Gazelle Speak

The Beginning

2012-01-22T20:37:00.000-08:00

I've been wanting to write again for quite some time. But I never thought I had anything interesting to write about. I haven't been traveling as much as I used to, and when I did travel, I was more interested in experiencing, rather than documenting. But it seems like the universe has conspired to get me to write again. After being sick on and off every other week, and depressed, I've been trying whatever I can to get back on my feet again. I went to an acupuncturist (a very special one) who told me I have a "lung deficiency" which usually corresponds with having a weak or soft voice. She recommended I sing, or do something to have my voice be heard. That made sense to me.

Then I went to my Yoni Ki Baat meeting. Yoni Ki Baat is the South Asian version of the Vagina Monologues, except that the participants tell their own stories. After divulging my rather painful recent trials with depression, they reminded me that I must do what's right for myself, and not worry so much about how I will affect others (a common theme that keeps popping up). It was today, in that room, that I decided I would write again. Not to anyone in particular, but just to get my voice out there. I hope that this will be the solution to my recent struggles with sickness and depression.

I was very weary of doing this...as I don't want to "offend" anyone. So here is my disclaimer: I am just writing to get it out of my system, not to hurt or "defame" anyone, but just to show the real me and see what happens.

I hope this will be a positive ride.

Gazelle

Red, Red Milk....

2007-05-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

The other day my relatives were talking about “Sheer’e surkh” or Red Milk. ‘Red Milk?’ I asked. They started laughing, reminded of the ridiculous ironies of this country. “Red Milk” is actually wine imported from Italy. But instead of coming in a traditional wine bottle, it comes in a milk carton. They suspect that this makes it easier for it to be imported into the country, as the import and sale of alcohol is illegal in Afghanistan. A year ago stores were full of every type of alcohol you could imagine, but then religious constituents were angry and in order for the government to appear like it is religious, they banned the sale of alcohol. After all, this is the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. All this really means is that alcohol is still available, there are just code names for it like “red milk” or “medicine,” and it is sold at VERY high prices. I think it is permitted for foreigners to drink alcohol here, as they have it in all the foreign-geared restaurants. Apparently there is a Lebanese and Mexican restaurant in Kabul, among other ethnic cuisines. The food is about 20 USD a plate, or 1000 Afghanis. (The average Afghan makes $50 USD per month while the rent for a 3-bedroom apt. in the worst part of town without electricity is $210 USD/month!)

As you might already know, I have been sick for the past few days, and I kept having to delay my trip to Herat. Finally on Saturday I was well enough to go. The problem was my previous ticket was cancelled and I had to find a new ticket. So my cousin Mustafa and my cousin’s husband Emal took me to see if we could find a ticket. You can’t buy any tickets from the airport directly because they won’t let you close to the airport unless you have an airplane ticket for security reasons. I was a bit nervous because it was 8 am and the flight usually leaves at 11 am and I still didn’t have a ticket. First we drove to the Kam air office, but their flight had left at 7 am. Then we drove to Ariana. Mustafa asked the man at their office and he said they had a flight at 10 am but it was already booked. But no doesn’t mean no here. He called my uncle to get some advice and my uncle told him to mention a particular person’s name. Mustafa went back in there and “name-dropped” and the same man that said the tickets were sold-out issued a ticket on the spot. As I’ve heard so many times here, “This is Afghanistan.” It’s all about who you know, who’s cousin you are, who your dad is, etc etc. Of course money doesn’t hurt either. If you’re willing to pay double, all of a sudden things start to happen.

So we got a ticket and headed to the airport which has two outer parking lots. Before entering the first parking lot you have to be searched. I entered the search room which is for women exclusively and recognized the woman that had searched me when I was here in October. She was the one that was super sweet and took pictures with us. I asked her if she recognized me and she said yes and I apologized for not bringing her the pictures. Last time she asked that I print the pictures we took and give them to her. I didn’t think I would be back here so soon and that I would also run into her again so I didn’t. Plus my sister has them. So she will have to print them for next time.

After being searched we were allowed in the first parking lot. As we waited outside in the first parking lot, Emal entertained me with stories about the Taliban. I don’t know if “entertain” is the right word, or “disgusted” or “shocked” is better. He told me that under the Taliban women weren’t even allowed to show their fingernails. I wouldn’t have been able to go outside with what I was wearing that day which was a long baggy top, baggy pants and scarf. At that time he was a taxi driver and one day while he was waiting in the car he saw a young girl walking with a burqa on. She scratched her side which raised her burqa by an inch, revealing her foot. A nearby Talib saw this and in order to punish her for her “indecency” he took a piece of wood which was wrapped in chain and started beating her on the street. The girl started crying and screaming at the top of her lungs, but it didn’t make a difference. The Talib kept beating her until she was forced to crawl under a car to escape him. Emal said that day he cried. He looked all around him and all the men that were watching cried because they knew they couldn’t do anything about it.

Emal also described the Taliban’s “jails.” One of the drivers that currently works for my dad had been captured and locked up by the Taliban because he was from Panjshir and was not Pashtun. When the Taliban locked people up they stuck them in metal shipping containers about 10’x10’ with about 20 other people. If you died in there, you died, and if you came out alive you came out alive. But the containers were under the hot sun with no windows and no bathrooms. The driver said that if it had been even 5 more minutes when he got out he would have been dead.

After about an hour of story telling I was finally allowed through the gate. As I mentioned only people with tickets are allowed to pass through. My cousin Mustafa had an old baggage claim ticket that he used to pass through. Since lost luggage is so common here, people often have to come back to pick up their lost luggage using their claim ticket. I was glad Mustafa was with me keeping me company because we sat in the next parking lot for another hour or two. I started to feel sick from the heat. By this point it was well past the scheduled departure time of the flight. I’m discovering flights rarely fly on time here. Sometimes they fly and sometimes they don’t. Here there is a lot of waiting and uncertainty.

Next I was allowed into the airport and Mustafa and I parted ways. Since I am a woman they let me go to the front of the line. Everyone was pretty nice, showing me where to go. I was searched again by the tall woman that had searched my sister last time. She was really mean I remember and wanted to give her a piece of my mind on behalf of my sister but thankfully I’m not so stupid. She seemed to be in a better mood today. She’s very tall and intimidating with short hair and black eyeliner.

Next I entered the waiting room. Near the “gate” door (there aren’t gates here, you just walk on the tarmac) there was a section reserved for women. However, it was already filled with men so I took a seat at the edge of an empty row a few rows back. After I sat down I noticed a family in another row and wondered if I should sit with them, but out of principal I didn’t. I should sit wherever I like and men should learn how to mind their own business.
We finally boarded the plane and the steward was trying to seat everyone in their assigned seats but by the end he threw his hands up in the air. Everyone wanted to pick their own seats and everything was getting confused. I noticed 3 women wearing burqas scoot up the aisle. Damn, I thought. As if a plane is not claustrophobic and hot as it is.

Next to me a small skinny man in a suit started talking to me. He works for the environmental protection agency in Herat. Basically they try to protect any forests that have survived the war. I found out that he was an English major and he would ask me questions in English and I would respond in Farsi. Finally, he said, I’m trying to practice my English but you’ll only respond in Farsi. I said, yah, cause I’m trying to practice my Farsi! Finally I spoke English with him. The man sitting on the other side of him was kind of shy, maybe because I was a woman. Finally he warmed up and by the end of the flight he gave me his biscuits that the flight had provided insisting I should take them since I was a traveler.

Three Fish

2007-05-08T01:45:00.000-07:00

The day before yesterday I taught my first workshop at Turquoise Mountain Foundation which is a center for arts in Kabul. For example, they have people working on ceramics, painting, calligraphy and other traditional arts of Afghanistan. The place itself is pretty interesting. They have taken over the old British Embassy which is a fort-like structure. I got to see how they make their ceramic bowls and the designs that they use to decorate the bowls. The men make the pottery on the wheel and then the women paint the design.

The workshop I taught was about how to mat you photos. We brought a mat cutting machine and taught them how to use it. At first the professor was not interested at all. He thought it was useless and had a “I don’t need this” kind of attitude. But after he saw the demonstration he got really excited and was the first one to make a mat (before any of the students!). Then the second class I taught he basically took over! It was funny. I had to encourage the female students that were sitting in the back to come forward to see the demonstration. They were very shy while the boys were very active and had more of a “know-it-all” attitude.

After that I went home and I was really tired. Driving around in Afghanistan drains my energy. It’s very dusty and the air is full of diesel fumes. On top of that the roads are in really bad shape—very bumpy with extreme pot holes. So any time I have to drive somewhere I’m exhausted afterward.

Yesterday I taught some marketing workshops to a class of female artists at the contemporary center for visual arts. I got to see their paintings and they were realllllly interesting. There was one that showed a well and the bucket from the well had a white scarf with red flowers sitting on it. The meaning of the painting was that a woman had committed suicide by dropping herself in the well. The flowers on the scarf represented her hopes and dreams. There were a lot of paintings that had themes of freedom. There was one woman that was very sharp and outspoken. She asked a lot of questions during the class. She had a painting of a circle with a small opening. Inside the circle were 3 fish-one red, blue, and yellow. Being the primary colors, these fish represented all of humanity, as you can get any color from combining red, blue and yellow. The meaning of the painting was that the fish (or humanity) had a door they could use to get out of their confined situation, but they chose not to.

After the class I spoke with some of the students and I was surprised that they were around 20 and 21! They looked like they were teenagers! I think they are so small due to malnutrition. I am planning on bringing their work to the US as part of resonance. After I came home it started thunder storming which I really liked!

One of the women I am interviewing for Resonance is illiterate. I will post her story to the resonance blog when I’m done typing it. Here I really appreciate the fact that I have an education and can read! It’s something I take for granted every day, but life is so hard if you can’t read! She is a widow and has 5 kids and works on her own to support her children. Her son wanted to quit school to work but she won’t let him. She says, I might be illiterate, but I want my kids to have a good future. They won’t be beggars. Her oldest daughter was taken out of school to take care of her dad when he was sick. Now she takes care of the kids while the mom works and goes to the mosque to read the Koran since she doesn’t go to school any more. Her mom wants her to at least be able to read “hospital.”

Unfortunately, I must have ate something I shouldn’t have because I’ve been sick for the past few days. Hopefully it’s not some kind of bacteria, but if it is I have some antibiotics with me. Tomorrow we’re heading to Herat and I’m not sure if I’ll have email access there or not.

Gazelle

Having fun in Kabul...

2007-05-05T02:46:00.000-07:00

[I tried to add some pictures to the blog but the internet is too slow upload pictures.]

Yesterday was Friday which is a holiday here. Here the weekend is half of Thursday and all of Friday. I went with my cousins to Paghman which is 20 miles north of Kabul. It was good to see my cousins and their children who are SO cute. Unfortunately one of my cousins, Hasina, had severe burns on her foot. Her husband lit a lantern indoors and when he didn’t see a flame he added more fuel without turning it off. The lantern exploded and Hasina’s pants caught on fire as did their rug and cushions. Both she and her husband have severe burns on their feet. Luckily their children were not around! Poor woman can barely walk and she also suffers from Rheumatoid arthritis and she’s only about 35 years old.

Anyway….So yesterday the cousins came over and we ate some lunch and headed to Paghman. We took two cars. I went in Malahat’s van and sat with her and two of her kids while another sat in between the driver and passenger seats. On the way out of Kabul my uncle stopped and gave some money to a few of the women that were sitting on the side of the street. They sat there with dirty torn burqas, hands outstretched, some with children by their side. One child almost got hit crossing the street to get money from us. Luckily the taxi driver saw her and stopped! We also passed some UNICEF tents that are used for school. As soon as we exited Kabul it was beautiful and peaceful. Everything is green and the streams are full due to the rains this year. As we drove toward Paghman we saw lots of people picnicking in various places, hanging out and relaxing. On the left side of the road there was a little sheesha stop. Men sat in the shade puffing on sheesha. My cousin said she tried it once and really liked it. It tasted like apple but made her head dizzy so that she couldn’t stand up. I wondered if it was straight tobacco or was laced with something else. After she tried it she told her cousin to try it and then told her to get her some tea. Her cousin stood up and sat right back down from being dizzy!

The road was full from people driving out of town. Most of them were heading to Qargha which has a lake and some food stands. I could see some men swimming in the lake and having fun. We continued on and reached Paghman which is a small town. It’s most noticeable feature is an Arc de Triomphe knock-off built by King Amanullah in the 1930s after he returned from Europe. We stopped to take some pictures and continued another 5-10 minutes out of town where we reached a beautiful river. Lots of people were picnicking there and the mountains were beautiful. It was quite a task keeping track of all the little children climbing rocks, wanting to jump in the river. We walked around past some kids playing soccer, up the hill. There was a small mud house with a woman peering through the window. According to Malahat, the woman was making sure that we would not pick her fruit (as Malahat did this last time and the woman came running after her!).

We took some pictures near the river and my cousin’s husband told me to take my scarf off because it wasn’t necessary here. It was interesting…I was on one side of the river without any scarf, and on the other side were 3 or 4 women completely covered with a black chaudori (a giant full body scarf).

Later in the evening the men went and bought some beers, kababs, and a warped soccer ball that we played volleyball with. I don’t think I’ve played volleyball since middle school and forgot how much it hurts my arms! Ouch! The men, warmed by their beers, wanted to stay all night but the women started to lose their patience as their children were getting cold, so we packed up and headed home. Before reaching Paghman we stopped again to look at a mosque and statue Amanullah Khan had built that was still standing. An old man explained to us that the symbols on the statue celebrated education. We walked around the inside of the mosque a bit and headed home.

We took a different road home which was bumpy and full of whole. By the time I got home I was exhausted and went straight to bed.

Moonlight dinners in Kabul

2007-05-02T23:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, my uncle and I were bored so we had our own tea party-just the two of us- and ate some cookies and drank some tea. I have been very spoiled in the food department while I’ve been here. I’ve been eating good food every day. Before our tea party my uncle bought two lambs and they were grazing in the yard. He bought them for “khairat,” which is charity. Basically, their heads will be cut off while being prayed over (halal). I was thinking about those poor lambs, but then I thought at least these lambs get blessed before they are killed. There is some appreciation for the lamb giving its life to feed someone else, whereas in the US I’m not sure the animals we eat get so much gratitude. I decided I should watch the process, which I suppose sounds pretty sick. But I just thought if I’m going to eat them then I ought to see them killed too. If I can’t see them killed than maybe I should become a vegetarian.
After our tea party we went to a friend’s house for dinner near “chicken street” which is a famous street that sells antiques. We sat outside in the courtyard under the full moon and my dad and the other engineers talked “engineer talk” while I tried to keep up as much as I could. The TV was on and the news showed some men carrying coffins in Jalalabad. A few days ago US forces raided houses in Jalalabad and killed several people, including women and children. I can’t remember if 25 houses were raided or if 25 people were killed. A man and a woman from Jalalabad spoke angrily of this injustice and that the US forces should not have raided these houses without permission. Today I saw that Karzai said he will not tolerate any more civilian casualties. I think he’s been saying that for a while though, and am not sure how he can enforce his claims. After the news was a show similar to David Letterman or SNL. There was a pretty good sketch making fun of the Afghan program “Afghan Star” which is the equivalent to American Idol in the US. One thing that is really refreshing about Afghanistan is the media here. It’s so new, and so much more democratic than the media in the US. Remember “free speech”? They show different programs, their news interviews everyday people and shows what’s going on in everyday life rather than just interviewing so-called “experts,” as we see on the news everyday in the US. It was really funny, they were showing president bush talking but it was dubbed in Dari. Regardless though I could still hear his dumb voice. The man looks stupid even when he’s dubbed in another language.

This morning I woke up several times. First was from the call to prayer. Then was the rooster’s call, and finally it was my dad shuffling around the room trying to empty his suitcase. He couldn’t sleep as usual. He flew in yesterday and surprisingly did not take a nap during the day. I thought we would share the queen sized bed but he opted to sleep on the floor, which made me smile. I thought, my mom would kill to snuggle with me, but I guess my dad is not much of a snuggler, which is OK. He probably would have tossed around like a dolphin anyway, twisting the covers around him.

Fortunately or unfortunately I woke up too late this morning and missed the lamb sacrifice. After the lambs were killed, the meat was separated into several bags and my uncle distributed them to the poor.

Later that day I had some of this lamb in a dish called “Do piaza” (Two onions) which has yellow split peas and onions soaked in vinegar

Today was a pretty relaxed day. Outside my window I saw some men trying to get a camel on a truck. They pushed and pulled as the camel moaned. I have no idea what they were trying to do with that camel. I went to the bathroom and when I came back they were trying to get the camel OFF the truck. The camel was not so happy about that and it took several men to drag him off as he moaned and groaned. Later on I saw the camel tied up outside my dad’s place, sitting contently.

Today we went to a coffee house called Chaylee. It’s a coffee house geared towards foreigners and was opened by an American woman. On the outside of the building, you can’t even tell there’s a coffee shop. There is no sign and it’s completely non-descript. Inside it’s like a little oasis of Kabul meets Starbucks. Wooden Afghan furniture, rugs, soft lighting and even some photos of coffee on the walls. Outside there is seating as well with red cushions and a screen that they use to screen movies every so often. My uncle and I opted for the ice cream with strawberry sauce. Yum :). It was really great people watching. It was a little magnet for foreigners. It was like they had all come out of the woodwork and were in this one place. Inside the women took their scarves off, sipped their lattes and worked on their laptops. There were also some young Afghan men hanging out there. One had his traditional paron-e tomban outfit with ipod earbuds in his ears. After I finished my ice cream, I noticed these two young men walk in. they looked like teenagers. I couldn’t help but stare at them, they were so adorable. At first I thought they were Japanese—they had Asian like features, but what made me really think they were Japanese was their clothing. They were SO hip. Washed out blue jeans rolled up, leather loafers, designer t-shirts…they looked straight out of an urban outfitters catalog or something. They ended up sitting near my uncle and I and I could tell by their fluent Dari that they were indeed Afghan, not Japanese as I had assumed :).

After ice cream eating, my uncle dad and I went shopping. My dad loves shopping, no matter where he is. He wanted to buy a small mattress that he could sleep on since he’s sleeping on the floor :). My impression of Kabul on this trip is that it has opened up a bit—it doesn’t feel as stiff and people are more relaxed. Also I see many more women wearing a head scarf rather than a burqa and also expressing themselves with different fashions. It turned out the owner of the mattress store had met my dad some 18 years ago in Seattle. He used to have a rug shop there. Small world, eh?

After shopping we went to my dad’s cousin’s place. He runs a nonprofit school that teaches computer skills and English. He really is a wonderful man and I’m always very happy to see him because he has such love and dedication for the children of Afghanistan. It really touches my heart. We sat in his courtyard under the moon and had a ‘romantic’ (they joked) dinner with candlelight. One thing that wasn’t so romantic was the guard walking around with a gun in his hand. I guess the security is getting so bad here that he has hired a guard and when the students come to school they have to be searched. Seeing the guard spawned a whole conversation regarding the security of Afghanistan and its future. Let me tell you, it wasn’t exactly the most uplifting conversation, especially considering the fact that I was sitting with men that have been in Afghanistan for about 4 years now and really have a sense of what’s going on in this country. My dad’s Studio is next to a parliament member’s compound who has many enemies. So there is a concern that if the Taliban tries to attack this parliament’s house my dad’s studio could also be affected. I really didn’t like the sound of this and started to go on in my head about why the hell he’s here or why any of us are here. But, by the end of the conversation, I did see the silver lining on the moon so to speak. I thought how lucky I am to be in the company of 6 different people whose dedication to the rebuilding of Afghanistan is this strong. They really represent the hope of the country—the possibility of a society that works for the Afghan people. So by the end of it I was happy that I was sitting with people that, though their actions may defy common sense (given security, politics, etc), they are taking a stand for something greater than themselves.

And then I was reminded of why I’m here (because let me tell you, I’ve been wondering these past few days!). I was reminded that I am here because I am also taking a stand for something greater than myself. I am taking a stand for the possibility of an Afghanistan that works for the Afghan people and a world that works for the world—i.e. peace. Sometimes I think, well I’m teaching these art workshops, what good will that do. I should be in the UN or something instead, making a “real difference”! But who knows whose life I will make a difference in and what the ripple effect of that will be.

Today I was eating lunch with the maid and I asked her how many kids she has. She said 5, but that it was too much and that if she had one more she would kill it. I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not…I think she was half serious honestly. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about all the Afghan orphans, and meanwhile there are still so many Afghans bringing more children into the world. What a difference birth control or sex education would make here. I think about all the controversy in the US regarding these issues. It’s ridiculous, we are debating whether or not to have these resources at our disposal, meanwhile there are people in the world that don’t even have the option of these resources and are feeling desperate because they cannot control the number of children they have and have no idea how they can take care of them all. Then that also lends itself to the human trafficking trade. I read recently in US news that at any given moment 2 million people are being traded worldwide!

The other irony I always see in the US is that normally the Pro-life are also the ones supporting the war in Iraq. I don’t see how you can be Pro-life and then also support the killing of Americans and Iraqis.

Well I’m done with my soapbox for now. I’ll write more later.

Love,
Gazelle

PHX-NYC-DUB-KBL

2007-05-01T05:40:00.000-07:00

Hi Everyone,
I arrived in Kabul safe and sound. The last few days have been a bit of a whirlwind. I started in Phoenix sweating in a tank top and shorts. It was hot, dry and flat. Then I landed in NY, where it was humid and cloudy and there were actually trees! The buildings were tall and the city was not so clean. Then I landed in Dubai, which is trying to become the NYC of the Middle East and now I’m in Kabul.

When we arrived in Dubai, outside the airport was a line of taxis waiting for us. The interesting thing was the line we were directed to was a line of women taxi drivers. I don’t think I’ve ever had a female taxi driver in the US. The woman that drove us had a kind wrinkled face and large black sunglasses with rhinestone studs on the side. She was Filipina (there are a LOT of Filipinos here) and has lived in Dubai for 24 yeaars. She explained to us that she was the first woman taxi driver for the airport. She told us that women were allowed to drive taxis 7 years ago in response to a crime. Apparently, a woman from the UK traveled to Dubai and her taxi driver raped and killed her :(. In response, the Dubai government allowed women taxi drivers and now parties that include women must take a woman taxi driver. If you are a man traveling on your own, you go with a male taxi driver.I have to say, I felt more comfortable with a female taxi driver, even though I was traveling with a man already.

Dubai was really warm and humid and the climate made my hands swell up like water balloons--very weird. First we took a nap and then we walked around and went shopping. Dubai has a lot of the shops that you can find in the US. It was cool seeing all the diverse clothing styles that people wear and that you can buy at the mall. For example, there was one store that sold bikinis and the store adjacent to it was selling stylish head to toe coverings. Some women here wear all black from head to toe, with only their eyes showing, while you can see other women wearing tank tops or see-through tops. There are a lot of Filipinos and Indians that live here. It seems like many of them occupy the lower-class jobs. Everything here is written in Arabic and English and most people here seemed to speak English.

The next morning we went back to the airport for our flight to Kabul. Next to the counter for Kabul was the counter for flights to Baghdad. I felt sorry for anyone that was flying there, but then saw the irony of my judgment as I was sitting in the Kabul line! But still, Kabul is definitely not as bad as Baghdad.

The flight was smoothly and I couldn’t help but notice the man sitting across from me who was watching war movie after war movie. I wondered if he was on his way to Afghanistan as part of the military and permanently peeled my eyes away from his DVD screen when I saw an image of a Vietnamese man with his skin peeled off. GROSS! I don’t understand why anyone enjoys watching that kind of thing.

When I arrived at the Kabul airport, my uncle Rabi was there to pick me up which was nice. He was there because his luggage did not make it to Kabul a few days ago when he arrived but luckily all of our luggage arrived. Yay! Let’s see if my dad has the same luck when he flies in tomorrow. He seems to have really bad luggage karma. It’s funny that in the past 6 months I’ve seen my dad in Kabul more than in the US!

I was surprised that driving through Kabul I felt like I was ‘coming home’ or something. Not that Kabul is home, but my point is I guess I’ve been here enough times that I’m not shocked or anything like that. The exhaust fumes are still very strong and suffocating though. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. The road leaving the airport was lined with Afghan flags which was a new touch.

I was reminded of how different our perceptions of reality are. My perception of Afghanistan in the US is so different than it is when I’m here. In the US, I’m always thinking war, Taliban, etc. but when I’m here I’m reminded that life goes on and people are still going about their day to day activities.

I got to see my uncle Mahmoud’s new baby Lemar. He’s 4 months old and SOO cute. He has blue-grey eyes and is a little munchkin. If my sister was here she would go nuts for him.

Now I’m watching a Hindi soap-opera that is dubbed in Iranian Farsi. It’s really amazing how far “Bollywood” reaches. It seemed like Bollywood films and music were very popular in Dubai as well. The soap-opera is SOOO overdramatic. Barf. It's a lot of women crying, men yelling, and pretty women making mischievous plans. I guess no different than American soap operas. Maybe it's the dubbing that make these particularly bad.

Well that is my update for now. I’m happy to be here, though I have no idea how these workshops will go! It’s so nice to be still, as the past few months I have been running around a lot in the US. I’m also excited for the good Afghan food :). Knock on wood I won’t get sick.

Talk to you later!

Gazelle

G*d Bless America

2006-10-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

We are back from India, Finally!

I’m not going to write too much on India. Unfortunately, the India leg of our trip was not so enjoyable. We got taken advantage of a lot, it was hot, it was dirty, smelly, and exhausting.

I was struck by just how many people live in India (my Lonely Planet says 20% of the world’s population lives in 2% of its land-India), and by just how poor it was. Granted, I was only in the northern state of Rajastan for 1 week, so my conception of India at this point is pretty limited. But really, there are so many poor people living on the street there; it is so sad. It is crazy to think of India as an up-and-coming global power when you see the level and pervasiveness of poverty there. Oddly, Rajastan only seemed a step or two above Afghanistan. Most people do not have clean water or electricity. Afghanistan has war as its excuse, but what is India’s excuse? Is it the government? Is it bad development policy implemented by the international community?

I was also struck by the images of women there. On TV, there are millions of music videos and movies featuring beautiful Indian women in western clothing seducing their men, which seemed to be a stark contrast to the women I saw living there. Our driver’s brother said, “Love is only for Bollywood. Real Marriage is not a success here.”

When I entered the US I wanted to kiss the floor of the airport. The words “God Bless America” kept coming to me and I was so happy to be a citizen of this country and to live here. I hate it when George Bush says God Bless America, and I still do. I don’t think he has a right. Keep God out of it, is the way I see it. But I will say that we are SO lucky to live here, to have clean water, to have an underground sewage system, to have trash disposal, to have public education for boys AND girls, to be able to open our mouths in the shower without worrying about catching a parasite, to use tap water to brush our teeth, to wear (nearly) whatever we want without being the focus of everyone’s attention.

As I was in India, I reminisced over the fact that I can wear shorts in Arizona, or I can wear baggy clothes, and no one cares! They don’t stare at me, they just go about their business. What a freedom. It was funny because the first day I came home I wore my jean capris and I had to grab my ass to make sure it was still there…that it hadn’t gotten lost under those pillowy fabrics. I hadn’t seen it in so long, I was beginning to wonder.

Wearing jeans doesn’t equate women’s liberation—unfortunately, it’s not that simple. But my point is there are little details in life I often take for granted. The biggest one is that I, as a woman, am part of society. It is not weird for me to go to school, to be outside relaxing, shopping, or whatever. American society still views women as secondary to men, I know that. But, I have more freedom than the women in Afghanistan and India, and for that I am grateful, and I will continually work toward Equality in the US.

My god bless America rant does not mean I think things are perfect here or that we should just accept what we have as a blessing. It took work of many Americans to make our country what it is, and we ought to be continually tweaking our system when it fails us. I also think that we as American citizens should take a greater interest in the problems of other countries. We spend so much on military defense, funding wars, funding militia groups. If we used that money to invest in clean water, education and other basic needs, I don’t think we would have the problems we are contending with in the world today. The prospect of becoming a suicide bomber is not so far fetched when you have nothing to live for—when you don’t have a job, clean water, education…

We ought to start seeing the world as our community and see how our policies, thoughts and actions affect the citizens of the world, not just the United States, because as isolated and protected we’d like to think we are, it’s just not true. Everything affects us, and everything we do affects others. Taking a sincere interest in the prosperity of other citizens of the world will improve our quality of life. We ought to stop dividing ourselves from others and start seeing that they could be us. If my family never left Afghanistan I might not be writing this blog to you. I’d probably have 5 kids, who knows if I’d have an education or a voice. Maybe I’d be dead—if not from war, from a parasite in the water, or from the chemical pollution left behind from war.

Do I make a difference to you? Would I make a difference to you if I was still in Afghanistan?

The best form of national security is not closing our borders and running away. It’s opening our eyes and our hearts. There is a world out there that is aching and we have a choice to look the other way or accept that those are our fellow brothers who are unemployed, sleeping on the streets. Those are our sisters without access to education, and thus access to a different life. We have the privilege to make a difference, so what are we waiting for? If you’re concerned about national security, don’t put your votes toward border control and guns. Instead pay for a child to go to school, support women’s equality. Support GROWTH not destruction, LOVE not hate. Support PEACE and support LIFE. As American citizens we are power brokers in the future of the world. You can use your power, or throw the opportunity away. What will you choose? REMEMBER: your voice makes a tremendous difference. Don’t forget to Vote on November 7th.

LOVE, PEACE and PROSPERITY to all,

Gazelle

Search, search, search, search, search search....

2006-10-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

Today was our flight out of Kabul. My Uncle’s wife made us pass under the Koran 3 times before leaving and as our car drove away she threw a pail of water after us. I’m familiar with the Koran ritual from visiting my family in California, but the water throwing was new for me.

As we drove through the city I silently said goodbye to this bustling, crowded city. We got stuck in traffic so my cousin recommended the “back way,” which consisted of a dirt alley at the foot of the mountain. I finally got to see a closer view of the houses that climb up the steep hills here. There is no road that goes up the hill and these houses are without electricity, so residents have to lug water and other supplies up the hill by foot.

When we got to the airport we had to get out of the car for talashi (to be searched). They had a separate room for women. I confidently walked up to the room thinking, "No problem. I got this. Done this done that." Inside there were two small stern looking women. Unfortunately, Wazhma got the mean one with the tightly fitted uniform and tucked in shirt. Loosening her pony tail wouldn't have killed her either. I got a pat down, but the uptight woman made wazhma pull her pants down :(. Poor thing was so embarrassed.

When we got out my cousin’s husband said, "Look they’re even searching that woman’s dog,” motioning to another car. I guess not too long ago 25 foreigners were caught smuggling heroin, so now they are really strict about searching foreigners, whereas before they only searched Afghans.

When we got to the entrance of the airport they brought a dog out to sniff our bags, while we got searched again. We went into the booth and I said hello and how are you with a big smile, figuring it couldn't hurt. Unlike the first set of women these ladies were friendly and loving, asking us how we were, how our stay was, etc. I showed them my money belt rather than having them discover it on their own. “Oh, sweetie, what are you doing with that?” I said, “I keep my money here so I don’t lose it.” They laughed commenting on how cute we were--one woman even pinched my cheeks.

Wazh asked if she could take their picture and they happily said, “Of course!” The woman that pinched my cheeks insisted that I be in the picture and put her arm around me. Wazh showed them the picture and the cheek pincher said, “Oh wow, this really came out well” liking the way she looked. The other woman asked if we could take her to Ameica with us, half joking, half serious, “Can’t you put me in your suitcase?”

They told us we’d have to print the pictures and give them to them when we return to Afghanistan. They wished us safe and happy travels. As we were taking the picture another woman walked in puzzled to see our little “tea party.” “Is this the search booth?” she asked, quizzically.

The two women made our day and I will always remember them.

After we checked in we had to go through immigration. The man looked so sternly at me it took everything in me not to start laughing. After staring at me for 3 minutes and scanning my passport they let me through. Before I could rejoice I was directed to another search room. God. This woman was unusually tall—almost 6 feet tall with thick wiry chin-length hair and black eyeliner crumbled onto her lower lids. She stared at me intimidatingly while she asked how much money I was carrying, and Wazhma got depantsed again. I didn’t get depantsed but my pat down was pretty fierce, feeling like I had just left the doctor’s office. Wazhma still thought the 6-foot tall woman wasn't as bad as the first search woman who seemed to get some sort of sick pleasure out of torturing her.

After that we were finally allowed into the waiting area. We took our seats and my eyes focused on the TV which was playing Afghan Star—the Afghan version of American Idol. It wasn’t as humiliating as American Idol but the singing was just as bad. Where do they find these people? The three of us cringed as we were forced to listen to countless covers of Ahmed Zahir’s songs. (Ahmed Zahir is Afghanistan's Elivs Presley). Bored with the show, I examined the windows of the snack stand, plastered with a picture of President Karzai surrounded by sexy pics of a blond girl.

They announced our flight number and as I stood in line, all I could think was, if one more person touches me….! We walked up the stairs to the plane (there is no gate here, you just walk onto the landing strip) and I was disappointed to be pulled aside YET AGAIN for another search before boarding the plane. This woman wasn’t too invasive, but I was bitter to see the pretty blond girl enter the plane without any pat-downs.

Our plane ride was smooth. It was hard to imagine we were here only a week. It went by so quickly and so slowly all at once. The taloshi sucked, but on the upside it's a sign of improved security in the country. The definition of taloshi has been rewritten in my head for life. It’s sad that this amount of security is a necessary part of life here, and I thought about how good we have it in the US.

Caged Birds

2006-10-06T14:45:00.000-07:00

The next day was Friday—a holiday in Afghanistan. They only have one day off here. My dad wanted to buy some curtains and take us to “bird street.” “You should wear some conservative clothes, ‘cause we’re going to old town,” he said. Wazh and I looked at the clothes we were wearing and then at each other. We were wearing our conservative clothes! Did he want us to wear a burqa or something?!

Old Town was an interesting experience, mainly because we were the center of attention. Everywhere we went men were staring at us and you could hear people talking about the “foreigners.” I was so tired of hearing the whispering I almost wanted to shout out and formerly announce ourselves to put an end to the curious stares and questions:
“My name is Gazelle Samizay. Yes, we are foreigners, but we are not dumb, and we can understand what you’re saying. We live in the US. I am a woman--have you ever seen one before? I don’t wear a burqa ‘cause I don’t want to. I am educated and I could kick your ass if I wanted to, so bug off!” That was the soliloquy going on in my head. But the shy six year old didn’t think unleashing her older feminist “I’m going to kick your ass” sister was appropriate.

On the corner was a stall full of white fluffy cotton being used to stuff cushions. It was early morning and the sun was glowing. It was perfect picture taking time, but I was so afraid that if I stopped to take pictures I’d lose my dad so I passed the opportunity.

We continued walking through the alley and entered a run down concrete building that housed several fabric shops. The only light available was that which was coming through the courtyard. We stopped at one fabric seller who was busy with 2 burqa-clad women requesting that he give them more change back. Unfortunately my dad was being indecisive about his fabrics and we continued out of the building onto the street where there were more eyes to peel the skin off my body. It is interesting how you can feel someone’s stare. Now imagine, 100 pairs of eyes staring at you! And they’re not subtle about it either. At one point I almost burst out laughing because this fat man saw us and he seemed to particularly notice Wazhma. He slowed down and tried to make himself as big as he could so that he would run into us, but we managed to pass him without any contact.

My dad finally went back to the original fabric seller to buy his fabrics and the fabric seller carried the large roll of fabric to our small white Toyota. As we walked I noticed how dirty and smelly Old Town was. It smelled like a toilet. After dropping off the fabric we walked toward “bird street.” Bird street was a tight alleyway packed to the brim with men, even though today was a holiday. I shuddered, imagining it on a weekday. It reminded me a lot of the souks in Morocco, which are easy to lose yourself in without a guide. Too bad I was too busy keeping my eyes to myself and my invisible walls of protection up to really take in the sights around me. Here the men sandwich was worse than in the immigration office, and these men were having a hey-day at the sight of Wazhma and I. Teasing, staring, laughing. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

On either side of me past the crowds of jeering men were hundreds of birds caged in small spaces. I saw about 10 pigeons trapped in a 1’x 2’ cage. They could barely crawl over each other, let alone spread their wings—not unlike how I was feeling at that moment. I wanted to take the birds and run away. Further down the alley was a large owl cowering in a cage while small boys poked their fingers through the cage in awe. I don’t believe in caged animals. I think they should be enjoyed in their natural habitat. If we cage animals, is caging women such a longshot?

We finally got to the end of bird street and my sister said, “Let’s get out of here!” My dad said, “You know, I didn’t think about it, but do you think we could get bird flu here?” “Yes!” my sister exclaimed angrily, “I was thinking that the whole way!” “Great.” I thought. I wish someone had clued me into the bird flu warning earlier so I could have at least covered my mouth or something. With the way these animals are caged, it seems very likely that any disease could manifest itself here.

After getting out of bird street, we headed to an old run down tomb overlooking Kabul. The space, quiet, and kite flying put me at ease. Small squares dotted the sky as little boys chased runaway kites. It’s funny the things that stick with you. Whenever I see a kite I’m transported to the beach along the Oregon coast. I was 7 and my family went to the Oregon coast with the Bartuskas, some family friends (who incidentally, my parents met in Afghanistan when they were on a fullbright). They had a nice blue kite and they were so nice they said I could fly it. One of them held the spool and told me to take the head of the kite to let out the spool of string. I was so excited I went running, but I ran too far and the head of the kite broke from its string. I was devastated. The Bartuskas were very nice about it and said it was no problem but I felt SO bad that I broke these wonderful people’s kite and that I couldn’t play with the kite anymore. Now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever flown a kite. I should buy one when I go home.

My uncle tried to shoo away the circle of boys staring at us in awe like animals at the zoo. I guess my name is Gazelle. No amount of shooing worked and we hopped in the car to head home. As we headed back down the road a guy alongside the road stared hard at Wazhma. “It’s as if they’ve never seen a woman before!” exclaimed Wazhma, at her wits’ end. My uncle and dad chuckled in their signature Samizay laugh. I wondered if they really get what it’s like to be a woman. My sister said, “Well, I guess they haven’t seen a woman considering the ratio of men to women on the street is 50:1.” I think it’s more like 300:1.

When we got home, I read my Lonely Planet India. It was saying that in India 1 woman is raped every 30 minutes, but that in the US a woman is raped every TWO minutes! I can see that women have a long way to go.

Bargaining

2006-10-05T12:57:00.000-07:00

We decided to go shopping in Chicken Street, which is where all the antiques are sold. Well…supposedly they are antiques. Sometimes they purposely make things look old so they can yield antique prices. A “50-year-old carpet” can easily be a 5-week-old carpet run under the tires of a car 50 times.

Bargaining is a necessity here, especially if you’re a foreigner, which made things interesting considering neither Wazhma nor I like to bargain. We first went into a shop run by a friend of my uncle’s. As my uncle’s niece, I felt obligated to buy something, but there wasn’t anything that caught my eye and we quickly left the awkwardness. We walked further down the street through pairs of men with sideways glances and furtive stares. I had my protective bubble turned on so I didn’t notice rude comments such as “have you no shame” my sister later mentioned to me. Ignorance is bliss, right?

I was drawn to one particular shop that had bright blue lapis pieces lined along the window. Inside was an old man with a white cap and light brown eyes--clear like tea. Even in the waning light (the electricity was out of course) his jewelry glittered and the strong colors were drawing me in. I felt myself retract into my shy six-year old self. “Dammit!” I thought, “Not again!” I couldn’t even ask the prices I was so shy and remembered my mom prodding me, “Just ask!” I glanced at my sister hoping she would start, but my otherwise chatty sister was conveniently silent. After 10 minutes of circling the store, knowing exactly what I wanted, I started the negotiations. I’m sure the old man made a killing, but somehow I could tell from his eyes that he had a hard time ripping me off. After all, he himself had two daughters.

A beggar child came to the door, dirty, with hair tousled about. The shopkeeper told him to go away and lamented about all the beggar kids in this area.
“It’s hard for people like us not to feel bad and give money, but it teaches them the wrong thing. They should be in school or learning skills for work, not begging,” he said.
I liked this man. He had a sweet face and good philosophy. I took his picture as he told me both his parents and grandparents were jewelers and he learned his trade from a very young age.

The next shop we went into was run by a handsome man about my age. By this point I had gotten warmed up, and the shy six-year-old went to bed. I remembered my mom and her bargaining skills and wished she was here to charm the shopkeepers with her infectious laugh and beautiful eyes. I knew I had to up the ante and make my momma proud :).

A few stone pendants etched with gazelles caught my eye. Wazh wanted one with a lion on it but they shopkeeper said he was all out. Still he tried looking for one, trying to pass a horse off as a lion and a camel for a gazelle! We had some good laughs about that. In the end I was able to bargain with him for a good price. The poor guy was outnumbered by female strength and had difficulties combating our bargaining. He would tell my sister the price and I would ask for less. Meanwhile my uncle’s wife was clamoring in the background about good prices in her sweet and high-pitched voice. We finally set on a price, and I gave him a $100 bill. He said,
“Ohhhh this is so old…and the corner is torn!”
Apparently Afghanis are deducted for each blemish on the bill. This torn corner would cost him about 20 Afghanis. Wazhma managed to find a cleaner Benjamin and the shopkeeper was happy but looked somewhat dumb struck by our recent transaction.

Satisfied by our shopping, we decided it was time to go home and we called someone to pick us up. The problem was we’d have to wait another 15 or 20 minutes before the driver came. I wanted to go into more shops rather than waiting on the street, but Wazh felt guilty because it was almost time for the shopkeepers to break their fast, so we waited on the corner. Bad idea.

An old beggar man on crutches asked for money with his raspy voice, but I didn’t have any small bills to give him. Plus when you give one they all come out of the woodworks and swarm you. I stood there uncomfortably and a small boy selling mini Korans approached me. I wasn’t quick enough, and the bastard slipped one into my hand. This is the game they play. I tried giving it back and he backed away, giving me the most mournful look—his eyes were like a black hole sucking my energy. Finally I convinced Wazhma and Salma to go into the shop and escape. The boy lingered by the doorway and I saw some new boys sitting a few feet away. I found some money and called the boy in trying not to call the attention of the others. What started as a happy shopping day ended in feeling drained. It is emotionally draining seeing the poor and not knowing what to do about it. So you give them money one day. Will that really solve anything or keep them in a cycle of begging?

After we got home, my dad decided he wanted to have a party and invited friends over and some musicians. One was a tabla player and one played harmunia, which looks like an accordion but sits on the floor like a piano. Many of these friends were expats working in Afghanistan. They represented Los Angeles, Virginia and Germany, and a generation lost, finding its way. They didn’t belong to the West and they didn’t belong to the East. They certainly don’t belong in the new generation of Kabulites that are not familiar with the education, cleanliness, and openness of Kabul’s yesteryear. Old Ahmed Zahir tunes filled the house as they chimed in and danced one by one. Meanwhile my dad was snoozing on the chair—still recovering from jetlag. But the man sitting next to him made sure my dad’s tea did not go to waste. I was reminded of an old black and white picture my dad has hanging in his office at WSU in little ole Pullman. He is sitting cross-legged on rugs with his friend in a smoky haze. It looks like they’re having a party, similar to this one. I felt like was being warped back into that time—a time that no longer exists, but somehow does among all the “Afghans” of that generation.

Gazelle the Tomboy

2006-10-04T23:44:00.000-07:00

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. Screw 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 scare 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 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.

Afghan Gardens

2006-10-03T00:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we went to the Immigration Office to get take care of Wazhma’s letter which would give her permission to be in Afghanistan. It was a small cramped office filled with a lot of sweaty men all trying to crowd to the front window. As my dad squeezed a shoulder in to get to the front I noticed how tight his pants were in comparison to all the other men that were wearing the traditional Paron-e Tomban (loose pants and long loose top). Wazhma and I were going to pass out from the smell of B.O. and she kept her eyes safely focused on the design of my top.

We got shifted from one line to another and my dad started to get impatient. I remembered John and I returning our cheap IKEA stools which were impossible to put together correctly despite their cute diagrams with the bubble man. IKEA had a number system. You took a number, then sat down and waited for your number to be called. I thought, wow, how that simple number machine would revolutionize the Immigration office and other such offices over here. I wondered how a number system would be received here. Would people use it? Like it? Or just keep crowding forward?

My dad finally made it to the front of the line and was given a piece of paper that would give us permission to go to another building in the same complex. However, they only allowed two people in--my dad and my sister. Mustafa (our driver/cousin. He is my half cousin’s half brother) and I had to wait behind. I thought, “That’s fine, I don’t want to wait in a crowded line anyway. The weather is nice out here.” But they wouldn’t let us wait outside for security reasons. So back into the sweaty man sandwich we went. The smell was killing me and I made my way toward the entrance way where I could see the light of day and get a breath of fresh air. After some time the security man took some pity on me and told me to stand on the other side of the door--man free.

Bored, I watched security search all the people coming in. They had an x-ray machine, but they didn’t use it. Maybe it was broken. Instead they searched the bags. Well sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t. That made me a bit nervous. We were standing in an official building (higher chance of being targeted) and the security was so so. I was anxious for Wazhma and my dad to return as my overactive imagination went wild with dreams of bombs and crazies. My imagination is not doing me any good on this trip.

To my surprise, they returned after a half hour. I thought the process might take all day given the way things work here. Even in the US you would wait months to get a letter like that with all the bureaucracy. It was good my dad went with her (he originally wasn’t going to come) because apparently only your husband or father can give you legitimacy. Hurrah! Wazhma is now officially Afghan ;).

After the Immigration office we did a little shopping near Chicken Street, but ended up staying in the first shop we entered which had colorful rugs and dresses hanging in the window. There were two young guys running the shop—probably teenagers. I wondered if they went to school and kicked myself later for not asking. We ended up buying all sorts of colorful shirts and I got two really incredible dresses. It was a fun experience, mainly because the boys were really cute and they were definitely lying. It was easy to tell they were lying because they were so young. We called them out on it a few times but didn’t bargain too much because we wanted to give them the money. At the end the older boy gave my sister and I an embroidered wallet as a gift. I think he felt guilty because he knew he had made a killing.

After shopping we headed back home and our driver talked about the suicide bombing that I mentioned before. It’s really not fair because the people here want security but it’s just a few coo coo’s that are ruining it for everyone else. I understand these suicide bombers are frustrated with the ways things are going here and they have every reason to be. But I don’t believe violence solves anything no matter what side you’re on.

Later that day my uncle took us on a tour and we went to Babur’s Gardnes which I had visited a year and a half ago. They had made much more progress in renovating the place. There were rose bushes, grass and the walls had been fixed with beautiful rock work. It was beautiful and peaceful here. The sun was bright and the atmosphere a hazy blue. Behind the gardens you could see all the houses climbing up the steep mountain. I was sad to see that the old tree that had been here since Babur’s time (13th or 14th century) that I had photographed last time had been cut down or “severely pruned.” But I guess releasing the old makes way for the new.

On our way to Chehel Setun (40 pillars) I saw many signs for boxing gyms featuring Arnold Swarzenegger and other buff men. I have a totally different association with Arnold now that he’s the governor of California. (By the way, did you know that a republican that had murdered someone is now running for office in Arizona? GROSS!). Anywho, my favorite painting depicted a black man with a pirate’s eye patch on. This was the first image of a black person I had seen here.

My uncle’s wife and Mustafa were commenting on how so many more people live in this area, but how it still didn’t have electricity. The park hadn’t been renovated, the garden was dry and the castle in shambles. Unlike Babur’s gardens, which had an entrance fee of 20 Afghanis, there were lots of men and children here hanging out and playing. I saw one old man in the corner doing some sort of exercises. Our SUV barely made it up the steep windy road that lead to the castle.

There were all sorts of little kids, dirty and covered in dust, playing among the rubble of the castle, which concerned me a little. It was nice to hear their laughter, but it seemed like they could easily get hurt. From this vantage point we could see across the gardens and across Kabul. Next to the castle was an old restaurant riddled with bullet holes. I could see a person through one of the bombed out walls.

As we drove away from Chehel Setun, I saw a group of men and boys swarming together like a hive of bees. In the center were two men fighting, and everyone came to watch—sad. In my day dreams I imagined myself the only woman walking through the crowd and breaking up the fight. Funny, huh?! Our driver stopped so I could take a picture, when the car behind us hit us. No one was hurt—just a love tap. Our driver got out and talked to the guy. He said he was watching the fight, he hit us, and then hit the brakes. There wasn’t any damage and we all went on our way. I like this system much better than our silly insurance system in the States.

After that we went home and Wazhma and I discussed the state of this place. The fact that the area around Babur’s gardens still didn’t have electricity put its renovation into question. Yes, it’s a beautiful place, and a piece of history, but I wonder if it’s a good idea to put all this money into the past rather than into the present: water, electricity, security… It would be nice if Babur’s gardens didn’t have an entrance fee so that all Afghans could go there and enjoy the peace and quiet. Seeing as how full the free and unrennovated Chehel Setun space was, Babur’s gardens would serve as an important refuge from the chaos of Kabul.

Wazhma and I are thinking of raising money and finding grants to make a school with solar panels here. My dad said the technology is very expensive, but we thought once implemented, it could be very useful as it would provide electricity not just for the school but the whole community. I think in the US there are laws prohibiting the sharing of electricity (dumb), but here that wouldn’t be a problem. I’m going to ask my friends Tom and Mark and other architect friends about the possibility of green architecture and renewable energy in Afghanistan. Who knows, maybe this could serve as a prototype for the US. (What a concept! The US learning from other models?!)

I’m off. Enough blogging for me!

Love you all,
Gazelle

I want my mommy!

2006-10-03T00:21:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what’s going on with me but I feel numb. Like a zombie or a deer caught in the headlights. I think I have too many different emotions running through me and I don’t know how to deal with them.

This is a weird place. To a certain extent everything seems fine and I actually really like the place, as different as it is from “home.” But just when you think everything is OK and life is going as it should, you hear about another suicide bombing. It’s weird, on one hand I don’t want to freak out ‘cause I know that’s not going to change what’s been done or what’s going to happen, but I feel terrified and perhaps that is why I feel frozen.

Yesterday’s suicide bombing happened near where my uncle had his meeting in Microyan. It was so close he could hear the explosion. Luckily, he wasn’t hurt but if he had been one block over I don’t know if I would be recounting the same story.

I feel a mix of emotions: sadness, fear, guilt, fun, remorse, anger, bitterness and helplessness. The latter is gripping me the most because I know that I’m NOT helpless and neither is anyone else, but it’s hard not to feel this way and just want to run away.

Somehow I feel homesick. I don’t know if it’s homesickness as much as I miss John and I REALLY miss my mom. I don’t’ know how many times since yesterday I’ve thought, “I WANT MY MOMMY!” Maybe there’s a feeling of safety I feel around my mom that I don’t feel anywhere else. I mean I’d love to say I feel safe around my dad or uncle, but let’s face it, my dad loves living on the edge. Whether it be working in Afghanistan or drinking the tap water in India, he spits in the face of safety.

Where’s my mommy?! But of course I can’t always have my mommy around me. I gotta protect myself.

Wealth and Poverty

2006-10-01T21:51:00.000-07:00

10/01/06

Today started pretty lax. My dad has a nice garden outside of his house with flowers and we saw 3 kittens wrestling one another. I really wanted to pick them up, but could hear the woman that gave me my vaccinations to stay away from all animals because of rabies. No fun.

Wazhma and I spent most of the day looking for a hotel in Delhi. I started to get really bored and remembered the TV. There was a great show on that was similar to the old MTV where you could call in and request videos to be played. The VJ’s were two handsome Afghan men. After one second of the show being on Wazhma and I burst into laughter exclaiming, “He’s sooo GAY!” referring to the skinny thing on the right. And he really was so gay. He was so feminine and pretty that he reminded me of my cousin Mariam! He had his skinny jeans on, large belt buckle and v-neck top on. The one on the right was dressed similarly, but the jury was still out on his sexual orientation. I wonder if people here recognize when men are gay or if they’re in denial about it. My uncle walked in and I almost asked him if he thought the VJ was gay, but decided against it. Homosexuality is NOT accepted in Afghan culture, whether you’re in Afghanistan or the US.

All the music videos were romantic and cheesy (not unlike American music videos). There was one Hindi music video featuring a couple dancing in the fields. The girl was wearing a mini skirt and dancing around and her legs were censored! It was hilarious to see this woman with no legs frolicking about. There was also another music video of an Afghan band that had two female members-both guitar players. One was wearing black and had a scarf and the other didn’t have a scarf and was dressed in a bright red outfit. My uncle says that one thing that has moved forward here is music.

My uncle told us there’s a popular Hindi soap opera played in Afghanistan that is translated into Dari. Apparently EVERYONE watches it. It’s such a “pandemic” that the religious figures in parliament wanted the show’s time slot to be changed from 8:30 pm because people weren’t going to the mosque any more! We also saw a commercial for that new mall I had seen called “City Center Mall,” or rather “Sitee Sentar Mall” It advertised all the gold, electronics and other things you could purchase there.

Later that day we went to the lake in a “village” called Quargha outside of Kabul. As we drove outside Kabul, I saw a different view of Afghanistan. The streets weren’t as crowded and there definitely weren’t any shiny buildings to drive by. Instead, there was basic life and basic poverty. I was somewhat surprised to see people still living in tents alongside the road. I guess I’d had higher hopes than that. The fact that the capital of Afghanistan has sporadic electricity is one marker of the progress made here, but that people still live in tents outside the city brought the marker way down. In Kabul there are soldiers, blockades and guards watching over many of the houses and buildings due to security. I couldn’t imagine living in a tent outside the city; far from police or a hospital of any sort, without any type of security.

Further down the road we saw large UNICEF tents--desks and chairs crammed underneath—serving as schools. This is a stark contrast between the City Center Mall, whose hotel rents rooms as expensive as $2500/night. My inclination is to say, “What’s wrong with these people!?” but I know that sort of attitude won’t get anyone anywhere in the progress of humankind. But I can’t help but ask why the Dubai developer couldn’t have invested that money into a school. That building could have housed thousands of students. It had security and a metal detector. What about the schools and teachers that are being attached by the Taliban—where’s their security?

What is it about capitalism that narrows people’s conception of wealth strictly to the monetary realm rather than focusing on the value of life itself? What good does a mall that sells gold and iPods do when the majority of people’s quality of life is not high enough to even enjoy these commodities? Furthermore, who cares?! If I was a developer in Dubai, I would feel a greater level of satisfaction building something that provided something more than a false sense of reality in Afghanistan. I could just take pictures of the posh in Afghanistan, and you would think Afghanistan is as rich as the US or richer. The crazy thing is this mall hasn’t gone out of business yet, so there are definitely people here that can afford it.

We continued on our drive and reached the lake which was a beautiful blue green color. There was a restaurant at the end of the road with a nice patio and lawn. Across the water to our left was another club, whose membership was $250. This is why I wasn’t sure if I should call this a village or not. On one hand it looked like a village, on the other hand there were these fancy clubs that weren’t very village like. Apparently on Fridays this place is really hopping.

It was very peaceful here. The lake was a shimmering blue green, the breeze was calm and quiet, and the mountains a crisp silhouette against the sun. This sense of calm and security was disturbed by some military helicopters that flew over head. I took a picture of one and then stopped, thinking, these people could kill me if they wanted. It’s a very weird thought to look at a helicopter or a soldier on the street and think, “One wrong move, and I’m dead.” We should be careful that the level of security in the US doesn’t reach this level.

After relaxing for a bit we headed home. My uncle could smell Bolani (fried potato thing) and it was almost time to break fast. On the way home the streets were packed and filled with men and a few women bustling about. I had my window open and we were driving through the crowd. One guy kind of jeered at me through the window and I tried to ignore him. Did I mention my dad was driving? This added a whole ‘nother dimension to the experience as we don’t like to let my dad drive in the US! I think the traffic rules of Afghanistan fit his style better though.

After we got home, I went straight to bed. All the dust, gas fumes, and jostling of the road exhausted me.

Kabul by Night

2006-10-01T21:11:00.000-07:00

9/30/06

Driving home from the airport it looked like the outskirts of Kabul were more developed than the last time I had come and there were all sorts of ads and billboards lining the streets for banks and wireless service. My favorite ad was of a beautiful Afghan woman with dark shiny hair holding a razor phone. All it said on the bottom was “Motorolla.” I definitely noticed more images of sexy uncovered women around.

We arrived at my dad’s office/house in the Karte-seh neighborhood, which had colorful kilims across the floor. I met my uncle’s wife who seems very nice and tried to stay awake while my dad and uncle discussed work, politics and other such matters. Apparently yesterday there was an explosion at one of the ministries and 40 people were killed. It was a suicide bomber. My uncle talked about how the Afghan media has no shame in voicing their opinions about President Karzai’s inadequacies as a president and the lack of progress that has been made in Afghanistan over the past few years. My sister started to stress as they started to compare today’s Afghanistan with the Afghanistan she left in ’81 and with Iraq. She started to wonder, “What the hell am I doing here?!”

I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer and hit the sack hard. I woke up from my nap to eat some amazing aush, which is a soup with thick noodles and an amazing tomatoey base. This one was especially good because it was made with lamb’s broth (You taking notes John? ;). I’ve never had it like that before. We also had rice with a delicious “quorma” or stew. The veggies looked good, but I refrained.

After sitting around and watching the news and funny Afghan commercials, my dad took us on a night tour of the city. I was anxious to get out of the house as the gas smell of the generator was starting to make me sick. The electricity in Kabul is sporadic, and I think they’re on some sort of schedule as to when the electricity is turned on, but this schedule isn’t strictly adhered to.

Our night tour was definitely a different take on the otherwise bustling city. By contrast it is quiet, the air is fresher and there is barely anyone to be seen. This may also be because it’s the month of Ramadan and people are not as active since they’re fasting. We went through several security checkpoints as we went on our way.

One of the places we went to was a new mall in the Shahr-e now district. It had sparkling glass and brass bars with a glass elevator that made me feel like I was in the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, or is it Charlie and the Glass Elevator? Unlike the rest of Kabul this hotel/mall was very orderly. All the lines were symmetrical-the couches, the chairs, everything. Apparently, the hotel Shamina has rooms that start at $250 USD/night and can go up to $2500/night! Who stays in this place?! The mall/hotel was built by a Dubai company, which was not surprising, as the glitz and money was reminiscent of the Dubai airport.

We walked around another neighborhood and my dad tempted me with an ice cream shop, but I refrained. It sucks being careful! It was nice walking around, but the goz booy was killing me. What is goz booy? Goz=fart, booy=smell. In Kabul the sewer system is above ground in large gutters that line the streets. Needless to say, the streets smelled like a toilet that night.

Delhi to Kabul

2006-09-30T21:48:00.000-07:00

The next morning we woke up early, and had a nice breakfast at the hotel. I watched with envy and fear as my dad drank orange juice, mango juice and had fresh peeled fruit. I wanted it so badly, but knew I’d better not take the risk. My dad wanted to leave at 1030 for an 1130 flight, but we managed to get him out the door by 9 am.

Now was the moment of truth. The night before I left Phoenix, I read something about visas for Afghanistan. I didn’t need a visa the last time I came in, but that was a year and a half ago. According to the Afghan Embassy website I didn’t need a visa because I was born in Afghanistan, but my sister did since she was born in Boston. Although Wazhma is 7 years older than me, she was born in Boston because my dad went MIT there. When they returned to Afghanistan I was born. Despite the late notice, I called Wazhma up to make sure she had gotten a visa, and she said she hadn’t because my dad said it wasn’t necessary.

When we reached the check-in counter, my dad managed to check in before us and decided to go downstairs to check on his luggage. Wazhma gave the woman her ticket and passport and the woman asked for a visa….uh-oh. We called my dad over and he said that she didn’t need a visa etc, etc. But the woman asked we speak with the Immigration officer first. The immigration officer didn’t quite know what to do and went to speak with someone else. Meanwhile, Wazhma and my dad were sweating bullets. My sister’s blood pressure started to rise and my dad was feeling guilty for not getting a visa for her. My dad said, “Well isn’t it better if you get to Kabul and they refuse you there, rather than getting refused in India?” My sister’s green eyes started to flicker and she said, “NO!” I informed them that the Embassy website said that people entering Afghanistan without a visa would be deported and their passport would be confiscated. Now Wazhma was really upset and time was ticking until we were to board our flight.

The Immigration Officer finally returned and told us if it was OK with the airlines it was OK with him. So we went to the counter and the woman issued our tickets. We stood aside and arranged our things, and my dad asked me why I hadn’t told him that Wazhma needed a visa. My dad spoke too soon, and an Asian man from the airline interrupted us and started questioning us. He said he needed to confirm with Immigration that we could go through. So here we were again! He returned 15 minutes later and told us we didn’t have permission. So my dad had to argue with them for another 10 minutes and they finally let us through. Maybe we exasperated them enough that they gave up.

We now had 10 minutes to spare and still had to get through immigration and security. After getting through immigration my dad started wandering toward the duty free store. “Dad!” we pleaded, but there was no use. Wazhma and I got through security OK, although I was stopped for having a water bottle in my bag (whoops!).

Luckily the plane was delayed and we made it on the plane despite my dad’s last minute duty free shopping (*sigh*).

There was a beautiful Afghan man sitting in front of us on the plane and I had to keep nudging Wazhma to keep her big green eyes to herself! I had already decided that she would need sunglasses on this trip to keep us out of trouble!

We arrived at the Kabul airport, and to my dismay things had changed in a year and a half. The last time I came there was no immigration counter; just a short old man that said “Welcome!” We had filled out a green form and were admitted. This time there was an actual counter with disciplined lines of people waiting. This didn’t look good for Wazhma.

A large adverstisement for the fancy Serina Luxury hotel decorated the otherwise bleak airport. We finally got to the counter and a man with a mustache and a kind face stamped my dad’s passport. He did not, however, accept Wazhma’s passport because she didn’t have a visa. My dad tried explaining that we were his daughters and we were traveling as a family, but the man didn’t care. Rules are rules. Furthermore, he was perplexed by how Wazhma was born in 1974 in the US and I was born in Afghanistan in 1981. He wasn’t convinced we were his daughters. Wazhma scooted closer to my dad so that the man might see some resemblance between her and our dad. After 15 minutes of holding the line up, he finally stamped Wazhma’s passport and told us to get a letter from the Embassy in Kabul. We finally made it in the country!

Getting to India

2006-09-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

9/28/06

My morning started out by checking in at the America West ticket counter in Phoenix. There was an announcement on the loud speaker for everyone to take a moment of silence on the behalf of the Southwest Airlines worker that was recently killed in Afghanistan. “Great” I thought. Is this supposed to be some kind of warning sign? But I ignored it and continued my check in, not letting the woman know that I was flying to Afghanistan after Delhi.

When I arrived in New York, I had to figure out how to get to my correct terminal. Riding on the sky train from Terminal 7 to Terminal 4 I was reminded by just how HUGE New York is. And more than anything, I am constantly amazed by how diverse the city is. I mean, there are so many people from so many parts of the world there, it is really frickin’ cool.

Arriving at Terminal 3 I still had to figure out where Air India was among the many choices of airlines. Luckily, I was able to locate it by the bright red turbans I saw in the distance.

Wazhma and I connected and made it on the plane to London. We put out some fires by switching seats so two Indian families could be united on the plane. I’ve never seen so much drama on an airplane as on this flight! The stewardesses were GORGEOUS. We had a stewardess named Rita with caramel skin, Asian like features and a bright red silk sari. A red dot adorned her forehead, while a green dot adorned the forehead of the other (equally beautiful) stewardess. I still haven’t figured out what the different colored dots mean, but I plan on getting to the bottom of this by the end of my trip ;). I wondered if the stewardesses had beauty requirements in order to work on the plane.

Arriving in London, we deplaned and had to go through security again. An anxious Australian couple waited in line behind us, fretting over missing their flight. We finally connected with our dad (who flew from Chicago) and he informed us he almost didn’t make the flight because they had oversold the Indian Air flight. And boy did it look oversold. There were so many people flying on this flight. Probably 1200. On this leg of the flight Wazhma and I were stuck on the back of the plane surrounded by several children, one of which wouldn’t stop screaming the whole way there. My eye mask and ear plugs helped shut out the deafening roar of the engines, the babies, and the gossiping travelers, but it wasn’t enough. Wazhma and I started plotting how we could upgrade to first class on our way back.

We finally made it to the Delhi airport and made our way to the baggage claim. My dad started panicking as we watched the endless number of suitcases pass us by, with his no where to be seen. Luckily, Wazhma’s and my bag arrived but my dad’s didn’t. It’s not a trip to Kabul without my dad’s luggage getting lost!! He ran around in a frenzy trying to arrange for his luggage to be sent to Kabul, all the while cursing the head of the flight agent that checked his bag in.

We were concerned about getting a hotel in Delhi because this is the height of the tourist season in India. Wazhma and I thought we should call some hotels before taking off, but before we could find a phone our dad was out the door looking for a taxi. The air felt balmy and the darkness and quiet were a relief from our long flight with the screaming Indian child.

Our taxi driver was sweet, trying to make small talk with my dad, who was simply not interested at 2 in the morning. We arrived at the Westend Inn and a man in an Indian outfit and red turban opened the door for me and carried my luggage. I felt a wash of guilt come over me—I always feel weird with people waiting on me like they’re my servant or something. Eww!

Much to our dismay our dad haggled with the hotel man for our rooms and we were in bed by 3 am.

In 2 days I'll be halfway around the world!

2006-09-26T11:02:00.000-07:00

Wow. In less than 24 hours I will be on a plane to India and then Afghanistan. I’m not sure what to think or do, so I’m just going to go with the flow! No use stressing! I’ll be in each country for 1 week between September 28th and October 14th, and I’ll do my best to update this blog so you know what’s going on.

You may ask WHY!? Aside from the adventure of it, I’m going to start on a project called Resonance, which will include the stories and photos of Afghan women and women around the world. I’ll keep you posted on the progress of this on Resonance and I welcome any suggestions/participation anyone may have to offer!

I’m excited, scared and curious all at once. Part of me expects my trip to be like my last one in March 2005, while part of me knows it’s going to be different. Incidentally, this will be the 25 year anniversary since my family originally left the country during the Soviet invasion. Funny how things work out like that. My sister and dad will be going with me on this trip, and this will be Wazhma’s first time back to Afghanistan since we left when she was 7. I’m definitely anxious to see her reactions and how her old memories come to terms with this “new” country.

Enough chatting for now—I must pack!

Love,
Gazelle