Falling in love with Afghanistan

This is December 2008, and I’m on my fourth visit to Afghanistan. I’ve never been able to explain to anyone, including myself, why this historically xenophobic and fiercely independent country feels like home – warm and welcoming. In response to this baffling and helpless love for an elusive and dangerous country, many “internationals” contend that they have been afflicted by the SARS virus - Sudden Afghanistan Return Syndrome.

While my stories will be generalized, I do want to state that Afghanistan is a diverse country. The largest tribe is the Pashtuns, followed by the Tajiks, Hazaras and Uzbeks. There are many other smaller ethnic groups including Hindus and Sikhs. Finally, significant portions of the population are also nomads. It is completely landlocked, surrounded by a variety of countries whose names end in “stan”, Iran and China. She has two national languages – Pashto, a complex and difficult language, and Dari, a derivative of Persian with many words similar to Urdu.

I’m going to start this post with some initial impressions of the people of Kabul. It is nestled in a valley surrounded by towering and bare rock mountains. A shockingly visible culture clash plays itself out as women in complete powder blue burkhas share the streets with other women dressed modestly in skirts and pants, along with defiantly laughing and chattering girls in uniform walking as if they own the streets. Young men unaware that they are sporting T-shirts promoting girls underwear (Hanes, Her Way) share the dusty and rocky footpaths with men in turbans, long beards and salwar-kameez. Armored SUV’s are as responsible for causing traffic-jams as the donkey-carts and shepherds herding large flocks of fat, black and brown sheep. The balance of this clash still favors heavily the older times, so much so that a friend of mine recently remarked, “any moment I’m expecting Jesus to come around the corner and say, Hi Christina!”.

The bigger surprise is the people themselves. Where are those fierce men that I imagined from watching TV in America? Instead I find men who are relentlessly polite, hospitable and protective. It is rare to see a man raise his voice, and common to see them carry their children and go goo-goo-ga-ga over a cute child as easily as any woman. The Afghan hospitality is legendary, and like an urban myth everyone seems to know that ONE man who killed his own son for not being hospitable enough to a guest. They really do mean it when they say, “my house is always open to you” and one part of a room is always set to receive guests. Bowls of almonds, walnuts, raisins and candy are set on an oil-cloth on the floor. Cups of tea overturned on saucers are ready to be poured with green tea flavored with cardamom the moment a guest steps into the house.

A few weeks ago, a group of us “internationals” were parked on the street to pick up a friend. As there was already a car in front of the friend’s house, we were parked in front of the house next door. As we waited, an elderly man came out of the house we were parked in front of and asked us what we wanted. We explained we were waiting for a friend from the neighboring house. He smiled, and asked, “While you are waiting, would you like some tea?” We profusely thanked him and declined and he ambled away. We shook our head in disbelief as we launched into discussions on contrasting behaviors in each of our respective countries when we sometimes need to park in front of a neighbor’s house – leave alone in front of a stranger’s house.

I will end with this story of an astonishing behavior that would be thought of as irresponsible and dangerous in any large city in America or India.

I was once going someplace in my car with my driver and bodyguard. We were up high on a mountain road and stopped because of some construction work. There were no cars ahead of me or behind me. Two women in full burqa knocked on the driver’s door. He rolled it down and they said something. The driver responded and rolled up the window. I looked at his face and saw that he was flushing a bright red, as if from embarrassment. I asked him what the women wanted and he replied that they had wanted a ride down the mountain but he told them that he did not have permission. I asked him if it was safe and he said, “Yes, we do it all the time in the mountains.” I said, “You mean, strange women walk up to strange men in unknown cars and ask for rides?” Both men said, “Yes, of course, it is difficult for the poor women to go up and down the mountains by foot”.

Much to the driver’s relief, I asked him to give the women a ride. They sat silently next to me, and got off quietly with a murmured “thank you” at the foot of the mountain. When I think of the number of times I’ve stood in freezing temperatures waiting for a bus, and people in cars whizzing by without stopping or the possibility of knocking on a strange window asking for a ride not even occurring in my fantasy, I have to wonder who really has a firmer grip on being civilized?