OK, I try not to talk about domestic issues, because this is a blog about my experiences in Afghanistan, but this is very alarming.
So let me get this straight, seven months before September 11 my government decided to start spying on me? I hope a motherfucker gets impeached and thrown out of office on his monkey ass if this is true.
Speaking of "domestic spying", we have moved into a new house (our old house was looted and almost set on fire) and there are guys coming and going to do repairs. Last night about 7:00, one of the neighbors (an old, white-bearded Afghan) came over to talk to my husband (who had been drinking since noon because he had the day off). They were outside talking for at least 45 minutes--in times like these I am glad I am a woman in Afghanistan--and the purpose of the meeting? The neighbor asked my husband to inform him when people will be on our roof because he has daughters and the men could see them!
(Honestly, I was quite relieved because I thought for sure he had come to admonish me for prancing around the house and yard in my underwear.)
Meanwhile, just got a phone call that two improvised explosive devices have blown up at the Ministries of Internal Affairs and Finance.
Nothing left to do but post a little GET YOUR WAR ON:
The funny thing about the latter comic strip is that international donors (UNDP, for example) have poured millions of dollars into programs to disarm former militia members, and now Karzai wants them armed again because apparently the program was a fuck up and a little too premature, no?
After being carried from the Midwest to South Central (Asia), I nearly lost my order when Schwig's housekeeper threw it in the trash. Luckily it was salvaged before garbage pick-up.
But it made it. I ordered large bottles of Queen of Sheba, Lady MacBeth, Persephone, Lolita and Embalming Fluid. There were also about 7 imps thrown in for free. I got Embalming Fluid smell unsniffed, but it turned out well: a little piney-limey on first application, but then it dried down to Body Shoppe's grapeseed soap. Not bad.
However, the imps I am not to sure about: it seems that many of them seem like 1980's Coty imposters (Emeraude, anyone?). Perhaps the new scents are retro, but they do not seem as innovative as the ones rolled out two years ago when there seemed not to be such a frenzy to put out new scents.
Not to offend, but this is my opinion. That's why I keep ordering the old standbys over and over.
On our last day in Rwanda, here I was, sitting by the pool at the Milles des Collines, or Hotel Rwanda. SMP had to have a Coke before she passed out and we sat at the bar and talked about the movie where people taking refuge from the genocide were taking water out of this same pool because the supply had been cut off. It seemed impossible that this could have happened a mere 14 years ago.
Two days before, we had been taken to the genocide museum by our guide, Patrick. I am not sure why I have a penchant for sites of mass murder—Dachau, SI-21, gulags—but these in these places I am always overwhelmed with guilt and a sense of responsibility.
By way of a little background—I am not sure if anyone really remembers how it all happened but I will try to provide a recap so that this whole entry is contextualized (forgive me for historical inaccuracies):
Apparently Hutus and Tutsis have been ethnic groups in the area now known as Rwanda for a long time. In the 1930s, Belgian colonists issued identification cards marking the ethnicity of the two groups which had not been an issue before. (I am a little fuzzy on this point; the museum exhibit reported the demarcation of Hutu or Tutsi to be based on assets [Tutsis had more than 10 cattle and Hutus fewer]. The internets say that these ethnic divisions have been around for centuries, while others have said it was based on facial characteristics and skin tone.) For a long time prior to the issuance of these cards, Tutsis had been the ruling minority; with the Belgian control of the country, Tutsis again were given privilege over their Hutu country(wo)men. For the next few decades, Tutsis were given government jobs and allowed educational opportunities denied Hutus. As the colonists moved out, the problems started.
In the 1960s and 1970s there were isolated “trial runs” for the genocide with Hutus murdering Tutsi villages and Tutsis seeking revenge. As time went on, animosity between the groups grew. In early 1994, a UN informant told the organization that weapons were being stockpiled for genocide and that groups were being trained “to kill 1,000 people every 20 minutes”. In fact, there was a militia of over 30,000 trained when the killing started. The French government had supplied the Hutus with $12 million worth of weapons “on loan”.
No action was taken on the news provided by the informant.
Long story short, the Rwandan President’s plane was shot down on April 6, also killing the Hutu president of Burundi. The Prime Minister was set to give a speech to the country the next day, but she and ten Belgian soldiers protecting her were murdered before she could speak (this is one of the reasons the UN failed to act—for fear that they would also be targeted). The genocide started almost immediately, fueled by radio broadcasts.
One million people were killed in 100 days. At the museum I looked at a chain used to chain two people together and bury them alive. I saw the skulls and the clothes of the victims. I watched videos of churches where people had sought refuge and their pastors had betrayed them—literally hundreds of bodies in the church and the surrounding compound. I read about women raped by HIV positive men. I saw video of five-year-old children with gashes in their heads from machetes. I read about how people would have their Achilles tendons cut so they could not run while they were forced to watch their families bludgeoned to death while they waited their turn to die. I learned that live people were thrown down latrines—dozens of them—and buried alive. I watched the testimony of a woman who, venturing out after her family was killed, witnessed a baby breastfeeding on its dead mother.
The two parts that were the most difficult for me were the sections on the children and the part about Hutus who risked their lives to save their Tutsi neighbors and friends. In the section on children, there were large photos of the victims—babies and small children—with information posted below like:
Name: Jean Phillipe
Age: 5 years
Favorite food: rice with sauce
Best Friend: Daddy
How killed: Shot in the head
Last words: Mommy, where do I run?
In the part on the heroes of the genocide, the Hutus who helped the Tutsis, I read about an old woman who was suspected of being a sorceress who scared the militia away by threatening to curse them. I read about a man who hid several dozen Tutsis in a trench in his yard which he disguised by planting pumpkins on top of the thatched cover. I read about a woman whose house was filled to capacity with all of the Tutsis she could hide, but refused to turn away her neighbor. I think this section moved me the most because these were ordinary people risking their lives to save others. So many people either took part or failed to act but these people took a stand. It was heartening.
After the museum we went outside to look at the mass graves. These victims had no families to claim their bodies and no one knows who these people are since whole families and neighborhoods were wiped out. This was not just one small patch of land; at least seven large concrete slabs (probably 20 feet long by 15 feet wide) containing hundreds of bodies. Each village has its own mass grave.
On the way out of town we saw trucks with men in pink uniforms on the back. These were the men who committed the genocide being transported to another jail.
Everyone wonders how shit like this can go down without anyone taking action. Guess what? THIS SHIT IS HAPPENING NOW. Genocide is happening right now in Darfur and no one is doing anything. When are we going to become the regular people who take a stand? When are we going to become informed about what is happening in the world and stop the rape and murder?
I never really thought about Rwanda before. I mean, I saw the movie and considered the genocide but I never really thought about the country, especially not as a place where I would vacation; but here I was, last Friday, on an Ethiopian flight with my husband and SMP to Kigali.
I had no hand in planning this; my husband got obsessed with the idea of gorilla trekking after some guy from the US Embassy told him about it. I just half-assedly agreed to the trip and SMP decided to join us even though she had seen gorillas in Uganda before. After landing, clearing passport (no visa required for US citizens) and getting our bags, we were out in Kigali. The city is clean (plastic bags having been banned years ago) and spread out. We went to the genocide museum (more on that soon) and after a car breakdown we were on our way to Musazana to the extremely overpriced lodge from which the next day we would set off.
After nearly dying from exhaust being piped into the vehicle and frozen from cold wind blowing in through the window, we arrived about 9pm. The lodge being the only site on the main power grid, I could not see a damn thing and had no idea what was around. After a terrible meal and a much-deserved hot shower we got into bed to be prepared for the next day. By 6:45am we had eaten our terrible, overpriced breakfast and arrived at the Volcanoes National Park office with the 70 other white folk who were going to see golden monkeys, gorillas and (strangely) Dian Fossey’s grave. Our lack of planning and forethought was clearly evident in how we were dressed: although the other tourists were decked out in GoreTex, gators and Patagonia, I was wearing jeans and a gabardine pea coat, my husband had his fleece and SMP had on her trademark plunge neckline and hoop earrings.
As luck would have it, the husband, SMP and I were the only three of the 70 said white folk interested in gorilla trekking that day. We decided to go and see the largest group, which was also the farthest away. We loaded up with our guide for a 30-minute exhaust-filled ride to a small village near one of the volcanoes. We got out at the ranger base, got our armed guards and walking sticks and set off.
Contrary to what you might think about a place like Rwanda, it is really a beautiful country. As we began our walk up the terraced hills where villagers were planting potatoes and chrysanthemum (as mosquito repellant), we started to see the green, rolling landscape and low clouds. After about two hours of climbing at a 75 degree slope and having children run out and scream “ferangu” at us, we reached a big pile of rocks. This, the ranger/guide told us, was the national forest. After this point there could be no eating, no smoking (which we weren’t), no loud talking, and no defecating without first digging a 30 centimeter hole. One of the soldiers hacked down the wall and we went in. Now, I ain’t never been in a rainforest before and the brush was thick; before I could even enter I was besieged with spiders and insects. The guides had to hack their way through the vines and bamboo to make a path for us while radioing the trackers who spend all day with the gorilla pods. We trudged on for about another hour, all the while getting smacked in the face with wet tree limbs, getting hung on vines, having rain trickle down on us, freezing in the cold. It seemed like we were walking in circles, but then we saw it: gorilla poo.
Before long, we stopped and the guide told us to put down our bags and walking sticks. We were here and the gorillas were close. We did as we were told and I stepped around a tree and there they were.
A member of the Susa Group
It was like they were waiting for us, all 21 of them. I saw Poppy (a gorilla researched by Dian Fossey) and her baby first. The rest were stretched out in a clearing, relaxing. It was literally a scene out of the best-staged documentary: the mist rolled in, the younger members of the group played with each other and ran towards us. It was simply amazing. We were able to spend an hour with the gorillas, during which time they were mainly eating, yawning, sleeping, scratching themselves and farting. They are extremely sedate creatures (or at least this group was too familiar with humans after years of being researched). There were three silverbacks we could see and the one closest to us had a cold and spent the time we were there picking his nose and eating it. One of the 1-year-old twins ran towards us, turned around, peed in our direction, and then began to make kissing noises and shake her head back and forth with her mouth wide open. The younger gorillas climbed up the trees while the mothers nursed their babies. It’s hard to believe that I actually got to be that close to them—less than four feet from a booger eating silverback!
One of the babies.
We took tons of photos (which I swear I will post) and it was not long before we had to leave. We set off back through the forest and it was a full-on rain by the time we got back to the rock fence boundary. Walking back down, I fell once while SMP fell a record four times down the muddy sides of the hills. When we got back to the car and received our certificates, we were beat, covered in mud, cold and completely wet. Although it took a long hike through the rain and a few thousand dollars, it was worth it.
This morning, while getting ready for work, I saw last night's Nightline program, concidentally about the same trip. You can read about it here.
One of the questions I was asked repeatedly before leaving Afghanistan was, “So, are you going home before heading to your new post?” To which I would reply, “I just spent a week in Kazakhstan. That was my break.” Generally, people who don’t know me very well think it is strange that I would take a break from Afghanistan in another Central Asian ‘stan. But this is how it is: I have spent most of my adult life in Kazakhstan and I have family and friends there. Most of what I know and how my adult character has been shaped is due to my time in the former USSR. I can’t bear dirty shoes or wrinkled clothes, bring a gift whenever invited to someone’s house, take my shoes off at the door (and put on slippers) and even last night caught myself sticking a cork under the metal handle of a pot lid. It is more than these habits, though, and this is what sucks about my lifestyle and my line of work: it is the relationships you form with the people you have to leave.
I first came to Kazakhstan with the Peace Corps, just out of grad school. After only three days in-country, with quick and intense Russian lessons, I was handed over to the people with whom I would live for the next three months. Hating children, I had requested to live with a couple about my parent’s age with adult sons. Reihan and Syrail came to pick me up at the sanitorium with their daughter-in-law, Ranosha (who spoke a little English). In a rented Lada, they took me away to my new life in a small village near Talgar. What I remember most about that day was watching my future husband walk off with his Russian host family and wondering when I would see him again.
The next two months were all about acclimating. I spent eight hours a day in Russian lessons, after which, Stas (another Volunteer in my village) and I would drink fortified wine and watch 18-year-old village boys play soccer with their shirts off. Reihan and Syrail treated me like their own daughter: the taught me pidgin Russian, made sure that I was well fed, and built me a shower in the backyard (they only bathed at a neighbor’s banya once a week and they had no running water). They took me to graduation ceremonies and to visit relatives. Syrail told me about how his father died in World War II before he was born and Reihan told me about her childhood emigrating from China with her 10 brothers and sisters. I was the first American they had ever known and they were anxious to tell me all about their people, the Uighurs. For those of you who don’t know (and most of you don’t), Uighurs are an ethnic group who live in the northwest of China in the area bordering Kazakhstan. Because they are Muslim and seek an autonomous state called East Turkestan, they have been persecuted by the Chinese government, labeled terrorists, forcibly sterilized, tortured, and generally experienced all of the other terrible fates that befall minorities in China. (Some of you might recall that there were some Uighurs held in Guantanamo; the US had no further reason to hold them but knew they would be sentenced to death in China, so they sent them to Bulgaria after their release.)
After my initial three months with my new family, I was sent out on my own to live in Siberia. Before I left, Reihan gave me a freshwater pearl necklace which she had gotten from her mother, “I never had a daughter, but if I had, this necklace would have gone to her” she told me, “you are my only daughter.”
I wrote letters to Reihan and Syrail (now “Mama” and “Papa” with the accent on the last syllable) and called them, and of course visited when I traveled to the Southern city of Almaty. When they found out I was getting married, they bugged me about having children, even offering to raise a child for me whom I could visit on the weekends. When I finished my two-year stint in the Peace Corps, leaving Mama and Papa was heartbreaking. As we were all crying and hugging goodbye, I took a petal from one of Mama’s rosebushes in the courtyard for safekeeping, somehow hoping that a small charm would bring me back to them.
It was almost a year before I came back to work in Western Kazakhstan. Then, luckily, was offered a job in Almaty, only 40 minutes from Mama and Papa’s village. For the next two years, I saw them nearly every weekend. Once, my husband was building a fence around our Almaty yard and Papa and one of his sons came to help. A nosy Kazakh (drunken) neighbor ventured over several times asking questions about me and my husband and what we were doing there. “I was in the military in Belarus, where I met the girls’ mother,” Papa told the neighbor about me, “she is my biological daughter, but her mother moved to America right before she was born.”
Nearing the end of my two-years in Almaty, my host father had a heart attack. Mama told me the prognosis was poor; we went to see him in a truly Soviet hospital in Talgar. I remember driving up in the snow in my beige Neva, and walking down the long, dingy hallways. Papa was lounging in the room in a track suit with another patient. He was feeling alright (Mama had not told him what the doctors said) and once assured that he would be OK, I proceeded back down the stairs. On the way down, I heard him tell his roommate, “That was my American daughter”.
During my time in Kazakhstan, their first and second grandsons were born. Abdullam and Rabkhat, now six and four, have known me all of their lives.
When they found out I was leaving once again, they were upset. When they learned I was going to Afghanistan they were just as anxious as my American Mom and Dad. Luckily, there were direct flights from Kabul to Almaty, so I was able to visit three times during my two years in Afghanistan. The last visit was just a few weeks ago, right before coming to Africa. I took a marshrutka (minibus) from the central bus station in Almaty to the village, bearing gifts for everyone and when I got there, Mama was not around. “Where’s Mama?” I asked frantically. “She’s at the hospital, we will go and see her tonight.”
After finishing dinner, and spending time with Abdullam and Rabkhat crawling all over me and vying for attention, my host father broke the news: Mama’s youngest sister, whom I had met several times and visited, had died of a sudden stroke ten days before. Mama had high blood pressure and that is why she was in the hospital. Rustam (the older son) and Papa drove me back to Almaty about 7:00 pm to the hospital. It was a nice place—the Presidential hospital, where Nazerbayev has his own ward—the complete opposite of where Papa had to stay a few years before. Mama was crying and upset when we saw her, putting aside her grief, the first thing she asked me was, “did you eat?”
Mama told me again about her sister, about what a good person she was and how she had saved her whole life (her sister was a surgeon at the Veteran’s Hospital) and was just at the point in her life where she could relax (her first grandchild had just been born) when she died. I realized that it was the stress of her sister dying that put Mama in the hospital. I promised to visit a few days later.
That next Sunday, Stas (the Volunteer from my village, now an old friend who can’t seem to leave Kazakhstan) and I went to see Mama at the hospital. Anyone familiar with the Soviet system will tell you that the hospital stay is TEN DAYS. No more, no less and most people go to the hospital to relax or recover from a cold. Mama was sharing a room with a Russian war veteran and another talkative old lady. After giving me money to buy candy (Mama knows how much I love sweets) she took us around to introduce me to everyone on her hall. “She doesn’t look like you” the talkative old woman said.
Saying goodbye was hard. I knew that I was leaving Asia and I was not sure when I would be back. Even living in Bangkok or Delhi I could fly back to Kazakhstan for a week easily, but my new position in Africa makes visits to Mama and Papa almost untenable. I broke down as soon as we walked out of the hospital. “Come on, let’s go get a beer,” was Stas’ reply.
So this is my Uighur family from Kazakhstan. It’s strange how you can form relationships with people who have such different backgrounds, cultures, and languages, but grow to care about them as much as the people you have known your whole lives. It really sucks when you have to leave, but I am sure I will be back.
Last week at a staff meeting, one of the Program Managers was talking about how one of the districts where we work is “full of Talibs”.
Well, apparently, the provinces outside of Kabul are not the only place. Consider this warning from the National Defense Service:
NDS sources report that HiG (Hizb-I Islami Gulbuddin)are becoming the dominant group within Kabul district. The source reported that the grouping had been conducting a
successful recruiting campaign in the districts surrounding Kabul. As a result
an increase in attacks is expected with HiG expected to operate in
Police Districts 12, 7 and 6 of the capital. TB are traditionally strong in the Dih Sabz
area (PD9) which accounts for the concentration of attacks on Jalalabad road. (Recall the Jalalabad Road is the road one has to travel to get liquor, as well as being the road the Coalition uses in and out of Kabul.)
For those of you who are unfamiliar with HiG:
"Hezb-e Islami Gulbuddin (HIG) has long established ties with Osama Bin Ladin. (HIG) founder Gulbuddin Hikmatyar offered to shelter Bin Ladin after the latter fled Sudan in 1996. HIG has staged small attacks in its attempt to force U.S. troops to withdraw from Afghanistan, overthrow the Afghan Transitional Administration (ATA) and establish a fundamentalist state."
Gulbuddin Hikmatyar is the one who castrated Najibullah (the President of Afghanistan under the Soviets), shot him and hanged his body in Ariana square.
So the Taliban is in Kabul and ready to fight.
Not really news, but now people are talking about negiotiating with the Taliban.
My organization has been in Afghanistan for a while, so we negotiated with the Taliban to have access to provincial areas pre-2001. Last year, while implementing a shelter program in the East, we also met with Taliban leaders in one district so that supplies could be carried in. I am not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, talking to the Taliban is a necessary evil; we are non-partisan and are working in the interests of the people. On the other hand, I feel like it lends them some legitimacy and reinforces the notion that they are the decision makers. Moreover, this could possibly undermine the fragile Afghan government in areas where their power is waning; having to ask the Talibs for permission to do our work might tip the balance.
Anyway, after one month this is NOT MY PROBLEM.
I hate flying. Don’t get me wrong, I am not afraid of a terrorist attack or mechanical problems or the plane being shot out of the sky; I hate the process of flying. Going to the airport two hours before the flight, checking in bags, going through security, standing in line at passport control and customs, sitting around in the waiting area. And then, once I get on the plane, having to deal with people standing in the aisle putting bags away (unable to move for three seconds for me to pass), sitting next to the middle-aged Indian guy who farts and snores the whole ten hour flight, dealing with the toilets at the end of the flight with pee all over every possible surface and used tissues sticking out of every nook and cranny. The crying babies with the parents who act like I should give a shit that their kid is crying, while I put in earplugs and wait for the Xanax to kick in. Then getting off the plane somewhere in Europe, sitting around an airport for five hours and then doing it all over again.
And while I absolutely hate flying for these reasons, my hatred has suddenly become acute. Why? Ariana Afghan Airlines. Now if these three words do not make your blood run cold, consider the facts: in its 25 years Ariana has had one hijacking (in 2000 five Afghans took an internal flight to London—you probably heard about this on the news recently as all of the hijackers were granted asylum) and five crashes. Since moving to Afghanistan last year, I have been forced, repeatedly, to take Ariana Airlines when I want to get the fuck out of Kabul and each time has been a terrifying, humiliating and life-changing experience.
I must say that I am no light-weight when it comes to traveling. I have flown on Yak-40s, Tupelovs, and planes decommissioned by the Democratic Republic of Congo for christssakes, but nothing prepared me for the deep, irrevocable fear I feel when flying Ariana. This fear emerges when you first get to the gate. When traveling from Dubai to Kabul, you must go to Terminal Two. Terminal Two has none of the restaurants, shops and aesthetic touches of Terminal One. Indeed, Terminal Two is at the gateway to hell; a small hallway that looks like a series of trailers slapped together. The flights that leave from Terminal Two are only to god-forsaken places like Afghanistan: there are flights to Baghdad, Djabouti, and remote areas of Iran from Terminal Two, but never to any place with consistent electricity, running water, or a lack of armed conflict for the past 5 years. While purchasing alcohol at the one duty free shop in Terminal Two, I ALWAYS see the Russian pilot of my plane (he’s wearing an Ariana badge) buying vodka, which I pray he does not consume in-flight, but realize it might not be a bad idea. While checking out with my liquor stash the Phillipina behind the register asks me with wide eyes, “where are you going?” and “is it safe there?”
The atmosphere of Terminal Two is a microcosm of the situation in the Middle East and Central Asia: there are fatties from the Midwest with their “Operation Freedom” shirts, African American men wearing jeans and sneakers, white women who look like they took a flight from Wal-Mart to the UAE, Afghan men in their shalwar kamezes and wool caps, and Arabs in traditional headdresses. I always try to bury my head in a book and distance myself from the Americans, they are so culturally inept and embarrassing. I mean, you are going to the Middle East for fuck’s sake—do you think it is a good idea to wear a “Christ’s Gym” t-shirt?!?!
Once you check in it’s every woman for herself. In the waiting area, you will hear stupid British mercenaries go on and on about what happened recently in Kandahar while the Afghans (all male) sit and stare at everyone in silence. Once the airline worker walks through with a radio you know you’d better jump-the-fuck-up and run hell for leather to the door to be sure that you are the first motherfucker on the bus to the plane. Once on the plane, I notice that I am only one of about three women—all foreign—of the 150 passengers. The plane is hot, it smells like body odor and three-day old dahl. It’s an old Soviet plane, probably built in the 1960’s or 1970’s and it appears to be held together with duct tape. As I walk down the aisle the Afghan men eye me in fear that I will sit down next to them. Invariably, my assigned seat is broken, so I usually park it next to some pasty old Western dude. The Afghan men all stare at me like I am going to jump up and take off my top as we taxi.
Once in the air, I dare not look out the window at the jagged mountain tops mere feet below us. If I do, I start wondering how in the hell we could make an emergency landing if we needed to and every small tremor of turbulence makes me put a death grip on the armrests. I take more Xanax and try to sleep. Soon the food is brought around: a greasy chicken leg, a half a lemon, a hot pepper, some potatoes, and Afghan naan. I eat the hot pepper in naan and wonder, did they prepare this in Dubai? Before realizing that in fact the food had come from Kabul the day before and had been transported across Iran twice before it reached my folding tray.
The decent into Kabul is sharp; there are mountains all around and it is a quick two minutes till the plane is on the ground. As soon as we touch down, five Afghans stand up and open the overhead compartments while the crew yells over the loudspeakers in Dari for them to sit down. After we stop, I put on my head scarf and maneuver as quickly as possible to get off the plane. I have spent two hours in passport control before (a supervisor slapped a border worker, causing a work slow-down) and I wish never to repeat it.
Once I am off the plane, it doesn’t all seem that bad. We made it. But I know it is just a matter of time before the inevitable happens with Ariana; after all, it has happened five times before. So next month, on my way to Bangkok, you can bet your ass I will not be flying Ariana. I will be safe and sound on a UN plane.
The excerpt below is from CNN. In Ethiopia we have had thousands of people stranded on high ground surrounded by water with crocodiles and poisoned snakes over the past two weeks. The US is only pledging 100K to help the people affected by the disaster, which is bullshit. I give money to MSF whenever there is a similar crisis--I suggest you do too.
AMURIA DISTRICT, Uganda (AP) -- Aid agencies were appealing for millions of dollars Friday to help more than 1 million Africans affected by deadly floods that have swept across the continent.
The United States planned to send $100,000 for Uganda -- one of the hardest hit countries -- and Europe announced more than $15 million in aid for flood victims across 17 countries. The floods have killed at least 200 people and displaced hundreds of thousands since the summer in central and eastern Africa.
"If we don't get food people will die in this place," Francis Aruo, 28, told The Associated Press in eastern Uganda, one of the hardest-hit regions of Africa. "All our crops are rotten."
The United Nations asked for $43 million for Uganda, where 50 people have died. Theophane Nikyema, U.N. Humanitarian coordinator for Uganda, said the money will help address the "devastation left behind by the rising tide of water."
The European Commission is planning to send $15.45 million in humanitarian aid to help flood victims, said Louis Michel, the European Commissioner for Development and Humanitarian Aid. The United States was sending $100,000 for Uganda, said Steven Browning, the country's U.S. ambassador.
In Uganda's Amuria District, which was put under a state of emergency this week, more than 500 people were taking shelter in a seven-room schoolhouse, which was meant to open for a new term last week.
"It's a struggle for accommodations," said Gilbert Omeke, the school's head teacher. "Some people are fighting for space. I have designated one classroom for expectant mothers and the elderly but so many more don't find space."
UNICEF was distributing basic disease-prevention kits, including plastic sheeting and water purification tablets, but medical officials said illnesses were spreading.
Florence Asega, a nurse at the closest health clinic to the school, some three miles away, said children were increasingly suffering from malaria and diarrhea.
"In the cramped, wet conditions coughs and infections spread quickly," she added.
In nearby Katakwi District, latrines were overflowing and hundreds of mud huts had collapsed. The nearest World Food Program distribution site was nearly four miles away, through waist-high floodwater.
Aruo has made the journey twice so far, returning with 65 pounds of maize, groundnuts and cooking oil for his wife and three children.
"It's a very tedious journey because it is water the whole way, the food is very heavy and some people have to leave some behind because they can't carry it," he said.
I just heard that there were two bombings this morning. Rather than being concerned, here I am still working on a project design. I was thinking the other day how I have totally become desensitized to what is happening around me. I rationalize that the bombings are only targeting the military or the government, not me. It is a strange strategy of acceptance and I wonder if it will change once I leave. I really hope so.
(I totally work with those two guys in the last panel!)
Hit the road!
Since it is almost time for all Americans to travel for the Memorial Day weekend, I thought it was time to pass on the knowledge I have gained in my travels.
On the road:
1. Check your tire pressure and fluids before you hit the road. Take a cell phone and make sure your ipod is charged.
2. Time your trip to avoid rush-hour traffic in urban areas. While this usually means 5:00 pm, take into account lunch traffic and church-goers heading to buffet restaurants on Sundays.
3. When your tank gets to ¼ full, pull over and get more gas. You never know when there is going to be a slow-down on the interstate and you definitely don’t want to be the dumbass who ran out of gas and is stuck on the side of the road. Use your fill up as an opportunity to powder your nose and replenish your supply of Diet Coke, Camel Lights, Rold Gold pretzels and Ephedrine.
4. Only pass in the left-hand lane, even if you are the only one on the road.
5. Use your turn-signals, even when changing lanes. Truckers appreciate this.
6. Truckers also appreciate if you blink your lights to let them know they can pass.
7. Scan stations when you hit college towns. There are usually good college stations out there, or at the very least you can catch some NPR.
8. If you turn off and the next gas station is over a mile away, get back on the interstate and go to the next exit. Trust me.
In the air:
1. Before you check in, call the airlines and let them know your seating preference. Ain’t no need being in the middle if you can have the window!
2. If you have a small bladder, take the aisle seat.
3. If you are on a short flight and have only carry-on luggage, be the first one on the plane. This way, you can guarantee that your carry on is in the bin above you and not somewhere in aisle 55, thus ensuring you can jump up as soon as the plane hits the ground, grab your shit and muscle your way to the door. (By the way, all of that blather about people traveling with children boarding first is bullshit. They never check.)
4. If you are on a long-haul flight and have checked bags, be the last one on the plane. This way, if there are extra seats on the back of the plane, you can take a few and stretch out.
5. Order a special meal. Special meals come first, so you can eat, take your Xanax, drink your wine and be ass-out before the rest of the plane has gotten their meals.
6. After meals everyone goes to the bathroom. Be first to avoid the post-meal rush: when you hear the food cart a rumblin’, get up and pee. Having a special meal makes this easier.
7. If you are traveling on an African airline, be sure to confirm your ticket at all stages of the process—when booking, prior to departure, at check-in and at the gate. African airlines sometimes have trouble accounting for their passengers, so these steps are necessary (perhaps Afghan airlines should take a lesson!).
8. Wear shoes that you can slip on and off easily. Danskos are ideal. Crocs might cause an international incident.
9. Be sure to bring your eye mask and earplugs if you plan on sleeping. The airline knows how much you hate screaming babies and will place you directly behind one without fail.
10. Never get behind Russians in the security check if you can avoid it. Russians will NEVER remove any article of clothing without explicitly being told to do so and they always wear lots of spangly, bedazzled items that set off the metal detector. You will know they are Russians because the men are wearing off-white, pointed, fake crocodile shoes and have tucked in shirts. The women have bleached hair, high heels, egregious eye make-up and tight pants. It will take them and their requisite two children at least 15 minutes to be cleared by security, all the time bitching at the security people in Russian and acting like they don't understand what is going on.
11. Getting schnockered before a flight originating outside of the US is perfectly OK and flight attendants are usually more than happy to facilitate this process. However, no more than two drinks before you board in the US. (Haven’t you all seen the TV show “Airline”?)
12. Xanax. Never fly without it.
I want to start out by saying I know cold. I have lived in Siberia for two years and have seen my share of -53 degrees days. However, not even a stint in a Soviet gulag could prepare me for the cold I now have to endure in Kabul, without the warmth of a coal-burning electrical plant to fire my radiators in the depth of the Central Asian night.
A lot of people assume that Afghanistan is a warm place, that it is mostly desert and that it rarely dips below 80 degrees. For those people I have two words: Altitude, baby. Kabul sets in the Hindu Kush mountain range and the capital is about 4800 feet above sea level. Its location between hell and the devil’s anus means that summers are long, dry and hot and winters are snowy, cold, and also long.
Now, I know that everyone bitches and complains about cold weather. Even in Atlanta, I have known people to work themselves up over 50 degrees during the winter. However, these people have access to central heating and constant electricity. Here in Afghanistan, there is no electricity. Sure, during the summer there is central power almost 12 hours a day, but in the winter, you are lucky to get six hours every two days. Central heating is unheard of. That heat pump you’ve got out back or that sputtering radiator in the kitchen--Afghanistan has not seen technology like that since General Najibullah was around.
In order to keep warm, Afghans (and white folk like me) use bukhari. These are little stoves with chimneys that feed into the wall. Generally, these are diesel or wood burning and need to be refueled every few hours. They heat only one small area, so running to the bathroom at night results in a severe and immediate drop in body temperature.
Bukhari. My carbon footprint is bigger than yours!
But there is another, more sinister effect of the cold: frozen pipes. Here there is no central water system, no sewage system: wells are the name of the game. White folk (like me) generally have a well in the yard and an electric pump that forces water into a tank on top of the house. Most Afghans in the capital have this system too, but outside of Kabul most people carry water in buckets to their houses—all year. When you have a tank, the miracle of gravity brings this water to your sink, shower and toilet. Frozen pipes prevent this water from reaching your sink, shower and toilet, resulting in dirty (frozen) dishes, unwashed bodies and solid streams of urine to greet you in the morning.
This past weekend, my husband and I had the trifecta of cold-related problems: no electricity, frozen generator and frozen pipes. On Friday, we were surprised when our generator was frozen solid, so we spent the evening baking brownies by candlelight and drinking copious amounts of contraband alcohol. Saturday was even more surprising because when the generator finally started, we discovered our pipes were frozen. Forced to shower at my husband’s office on Sunday before work because we had NO water (Muslim workweek is Sunday-Thursday), I had no idea I was in for the greatest surprise of all: frozen pipes at work. Now, it is one thing to have to face your own frozen pee in the morning, but it is a whole ‘nother issue to have to stare down the excreta of your fellow employees. Plus, I had my period.
Why am I telling you this? Because I don’t want to forget how shitty (no pun intended) living in this country can be. I don’t want to think for a minute that things were OK here and not really that bad and that I could do it again. You might read articles about Afghanistan that are romantic and poetic about the country, but when it gets cold, all bets are off. The beauty is gone and all you are left with is exhaust from a diesel heater and yellow snow. I have no idea how people live here in mud brick buildings with one room and no toilet or running water. I have no idea how they sleep at night with one thin blanket and go to work wearing a patu and no coat. No idea. White folk (like me) just can’t.
So no more Ethiopia, no more Africa. Bacca, bas, halas, vso, that's it.
I am back in the Soviet Union, working for an organization I swore I'd never work for again.
They made me an offer I could not refuse.
Still, it's nice: with my white complexion, round face, lean build, tight skirts and high heels I fit right in. It is so pleasant to walk down the street and have no one scream "foreigner!" at me every few minutes like they did in Ethiopia--and the sour cream is amazing.
I don't know why, but that old joke always makes me laugh: "A man who walks through the airport turnstile sideways is always going to Bangkok".
And it seems like I am always going to Bangkok (rather than "bang cock"), too, and that I always find out that I am going with less than seven days to prepare. Today my boss came and told me, "you can go to the conference next week if you want, HQ agreed to pay the costs."
Thailand is my favorite country. I go there at least twice a year whether I plan on it or not. I can drink grass jelly as I get on the sky train, head out to get a Thai massage, eat spicy green coconut curry, jump on a marshrutka and go to the beach, shlep around town with a big Chang in my hand wearing nearly no clothes. I can nearly taste the lemon grass and exhaust now.
There are direct flights, the costs are covered, why not?
(from the BBC)
US targets Ethiopia for sanctions
Correspondents say Ethiopia has come in for increased criticism over its human rights record since the violent crackdown on post poll protests in 2005; opposition leaders imprisoned as a consequence have subsequently been released.
And since Ethiopia's went into Somalia last December to help the transitional government- a rebellion in its eastern Ogaden region which borders Somalia has escalated.
'Correct wrongdoings'
The US representatives approved the Ethiopian Democracy and Accountability Act on Tuesday, which puts Ethiopian government officials at risk of being denied entry visas over human rights violations.
It also threatens to withhold military aid of at least $1.5m
Mr Payne said the bill was bipartisan and secured unanimous approval.
"It's something that's been discussed ever since the killing of civilians, gunned down in the streets of Addis [Ababa] almost two years ago," the Democratic Congressman told the BBC's Network Africa.
"There was a feeling that Ethiopia, being an ally of the United States, should have an opportunity to correct some of the wrongdoings, and that has not happened.
"Two years later people are still being imprisoned. There's still problems in the Ogaden region. People are having food kept away from them. That's why we finally said we need to move forward with it."
Samuel Assefa, Ethiopia's ambassador to the US, called the bill "irresponsible" and said it would hamper efforts to improve things.
"The legislation also would undermine regional stability in the Horn of Africa by jeopardising vital security cooperation between the United States and Ethiopia," he said in a statement, Reuters news agency reports.
The BBC's Elizabeth Blunt in Addis Ababa says as Ethiopia is such a strong ally of the US in the Horn of Africa, it is unlikely that President George Bush's administratation will be sympathetic to the bill.
In addition to writing proposals, reviewing proposals, developing assessments, creating presentations, drinking coffee and reading Perez Hilton, one of the most tedious, but relatively amusing tasks that I have is reviewing job applications. Now, the first vetting isn't something I do regularly, and would only usually do it if I were filling my own position; however, serving as Project Manager for the project I totally made up I feel like I need to have greater control on how this whole thing kicks off.
So, ladies and gentlemen, without further adieu, I give you excerpts from applications:
Makes what swell?
“I have done my second research paper had a title of ‘Hot romance movie and its impact on the swell of HIV/AIDS’”
&*#@! I hate ampersands.
“I have a Bachelor degree in STATISTICS as MAJOR and COMPUTER SCIENCE as a MINOR from ADDIS ABABA UNIVERSITY. Therefore, I have very interested and best hood in working in the vacant position, which I am applying for being competitive & successful in the position. Attached here with, I enclosed all my documents that witness about me.”
Alright—at least three applicants talked about “exerting [their] efforts” (not in my office you don't):
“I would be glad and most powerful if you give me a chance of employment so as to exert my effort with dedication & honesty.”
“…to exert my effort with dedication and honest.”
At least it is better than being a “steamed” organization:
“I am writing this letter of application to request for an open position in your estimated organization…”
Fill in the blank, we aren’t picky:
“I am interested to work as (in pen) Monitoring Officer in your school/college /organization…”
Finally, the respect I deserve:
“Dear: Sir/Madam
I have the honour to inform your Excellency that I am very interested to employ in the position of Monitoring Officer…”
This is the account that one of my co-workers wrote who stayed behind the day of the riots. Damn, this makes my stomach turn and just makes me mad all over again.
HRD Manager, account of the Monday, May 29, 2006 (Jawza 8, 1385) incident.
The demonstration that I found out about only a few minutes earlier was becoming more intensified by 11:00 am which is why we decided to send the international staff home.
To find out exactly what was happening, I took a rented car to Taimany where I faced a group of angry demonstrators on the 7th street. I returned to the office and asked Shah Mohammad to evacuate the office completely. Shoaib, Driver, and I accompanied the last two international staff to the International Guesthouse. On our way back to the office, we were caught in the middle of the demonstration in front of the Attorney General’s office. I asked Shoaib to take the car back to the guesthouse and I walked along the demonstrators to the office, pretending to be one of them. The demonstrators dismantled the security box in front of the Attorney General’s office and set it on fire in the middle of the road.
When I came back to the office, I found that a small number of the staff had not left the office, including two female staff, from Admin and an income generation staff and her children (later I found out the two kindergarten teachers and a handful of kids were hiding in the kindergarten). I asked Ramazan, our Admin Assistant, who had also remained behind, to take them to a safe location. He took them through Kolola Pushta to a safe place before returning to the office.
I, along with 14 other staff, stayed at the office during the looting and the fire. Those who had stayed behind did not to hesitate to protect the office. Their courageous actions saved much of the organization’s properties, assets and the entire adjacent building, about 50 rooms, along with furniture and equipments. They rescued more than 20 vehicles, 6 large generators, approximately 90 computers, 55 printers, 9 stores (containers) 2 of which were storage of fuel, oils and vehicle’s spare parts etc. The credit of having all the remaining stuff in our office goes to these people.
We locked all the entrance doors to the office. The crowd was approaching from two sides: Kolola Pushta and Qala-I- Fathullah. I was in front of the transport gate which was locked from inside. I watch as their leader pointed to buildings to be attacked. They damaged the security box in front of WFP office (located next to the office). Next, they tried to attack our gate but the transport gate was too strong for them to break down so they moved on to join the crowd coming from Qala-i– Fathullah toward Shar-I- Naw, all the while breaking our windows around the corner. As this was happening, I managed to move to the other end of the building, in front of the mosque, watching them move away. When they cleared our building, I went back to the office and assured my colleagues that the mob was gone.
At 12:30 the mob returned from Shar-I- Naw, and broke the wooden gates located in north side of the main office. Over 100 people raided the office in looting what they could and destroying the rest. Later, one of my colleagues told me that a gunman was standing next to the finance department, his head wrapped in a handkerchief. I soon realized that, even though we were doing our best, we could not resist them because they were a handful of people with guns among the crowd. I did not want to risk any of our colleagues’ lives. I though that they were a group of thieves, who would leave after they took what they wanted. I never thought that they would finish their action by setting the office on fire.
I could hear the flames but was not able to see them. I kept looking all around to see where it was coming from. And suddenly there it was, all powerful and engulfing everything in its path. The steel bars on the windows, meant for protection, had now become an obstacle against salvaging equipments.
The fire was soon raging out of control and no matter how hard we tried we could not put it out. The staff was looking to me for guidance, but I was concerned for their safety. I had to tell them to back away. Watching the office burn was like watching my own home burn and not be able to do anything about it. This will be one of the worst memories that I will carry through life; the office bunt as I looked on helplessly.
While we were fighting the fire, one of the looters was stealing a laptop and a DVD player but was not able to go through the main gate which was on fire. Assuming we too were looters, he asked us for help over the western wall. We gave him a hand and more before we locked him up in the transport department.
Another young looter who was throwing items to his gang from the kindergarten roof , was apprehended by one of our colleagues and joined the other looter at our makeshift jail.
Three invaders entered the car park and tried to steal a Corolla when Yama, our Mechanic, ran after them and told to get out of the car. They found the car first and that there are plenty more for him to choose from. At this point Yama reached in through the open window and pulled out of the driver. A group of our staff joined him and rescued the car. Yama ceased another car-thief who told him that he was a staff member. He joined the rest at the transport department.
Nasim, the Head of IT and Communication, did his best to save the finance department’s server from, but despite his heroic act that brought him to a few feet from the fire, he was not able to save the server.
Nasim was fighting the fire off from the generators and three guards were fighting the fire away from the next building. I sent the cars out of the office, we carried the damaged cars away from the wall of the burned building and succeeded to pull out one the generators but we couldn’t take out the second one.
To prevent the spread of the fire to the next building we pulled out all the cloths and furniture from the office’s shop. I asked the staff to take out all remaining materials out of the office. We took out 14 laptops, 2 satellite phones, 1 IT Server, radio sets and computers and put them all in a car which driver Hanif took to Mr. Ebadi’s house who is an employee of the Parwan office; we sent 8 cars to Shir’s house.
I asked Ehsan and Satar, a Guard, to keep a watch from the Kindergarten’s roof and I went outside to stand by the mosque next to the office. I watched as a small group of looters returned back from Haji Yaqoob square and broke into the reception. I followed them and with the help of a group of our staff ceased them. Our staff continued their heroic acts and after throwing the mob out of the reception and removed a couch that they had set on the fire. It was timely act that protected the second building and offices from the fire.
The Fire Department refused to get involved without protection. So we all watched as our dear home burnt.
1. Shir, Driver; took 8 vehicles and some other stuff to his house, resisted the looters on the street and retuned them back to THE OFFICE in good condition.
2. Yama, Assistant Mechanic, beside saving a laptop and a VCD player that he took from the looters, he saved 3 vehicles by taking them out of the office.
3. Humayon, Guard; despite his disability, he acted bravely.
4. Ihsanullah, managed to grab a camera from a looter and take pictures of the office while burning.
5. Shafi, Guard, he acted bravely
6. Satar, Guard, he acted bravely and he was very active and became very tired in that day
7. Abdul Wahab, Guard; he acted bravely.
8. Khoja Sayed Jan, he acted bravely by pushing back the rioters from reception.
9. Baseer, Mechanic, took coaster van full of shop stuff and some other things for safe keeping
10. Shoaib driver; he acted bravely
11. Fazel Guard he acted bravely
12. Nasim, Head of IT and Communications, did his best to save properties and collected about 13 laptops, sat phones, radio sets and a few desktops and put them in a car and took to Mr. Ebadi’s house, we received it back in good condition
13. Wahab Mechanic; he acted bravely and saved a vehicle by taking it for safe keeping during the riot
14. Ramazan; he took Samira, Misha and Ferozan with her children from the office to their houses in very bad condition. Also he assisted others in pushing back the rioters from reception.
1. Sayed Khalil
2. Fazel Haq
3. Musharaf driver
4. Hanif driver
5. Abdul Sabor
6. Karim,
7. Hafiz
8. Eng Sulaiman
Dear Oprah,
I will preface this letter by saying that I appreciate your attention to what is going on in Afghanistan and I understand that you would like to squeeze every last drop of tear-jerking sympathy from the American people over 9/11 to increase your ratings. After all, you are a businesswoman; I appreciate that.
But the purpose of this letter is to inform you of what your staff has been doing to my staff over the past week. Approximately five days ago someone from Harpo contacted one of my employees--who happens to speak Persian--and asked her to go out and videotape some Afghan widows for a "surprise" story for some 9/11 widows who support said Afghan widows. My employee, being a nice person (although somewhat of a milquetoast at times), kindly agreed and loaded up her video camera and one of our public relations staff and went out into one of the futher districts of the capital to get the "story" for your show.
After four hours of sitting in the sun and prodding these poor, bashful Afghan widows to talk about how they feel about the donation these 9/11 widows gave to them, my employee returned with the tape. We had no problem doing the filming, although it took away from our busy schedules, because it is good publicity for our organization.
However, once we finished taping, your staff realized that it would take too long to DHL the tape, so sending over a satellite feed was the only option--but NO--your staff would not pony up the grand for the uplink. Instead, Harpo asked one of the handful of expatriate staff members of this organization (who supports about 1000 Afghan staff) to take time out of her day to transcribe what the widows said. Your staff had to find out what the widows said first to see if it was "worth" the $1000 to send via satellite!
After the tape was transcribed and your staff read the text, they proposed that my employee fly to fucking PAKISTAN to feed the tape because it would be "cheaper"! I am sorry, Oprah, but we have JOBS that involve helping the poor of Afghanistan to live in dignity and are not your lackeys who can drop everything and fly to Pakistan so you can get your story.
But, no matter: you will get your tape. I almost broke BOTH my legs getting to the Embassy to hand the tape off to some guy going to Washington tonight (Musharaff had the roads blocked so I had to hustle). So the tape will be there by the time you tape on the 12th. You can thank me later. I just hope that the donors for our other $25 million worth of projects do not drop our funding for getting our reports in late.
Sincerely,
Confection
P.S. I expect to be reimbursed for the postage.
I came in this morning and had gotten a copy of the article referenced here about Muslim women having their hymens reconstructed. I shared it with my friend Hareg who informed me that infibulated women go to the doctor to have their infibulation "tightened up" for the husbands as a holiday gift. (If you don't know what infibulation is, it's when a woman has her clitoris, labia majora and minora cut out and then sewn together to ensure she remains a virgin until she marries. See my post on International Women's Day.)
Y'all, what the fuck? At least Judith Warner knows what time it is.
From today's New York Times.
June 12, 2008, 11:37 pm
Pure Tyranny
Tags: chastity, patriarchy
Righteous indignation is so easy, so pleasant, when you can sit back and fling it overseas.
I had that edifying experience on the D.C. Metro Wednesday morning, reading in the Times about the Muslim women in France who are going to cosmetic surgeons for hymen replacement surgery so that they can bleed as seeming virgins on their wedding nights.
It’s a practice that has, apparently, become relatively common in the immigrant communities of Europe. But, of course, it seems like hair-raising news in a country like ours, where a young woman’s right to do with her body as she sees fit has, for decades, been enshrined as perhaps the most essential part of her God-given human dignity.
As my 11-year-old says, Yeah, right.
Right after I finished reading the Times piece, I called the French Embassy to find out under what conditions French social security would pay for the hymen-restoration procedure. (It’s “mostly done in private clinics and in most cases not covered by tax-financed insurance plans,” said the Times article; “Oh la la!” said the receptionist to whom I relayed my query.)
I then started rifling through my desk. And there, beneath a report showing paid family leave to be on the decline, beneath a Newsweek article on a new children’s book, “My Beautiful Mommy,” that tells the story of a mom who becomes even prettier after a nose job and a tummy tuck, I found the story that the hymen news had immediately brought to mind.
It was also from The Times, from May 19, and featured 70-odd girls, of “early grade school to college” age, with their fathers, stepfathers and fathers-in-law-to-be, at the ninth annual, largely evangelical “Father-Daughter Purity Ball.”
“The evening, which alternated between homemade Christian rituals and giddy dancing” – and which culminated, for at least one father and his daughters, with a dreamy walk in the night around a lake, “was a joyous public affirmation of the girls’ sexual abstinence until they wed,” said the Times article.
“From this, it’s only a matter of degree to the man in Austria,” I’d scribbled across the first page.
The “man in Austria,” of course, was 73-year-old Josef Fritzl, who was around that time also making headlines after it was discovered that he had kept his daughter, Elisabeth, 42, locked up in a cellar for 24 years, during which time he’d raped her regularly, and had her bear him seven children.
(“It was a lovely idea for me, to have a proper family … down in the cellar, with a good wife and a couple of children,” he said in his confession.)
Fritzl, a self-described “man of decency and good values,” had imprisoned his daughter after she began staying out all night and drinking. “I had to create a place where I could keep Elisabeth by force if necessary, away from the outside world,” he confessed.
“Fathers, our daughters are waiting for us,” Randy Wilson, one of the ball’s organizers, said at the Colorado Springs “Purity” event. “They are desperately waiting for us in a culture that lures them into the murky waters of exploitation. They need to be rescued by you, their dad.”
I don’t want to take this analogy too far. I don’t mean to imply that there’s any equivalency between Josef Fritzl’s acts and the Purity Ball. Fritzl’s actions were uniquely horrific, and I am not accusing the men who danced in Colorado Springs of any crimes. But there is nonetheless a kind of horror to their obsession with their daughters’ sexuality. There is a dangerous boundary violation contained in their vow “before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity.” And there is even greater danger to the fact that this particular aspect of the nationwide “abstinence movement” has not been broadly denounced as the form of emotional violence against girls that it indisputably is.
Judith Lewis Herman, a clinical professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School, whose work with and writings on incest victims in the 1980s revolutionized the understanding of the crime and its perpetrators, believes that incest, like rape generally, has to be viewed within a wider context of power relations. Incest, she says, is “an abuse of patriarchal power,” a criminal perversion of fatherly control and influence. It is perpetrated, in many cases, by men who present themselves as the guardians of the moral order. And it isn’t always physical; in her 1981 book (with Lisa Hirschman), “Father-Daughter Incest,” she writes that the violation can be emotional, too, as when a “seductive father” oversteps his boundaries and goes places he never should in his daughter’s head.
“Something I need from dad is affirmation, being told I’m beautiful,” said 19-year-old Jordyn Wilson at the ball. “If we don’t get it from home, we will go out to the culture and get it.”
Sexual abuse – judging by statistics mostly based upon reports of incest – has greatly decreased in our country in recent years. From 1992 to 2003, substantiated cases went down 40 percent, according to the Crimes Against Children Research Center at the University of New Hampshire. Lisa Jones, a research professor at the center, says she thinks the impressive decrease isn’t just due to changed reporting patterns or data collection methods. “We feel like it’s very suggestive of a likelihood that there’s a real decline,” she said.
There are many possible reasons for this improvement. But one, I think, that has to be considered is that girls’ and women’s status has risen. Acceptance of sexual assault and insult has declined. In a world where girls and women are stronger, “abuses of patriarchal power” are less tolerable, acceptable, and possible.
Or should be.
In highly secular France, the reaction to the drama over young women’s virginity playing out in Muslim communities has been public and profound. Justice Minister Rachida Dati recently had to fight off calls for her resignation after she upheld a ruling by a regional court that had annulled the marriage of two French Muslims because the bride turned out not to be a virgin.
Our condemnation of cultural practices and beliefs in our own country that violate girls’ and young women’s dignity and most intimate personal boundaries should be no less total. For, when it comes to female chastity, much of what passes for “protection” is nothing less than sick.
Whenever I read a story like this, I feel like I have been kicked in the chest.
I have been out of Afghanistan now for over four months. Still, I can't tear myself away from the stories--stories so fucking bewildering they make me want to cry. Why would anyone gun down schoolgirls?
I think about the time I went to a school opening in the same province where these two little girls were killed. My organization had built a primary school for boys and one for girls and a few colleagues and I were invited for the ceremony. Dozens of little girls lined the walk as we approached the school--handing us flowers, singing and shaking our hands. They were all wearing the traditional green headscarves and maroon dresses with gold trim. After we toured the new school, one of the girls read a poem she had written and the teachers provided us with sugar coated almonds, raisins and green tea even though it was Ramadan and all of the Muslims were fasting--not eating or drinking until sundown.
Two months later, a rocket hit the school at night. No one was hurt and there was minimal damage, but it was a warning.
I guess things are getting worse.
Stories like this also remind me of the Afghans who really meant a lot to me--the civil engineer I worked with who broke down crying when he heard I was leaving for Ethiopia and told me, "I have three daughters. The youngest, she is like you. I always encourage her to be like you." The Afghans who called when the riots happened to make sure I was OK, the friends who offered to take us into hiding. I also think about Sharif, a driver at my work. Sharif did not speak English, but taking me and my husband home one day my husband noticed a Zemfira tape in his car.
"Ti gavareesh pa-ruskii?" ("you speak Russian?"), my husband asked, using the informal "you" which always pisses me off. "Da", he replied--a friendship was born.
Sharif went to university in Leningrad and finished his degree in history in 1987--two years before the Soviets were run out of Afghanistan by the Mujahadeen. He had five daughters, a real misfortune for an Afghan father. Since I was the only expatriate Sharif could communicate with (the only one who spoke Russian), he often asked me what was going on within the organization--the hirings, firings and other gossip and he told me what was going on in Afghanistan--the corrupt police, the bombings, the rumors.
Before my husband and I left Afghanistan for good Sharif invited us over to his house for dinner. He lived in the "unplanned" area of the city where people squatted on public land in mud houses. He lived on the side of TV hill, on the third floor of a lopsided building with no running water and no sewer (wastewater ran down a trench in the center of the dirt road). We met all of his beautiful daughters, including the smallest, Arazu, who was five. Sitting there drinking tea with Sharif and his family, I could tell how much he loved his daughters.
They brought out dozens of dishes from their small kitchen in a genuine display of hospitality. After dinner, Sharif's daughters presented me with some jewlery they had made for me and Sharif brought out his photos.
The pictures broke my heart. Here was Sharif--twenty years ago with more hair--in Sochi, with his college friends (big Soviet women lounging in bikinis in the background, obviously scandalous for an Afghan). Here was Sharif in Red Square, in front of Lenin's tomb, in his obshezhetye (dorm) with his friends from Pakistan, China and Kenya. Here was Sharif, so full of hope, thinking that the world was ahead of him with no idea what was going to happen a few years down the road.
Now he is a driver earning $125 a month and supporting his wife and five girls.
When I hear terrible things about Afghanistan, I think about people like Sharif. I think about people who just want to raise their children and celebrate their weddings, to play with their grandchildren and sit around with friends and drink tea. I think about how the bombings have killed the family members of friends. I think about the little girls who sang songs for the foreigners when they got their new school. I think about Sharif sitting in the window of his small, two-room house, holding his little Arazu.
I now have an answer as to why I have been unable to eat since my husband went to West Africa: a peptic ulcer.
I awoke Monday with chest pains. Nonetheless, I got ready and (being the Pionerka that I am) went into the office at 8:30. By 10:00, I was doubled over in pain and thought it was a panic attack. My boss instructed one of my Ethiopian counterparts to take me to St. Gabriel’s hospital, less than 2 kilometers from the office and a block from my house. We entered the hospital and explained to the people behind the registration desk that I was having chest pains; they regarded these symptoms with the same urgency they would give an ingrown toenail.
I paid my 60 birr registration fee and was instructed to go and wait in the “waiting area” which consists of a narrow hallway leading to the cafeteria with several worn leather seats and which smells of fried fish and bleach. I sat down and turned my attention to one of the overhead TVs, inexplicably tuned to CNN rather than ETV. After 15 minutes Tamrat (my Ethiopian coworker) told me to go to the nurses’ station where they took my blood pressure and weight and again treated my chest pains nonchalantly. I was given a card with the number 22 on it and instructed to return to the waiting area/hallway.
For two hours I waited among 50 coughing, sneezing Ethiopians to see the doctor. Finally, when it was my turn, the doctor asked me about my symptoms and listened to my chest. When Tamrat left to ask the office about payment, the doctor decided to ask me a series of personal, probing questions Ethiopians can’t help but ask when confronted with a captive ferangi (white person): Are you a worker or a volunteer? How long have you been married? Do you have children? Why have you been married seven years and do not have children? Where is your husband? What is he doing there?
I felt like standing up on his desk and screaming: THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. FOR YOUR INFORMATION AND FOR THE INFORMATION OF EVERYONE IN THE COUNTRY, I DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN BECAUSE I CANNOT STAND THEM. I WOULD RATHER LOSE A LIMB THAN LACTATE. I AM ONLY ENDURING THIS ON THE OFF CHANCE YOU ARE GOING TO PRESCRIBE ME SOME VALIUM.
After what seemed like an eternity, Tamrat returned and explained to the doctor in Amharic that my employer would pay because I didn’t have any cash. The doctor took out a photocopied sheet of paper and wrote, “lab”, “EKG” and “observation”. I told him there was no way in HELL I was going to stay overnight, that I would rather die of a heart attack. He scratched out the last word and sent me on my way.
The first thing they wanted to do was the “labs”. I walked into the laboratory which smelled like urine and the technician grabbed two vials. I stood up and walked out. There is not a chance in hell that I would let a public hospital in East Africa stick me with a needle.
The next day, I slept in and went to work about 11:00 thinking that the symptoms would pass. By 3:00 I was about to die: pains were coming every five minutes. I rallied my strength and drove myself to a private clinic near my office. The Israeli doctors gave me an exam, diagnosis, prescription and completed insurance forms and sent me on my way in less than an hour.
A few days after beginning treatment and I am still hardly able to eat and experience excessive pain when I do. An American co-worker had the dickheaded comment, “well, if you wanted to lose weight this would be the way to do it”. It has been the week for dickheaded comments.
So if you, by chance, find yourself in Addis Ababa with a health problem DO NOT go to St. Gabriel’s hospital, especially if you have a potentially life-threatening and time sensitive health problem. Ethiopians are the slowest people in the world and never treat anything as urgent. Consider yourself warned.
Over the past four days, it has snowed in Kabul. This is strange because usually there isn’t snow until after the first of the year and usually it doesn’t snow for more than a few hours at a time. As a result, the airport has closed. The Kabul airport has no radar equipment, and therefore the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF, i.e. Coalition Forces) who runs the airport would not allow planes to land without three miles visibility. My boss (Suka) has been stuck in Dubai for the past three days and there are consultants and various others stuck either here, in Dubai, in Pakistan and in other parts of Afghanistan. Welcome to the 21st century.
Snow is not the only thing accumulating in Kabul. Consider the following, clear indications that it is time to get the hell out of Dodge:
1. My boss (Dutch) has requested that all international staff submit to him, in sealed envelopes, three proof of life questions in case we get kidnapped. (This reminds me of when my coworker was kidnapped last year and the security guy when to her house to “get some DNA” in case she didn’t come back alive.);
2. This article and
3. The Taliban Code which inclues this passage:
Those NGOs that come to the country under the rule of the infidels must be treated as the government is treated. They have come under the guise of helping people but in fact are part of the regime. Thus we tolerate none of their activities, whether it be building of streets, bridges, clinics, schools, madrases (schools for Koran study) or other works. If a school fails to heed a warning to close, it must be burned. But all religious books must be secured beforehand.
(I work for an NGO.)
Next week I am interviewing for jobs in Africa and Southeast Asia. I can't wait until I can file all the "things I worry about" under "not my problem".
Here's a way to provide educational opportunities to girls in Africa.
(I am not affiliated with this organization. The founder is a former student of a colleague of mine.)
Malawi is the "Warm Heart of Africa."
Won't you warm someone's heart this
Valentine's Day?
The Advancement of Girls' Education Scholarship Fund (AGE)
is offering a different way to show your love to someone this February 14th.
Purchase a small gift box for $20 or more and support a girl's education in Malawi.
A beautiful gift box will be sent to the recipient of your choice with information about AGE, a photo of an AGE Scholar, and a small, sweet surprise inside.
Give a gift with meaning...empower a girl through education.
All orders and payments must be received by 5:00PM EST on February 8, 2008 to ensure delivery within the US by February 14th. Please complete the attached order form and e-mail it to Katrina Sison at Katrina.Sison@tufts.edu. All payments must be completed on the AGE website (http://www.ageafrica.org/contact) through PayPal. Because of the short turn around, we are unable to accept checks for this Valentine's Day campaign.
1 box: Minimum donation of $20
2 boxes: Minimum donation of $35
3 boxes: Minimum donation of $50
(All pricing includes shipping and handling for deliveries within the US.)
PURCHASED BY:
Name:
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Total Contributions Submitted via Paypal $
Date of PayPal Transaction
(PROVIDE SHIPPING INFORMATION ON PAGE 2)
SHIPPING INFORMATION
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Name:
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Zikomo!
(Thank you!)
To the Diners at the Mac Restaurant, White Sands Beach, Koh Chang, Trat Province, Thailand:
I am writing to apologize for the involuntary act I perpetrated at 8:30pm, Thursday, June 22, 2006. If I had been given a choice, I would not have projectile vomited without notice in front of at least twenty individuals who were enjoying their dinners, facing the sea, when I walked across their field of vision, yakked, and then kept on going without pause. Yes, it was rude; but I maintain that I had no control at that point and I thought that I was safe to walk the few hundred meters back to my bungalow as I had vomited less than 90 seconds earlier behind a palm tree at the Lagoon restaurant (adjacent to the Mac).
No, I was not drunk. I had consumed less than half of a (small) Singha that evening. Also, I had not overeaten, as I had only taken two bites of my red curry vegetables before the obscene event took place (which was done just to appease my husband who was offended that I ordered food which I had no intention of eating). I blame the amount of sun I had been exposed to that day; while living in Afghanistan I rarely have the chance to run around bare-assed naked all the time, everywhere, so my body was not able to process the copious amounts of Vitamin D in my system.
In sum, I am sorry for ruining your meals. I hope this incident was not the worst of your vacation.
Sincerely,
Confection
P.S. Confidential to the lady who said “revolting” as I shuffled past: fuck off.
