re engaged to a khorijee? There weren’t enough Afghans for you to choose from?
The next day we went to Salang with a few of my cousins, my aunt and my uncle’s wife, Salma. As we drove through the north end of Kabul, Salma showed me the area where she and her family lived before selling their house and fleeing to Iran in ’96. She said it was such a wonderful area--lots of shops and things to do.
As we exited Kabul I saw tons of small houses climbing up the mountains like small little matchboxes staggering up the hill. Apparently this is where all the poor live. Kabul is surrounded by mountains and most of the country seems like a series of various mountain chains. My uncle’s wife imagined how difficult it must be for these people to go back and forth to their houses during the winter when the mountains are full of snow. Just two minutes further down the road were huge mansions, built in the style of Pakistani houses--some were completed and some were just being built. I asked who lived in these, and apparently they are all owned by one person. My cousin, Mustafa, explained that the owner may have 4 wives who then have 5 children that marry and have 5 kids themselves….the point is that all these houses belong to one family. These houses are large and luxurious by US standards, so you can imagine what a contrast it is to see these in Afghanistan where people live in tents, bombed out buildings, or worn down mud-walled dwellings.
As we continued on, my aunt described how green this area is during the spring. She loves greenery and misses it tremendously. She kept after us about how we came during the month of Ramadan during winter. If we had come during the summer we could have gone to the river and had a picnic an eaten melon.
We passed some schools, and my aunt explained that all the buildings are new. The Taliban burned everything that was here before. They even burned cows and sheep alive and their skeletons remain as proof. Apparently they have burned 150 schools and Karzai says for each school they burn they will build another one.
As we drove along, the sun started to bake me and I wished I hadn’t worn my mom’s green silk “paron” that was from the old days. It was very windy in the countryside and I saw girls walking around the road with scarves wrapped around their mouths to block dirt out.
Driving in Afghanistan is like driving in the Italian Job. Here I was worried about suicide bombers, when really driving in a car is probably a higher threat to my life. There are no set rules it seems. For the most part people drive on the right side of the road, but there is an imaginary middle lane that people use to pass other cars whenever they can. There is always a race to pass the next car, and the game of chicken is the norm, not an exception. This was especially nerve racking as we made it closer to Salang where the road winds around the mountains. First there is the fear of getting hit by a car (or bus) winding around the corner, and then there is the fear that your car won’t make it up the hill.
Once we neared the river we stopped alongside the road. There were houses built upon the hill overlooking the river and tons of goats running around. My aunt and Salma sat by the river to chat while the boys and I went exploring. We crossed the river by traversing a bridge that was made with scrap pieces of metal wood and other materials. I tried not to look down too much. The river was beautiful. The crisp air was a nice reprise from the diesel and dust filled drive. I started to get excited as we explored the area and my tomboy side started to come out again. It was me and the boys, as it always had been when I was a kid. We came across another bridge and my cousin turned to me and asked if I could cross it. “Of course!” I said. I’m a bit competitive when it comes to men. I always have to prove I can do whatever they can if not more. When we got to the bridge I started to regret my need to prove myself as a more than capable woman, as this bridge was not as complete as the last. It was very narrow and at the end there was as HUGE gap--a gap, much bigger than I was comfortable with. My cousin went before me, and though I had denied his hand of help walking down the mountain (I could walk down the mountain just fine, thank you very much!) I had to give in this time. I did not want to cross that bridge! But I took his hand and made it across. Phew!
I saw some goats walking up the steep rock face wondering how they could do it. One of my cousins jumped on a rock and started washing his face in the water. It looked nice, but the word “giardia” kept me from doing the same. It felt good enclosed between the rock walls, the water and the mountains. I felt like I could breathe and just be. No worries about suicide bombers, no overactive imagination of what does so-and-so think of me, is my scarf on properly, etc etc. Just a few minutes of being me. Tomboy Gazelle. Forget the scarf. Though I must say it’s much more liberal here than when I went to Iran in 2001. After a few minutes of enjoying the atmosphere we decided to head back. Who knows where the others were. We passed by some more goats chillin’ in the shade of the trees and ran into some shy school girls. They stood there and stared at us as we walked back. It was particularly hard not to return the stare of the girl with the blue eyes. I tried taking their picture, they were so cute, but they ran.
After that we went farther up the river and stopped. This time Wazhma and I followed our cousins’ lead and took our socks off, and put our feet in the cold water. We couldn’t stay long, but it was really nice to see a different part of Afghanistan.
Mustafa played “chicken” all the way home, so it was an interesting ride home. By the time we got home I was feeling pretty sick from the diesel, dust and bumpiness of the road, but there wasn’t much time to rest as we headed to a school that my dad’s cousin is running. They teach English and computer skills. They were having a ceremony of sorts and we walked in while one of the students was giving a speech in English about the importance of learning English and Computer skills in the 21st century. It was nice to hear the kids talk and I was very proud of them for being in school. We also watched a little video about my dad’s cousin’s relief work. Apparently he had come to deliver food and clothing when all the other aid organizations pulled out. He had to come as a “journalist” because they weren’t allowing aid workers in because it was dangerous. He himself had some very close calls with the Taliban. He founded a nonprofit by the name of Afghan Relief Organization based out of Los Angeles. www.afghanrelief.com . I’m thinking about setting up some kind of online communication between this school and a school in the US.
After going to the school we headed my aunt’s house for dinner. We were a little bit late and on the way there I saw some soldiers breaking their fast at a food stand. We turned off the main road down a bumpy dirt alley. Their home consisted of a walled courtyard made of mud. In the front were some propane stoves boiling water for tea.
They held a propane lamp to shine the way to the living room which had red rugs across the floor and floor cushions. It’s not typical for Afghan homes to have chairs and tables. Instead we all sat around the floor on the cushions. I sat next to my cousin’s mother-in-law who had bright red hair (probably from henna), and twinkling eyes. She was spunky with a good sense of humor.
They turned the generator on and screwed a light bulb in to provide light. They made tons of food and kept feeding us until we were stuffed. The melon was particularly sweet. Mustafa’s fiance’s family lives in the adjacent room. If you saw her family, you would think they were Brittish or Swedish. They have blond hair, super fair skin (John, they make you look tan ;) ), rosy cheeks and blue eyes. Mustafa’s sister’s child is also blond and blue-eyed. It was funny because I was always surprised when thy spoke Dari. I half expected some European language to come out of their mouths since they were so fair.
It was nice seeing all my cousins together, telling stories. Though they don’t have much in the way of money, they are all together and take care of each other, which is very endearing to see.
Unfortunately we didn’t stay too long because my dad was tired from his trip to Jalalabad. I was sad to leave. I was having a good time and enjoying the company. I think I was finally starting to get used to things here and getting comfortable. On our way home we drove past a few mosques that were basically a one mud room. There were men outside praying in the dark. On the opposite side was a small stand that was plastered with colorful images of women. They almost looked like baseball trading cards. I wonder if they trade cards of women ;).
Sorry for the choppy blog. I think my brain is getting confused between the Dari and the English and it’s hard for me to write today.
The next day we went to Salang with a few of my cousins, my aunt and my uncle’s wife, Salma. As we drove through the north end of Kabul, Salma showed me the area where she and her family lived before selling their house and fleeing to Iran in ’96. She said it was such a wonderful area--lots of shops and things to do.
As we exited Kabul I saw tons of small houses climbing up the mountains like small little matchboxes staggering up the hill. Apparently this is where all the poor live. Kabul is surrounded by mountains and most of the country seems like a series of various mountain chains. My uncle’s wife imagined how difficult it must be for these people to go back and forth to their houses during the winter when the mountains are full of snow. Just two minutes further down the road were huge mansions, built in the style of Pakistani houses--some were completed and some were just being built. I asked who lived in these, and apparently they are all owned by one person. My cousin, Mustafa, explained that the owner may have 4 wives who then have 5 children that marry and have 5 kids themselves….the point is that all these houses belong to one family. These houses are large and luxurious by US standards, so you can imagine what a contrast it is to see these in Afghanistan where people live in tents, bombed out buildings, or worn down mud-walled dwellings.
As we continued on, my aunt described how green this area is during the spring. She loves greenery and misses it tremendously. She kept after us about how we came during the month of Ramadan during winter. If we had come during the summer we could have gone to the river and had a picnic an eaten melon.
We passed some schools, and my aunt explained that all the buildings are new. The Taliban burned everything that was here before. They even burned cows and sheep alive and their skeletons remain as proof. Apparently they have burned 150 schools and Karzai says for each school they burn they will build another one.
As we drove along, the sun started to bake me and I wished I hadn’t worn my mom’s green silk “paron” that was from the old days. It was very windy in the countryside and I saw girls walking around the road with scarves wrapped around their mouths to block dirt out.
Driving in Afghanistan is like driving in the Italian Job. Here I was worried about suicide bombers, when really driving in a car is probably a higher threat to my life. There are no set rules it seems. For the most part people drive on the right side of the road, but there is an imaginary middle lane that people use to pass other cars whenever they can. There is always a race to pass the next car, and the game of chicken is the norm, not an exception. This was especially nerve racking as we made it closer to Salang where the road winds around the mountains. First there is the fear of getting hit by a car (or bus) winding around the corner, and then there is the fear that your car won’t make it up the hill.
Once we neared the river we stopped alongside the road. There were houses built upon the hill overlooking the river and tons of goats running around. My aunt and Salma sat by the river to chat while the boys and I went exploring. We crossed the river by traversing a bridge that was made with scrap pieces of metal wood and other materials. I tried not to look down too much. The river was beautiful. The crisp air was a nice reprise from the diesel and dust filled drive. I started to get excited as we explored the area and my tomboy side started to come out again. It was me and the boys, as it always had been when I was a kid. We came across another bridge and my cousin turned to me and asked if I could cross it. “Of course!” I said. I’m a bit competitive when it comes to men. I always have to prove I can do whatever they can if not more. When we got to the bridge I started to regret my need to prove myself as a more than capable woman, as this bridge was not as complete as the last. It was very narrow and at the end there was as HUGE gap--a gap, much bigger than I was comfortable with. My cousin went before me, and though I had denied his hand of help walking down the mountain (I could walk down the mountain just fine, thank you very much!) I had to give in this time. I did not want to cross that bridge! But I took his hand and made it across. Phew!
I saw some goats walking up the steep rock face wondering how they could do it. One of my cousins jumped on a rock and started washing his face in the water. It looked nice, but the word “giardia” kept me from doing the same. It felt good enclosed between the rock walls, the water and the mountains. I felt like I could breathe and just be. No worries about suicide bombers, no overactive imagination of what does so-and-so think of me, is my scarf on properly, etc etc. Just a few minutes of being me. Tomboy Gazelle. Forget the scarf. Though I must say it’s much more liberal here than when I went to Iran in 2001. After a few minutes of enjoying the atmosphere we decided to head back. Who knows where the others were. We passed by some more goats chillin’ in the shade of the trees and ran into some shy school girls. They stood there and stared at us as we walked back. It was particularly hard not to return the stare of the girl with the blue eyes. I tried taking their picture, they were so cute, but they ran.
After that we went farther up the river and stopped. This time Wazhma and I followed our cousins’ lead and took our socks off, and put our feet in the cold water. We couldn’t stay long, but it was really nice to see a different part of Afghanistan.
Mustafa played “chicken” all the way home, so it was an interesting ride home. By the time we got home I was feeling pretty sick from the diesel, dust and bumpiness of the road, but there wasn’t much time to rest as we headed to a school that my dad’s cousin is running. They teach English and computer skills. They were having a ceremony of sorts and we walked in while one of the students was giving a speech in English about the importance of learning English and Computer skills in the 21st century. It was nice to hear the kids talk and I was very proud of them for being in school. We also watched a little video about my dad’s cousin’s relief work. Apparently he had come to deliver food and clothing when all the other aid organizations pulled out. He had to come as a “journalist” because they weren’t allowing aid workers in because it was dangerous. He himself had some very close calls with the Taliban. He founded a nonprofit by the name of Afghan Relief Organization based out of Los Angeles. www.afghanrelief.com . I’m thinking about setting up some kind of online communication between this school and a school in the US.
After going to the school we headed my aunt’s house for dinner. We were a little bit late and on the way there I saw some soldiers breaking their fast at a food stand. We turned off the main road down a bumpy dirt alley. Their home consisted of a walled courtyard made of mud. In the front were some propane stoves boiling water for tea.
They held a propane lamp to shine the way to the living room which had red rugs across the floor and floor cushions. It’s not typical for Afghan homes to have chairs and tables. Instead we all sat around the floor on the cushions. I sat next to my cousin’s mother-in-law who had bright red hair (probably from henna), and twinkling eyes. She was spunky with a good sense of humor.
They turned the generator on and screwed a light bulb in to provide light. They made tons of food and kept feeding us until we were stuffed. The melon was particularly sweet. Mustafa’s fiance’s family lives in the adjacent room. If you saw her family, you would think they were Brittish or Swedish. They have blond hair, super fair skin (John, they make you look tan ;) ), rosy cheeks and blue eyes. Mustafa’s sister’s child is also blond and blue-eyed. It was funny because I was always surprised when thy spoke Dari. I half expected some European language to come out of their mouths since they were so fair.
It was nice seeing all my cousins together, telling stories. Though they don’t have much in the way of money, they are all together and take care of each other, which is very endearing to see.
Unfortunately we didn’t stay too long because my dad was tired from his trip to Jalalabad. I was sad to leave. I was having a good time and enjoying the company. I think I was finally starting to get used to things here and getting comfortable. On our way home we drove past a few mosques that were basically a one mud room. There were men outside praying in the dark. On the opposite side was a small stand that was plastered with colorful images of women. They almost looked like baseball trading cards. I wonder if they trade cards of women ;).
Sorry for the choppy blog. I think my brain is getting confused between the Dari and the English and it’s hard for me to write today.
posted by Gazelle at 11:44 PM
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