afghanistan

Sitting on the threshold of two worlds

3450 metres (11,319 feet)

An epic farewell to Afghanistan- three days of motorcycle (and van) chakaring through the Central Highlands– Bamyan, Daykundi, and Ghor provinces. This is an area basically inaccessible to the rest of the country, except on a network of donkey paths and precarious mountain roads. Here is my account:

Green valley, golden wheat, purple potato flowers, brown hill, red mountain, blue sky.

You would never look at this and say “yes. This is a road.” And yet somehow, on we plow, on narrow dusty paths hugging mountains and cliffs, over rocky, hoof-trodden scrabble, through deep streams that soak us to our knees and send steam boiling off the engine. Sometimes I have to get off and walk, as the way is too precarious for two on the motorcycle.

In some places the road simply disappears into ravines of dried mud as deep as I am tall. The occasional vehicle lumbers past- zippy Pamir motorcycles, the odd dusty Corolla with California or Maryland license plates, ancient Russian 10 wheeled Kamaz trucks, and 25 year old Town Aces, heavy laden with passengers and goats, roofs piled high with clothes and potatoes and plastic jugs. Lurching and teetering like a very slow roller coaster, I am simultaneously awash with fear and acceptance as we round impossible blind curves at 30 degree downhill angles over mountain streams that crisscross the road. Thankfully we see no carcasses of burned out vehicles on the slopes and valleys below us, so acceptance wins.

puddle road

approaching traffic

hairpin roads in the Koh-i Baba Hindu Kush

Life pours out of the mountain streams- shocking valleys, crowded with lush, thick grass, slender trees, wheat and potatoes- snaking through towering mountains and soaring cliffs. Girls adorned in a rainbow of chadors wash dishes, and lay bright clothes out to dry on the stream banks and hay bales nearby. Delicate flowers with sharp leaves defy the altitude and mountain rock with life; purple and pink hug the ground, while yellow and white blossoms perfume the wind on slender stems, reaching even further into the sky. Something resembling Baby’s Breath tower to the size of small trees. Hills roll over the high plateau around 3,000 meters. Ruins dot the plains- crumbling mud houses resembling deserted Narnian castles. What ancient civilization used to be here? One that has not changed in a thousand years- sheep and goats rest in the shade of the ancient remnants, while villagers carry on life inside the earthen walls of handpacked mud houses just beside.

streamside laundry

ruins on the high plain

Tattered flags whip and wave atop the roadside rock pile graves of mountaintop martyrs. Herds of sheep and goats cause intermittent traffic jams at 3400 meters, while the winds blow ancient dust across the Hindu Kush.

mountain shrine

The road condition is something like driving on crushed up chalk. Dust splashes like water when the front wheel hits deep ruts. The way, already challenging, becomes treacherous and the beautiful scenery gives way to full focus on keeping the bike upright. Intense praying. The wheels spin out and we go sideways– I can hear Alex saying “no no no no no,” and then “honey are you ok? Are you ok, talk to me!” The bike is on top of me, but our limbs are intact and our heads are still attached. I have broken my feet enough times to know something was wrong with my right ankle, but I cannot yet quite determine just what. All I know is that I do not want to let go of it, and visions of Kabul airport in a wheelchair and cast for a third time flash before my eyes. Although we are both banged up, the chalky dust road ends up being our salvation. Had we been on the hard scrabble, our cuts and bruises surely would have been broken bones and road rash. God is good!

Inshallah we crash only about 100 meters after a small enclave. The men and several children amble out to stare and assist- a young child comes and brushes the dust from my back with a bundle of fragrant leaves, and one of the men helps carry me to a solid embankment while Alex tends to my rapidly swelling foot and bleeding ankle. His own trousers are torn and bloodied- he has ripped a dime sized hole in his right knee, gashed his waist, and a huge blue bruise is forming on his thigh. The villagers assume we are doctors- why else would we be traveling in such a remote area with such an extensive first aid kit? The village men pour water on our wounds and retrieve mirrors and broken indicators that are scattered on the road. They insist we come with them to the village for chai, but shamefully, we are too shaken and in need of our final destination to accept. A mere 10 kilometers can equal several hours on this road. I will never stop regretting that we declined this invitation.

Gingerly, we limp back to the bike, and continue on. We still have at least another 1.5-2 hours til Bandar, where we are supposed to spend the night, and we can’t afford to linger any more. To our chagrin, the road does not improve- miles of shifty sand, barely lodged on the side of steep cliffs, sharp dips and steep inclines keep our hearts in our throats and legs firmly clamped against the bike. The road rises and falls endlessly before us, an infinite ribbon winding through the endless mountains, until Alex says the fateful words “I don’t think we are in the right place.” As it turns out, his colleague had input the wrong coordinates into the GPS device, and we are headed for Sangitakht, the centre of a district of the same name in Daykundi, instead Bandar, in the west. In between us is an expanse of 50 km of rough road- at least another three hour drive. Fortunately, Alex remembers from a previous trip to the field that there should be a small inn in the Sangitakht main bazaar. Alex’s constant level-headedness and prepared-for-anything attitude, combined with my love of the unexpected and easily delighted spirit transform what could have been a grave disaster- being lost, injured, and alone in provincial Afghanistan- into a delightful experience of God’s grace and Afghan hospitality. We pull in, exhausted, and are warmly welcomed as old friends by the proprietor, a smiling gentleman named Khalid. Our room is spare, but clean enough, and the toilets… exist. Khalid prepares the most delicious meal of naan and shorba, and a plate of fresh spring onions. Khaarajia are a rarity in Sangitakht, and we are visited by the local police to make sure we are ok, and that we have enough chai to warm the spirits of a whole village.

After a responsible adult discussion, we decide that, given the fact that Alex’s braking leg is a bit messed up, and I can’t walk, the responsible course of action would be to hire a van back to Yawkalang, where the road to Bamyan is paved. The next day, in an ancient Toyota Town Ace van, we realize just how ridiculous the roads were. Clouds of dust keep our windows closed and scarves wrapped around our faces. The motorcycle, strapped into the back and wedged with bald tires, looms menacingly over my head as we lurch over the mountains at miraculous angles. We are tottering along a high ledge, with barely enough room for two people to walk abreast- our driver is a magician for keeping the van on this “road!” A lone woman appears out of nowhere, staggering along the ledge; she heaves herself against the side of our van, crying for a ride. The driver waves her away, but how can we let her continue by herself? A few meters later we pull her into the dusty van and continue on. She has walked all the way from Ashtarlai, a remote district at least 60 kilometers away. She is on her way to Bamyan, another 100 kilometers! I don’t think the driver is super happy about this, but what else can we do but take her? It’s Eid, after all. Khushit is curious about the motorcycle, and very confused about me, a strangely dressed Hazara girl traveling with a foreign man in a bandana and Indiana Jones hat. I try speaking with her, but her Dari is garbled. Driver says she is speaking partly Urdu. She says she has a son in Bamyan, and either she or he is sick. I can’t quite understand. When we stop in Yakawlang and unload the bike, she disappears into thin air.

Khushit, me, and the motorcycle

The overwhelming enormity of the mountains moves me to tears. Over and over, I thank God for this amazing country and for giving me two eyes with which to see it. I honestly do not know what I have done to deserve such a special experience, such a rich life, but I know that Afghanistan will be with me forever; these mountains are etched on my heart, the dust is in my bones, the streams flow through my veins. This is a place where earth meets sky, and you can only imagine that God created the land here to share with angels and ancient creatures. I want to do as Rumi said, “Let me sit here, on the threshold of two worlds. Lost in the eloquence of silence.”

sunset over Yakawlang Valley and the winding road

link to full photo set

afghan map

Bamyan, my Jan!

(warning: beautiful pictures follow. will induce intense wanderlust and mountain craving.)

Hazara schoolkids. I mean look at that middle one, he could be my son!

I lived in America for 26 years. I never looked like anyone there, other than my sisters. I lived in Hong Kong for 8 years. I never looked like anyone there either, except when my sisters came to visit me. I have been living in Afghanistan for 2 years (math! I’m about to turn Very Old!), and here I finally look like a local, and can melt deliciously into the crowd. The Hazara ethnic group is widely assumed to be descended from Mongols, who invaded Central Asia during the time of Genghis Khan. Years of intermingling with Turkic and Aryan ethnicities in this region have resulted in a distinct mostly-Asian look, which is unique from the other ethnic groups in Afghanistan. The Hazara are the third largest ethnic group in Afghanistan, and the first largest in my neighborhood. As such, I conveniently blend in with my Japanese-Swedish-ness, and I have not met a single person here who did not automatically assume I was Afghan. Most people speak to me in Dari, and I get stopped at the airport with my two allowed khoregi (foreigner) bottles of alcohol every single time. It is so wonderful to look like my neighbors and adopted countrymen—I feel like I actually BELONG here.

The current heartland of the Hazara is the Central Highlands. During the reign of Abdur Rahman Khan (1880-1895), they were forcibly pushed upwards, geographically and topographically, from the more southern provinces of Helmand and Kandahar during a brutal genocide that saw the destruction or displacement of over 60% of the Hazara population. The Central Highlands are some of the most isolated and impoverished areas of the region, but they enjoy a much higher level of safety and security than all other provinces of Afghanistan. One of my friends once told me that Hazaras are the most peaceful ethnic group in our turbulent country because their terrible history had shaken all of the violence and revenge out of them. I don’t know if that is true, but I do know that Bamyan is incomparable to Kabul in regards to safety. Bamyan is the main city of the Hazarajat, and one of the most significant cultural capitals of the entire Central Asian region. It was once a Buddhist centre, and it is here that the famous centuries-old standing Buddha statutes were destroyed by the Taliban in 2001,

When you fly from Kabul to Bamyan, the airplane must make a sharp left turn to get out of the bowl and over the mountains that ring the city. This is followed by an endless continuation of mountains, as far as your eye can see. You will be subsequently treated with a peak-skimming voyage, and realize just why Afghanistan is so special, and so unique in every way. There is, simply, nothing but mountains. Every once in a while, you may spot a surprising cluster of houses; this absolutely boggles the mind- how on earth did they get there? There are no trains, no airports, no roads, there are just mountains.

spectacular mountains as far as the eye can see, and as far as the heart can imagine

From the moment you step off the plane into what is little more than a tidy parking lot, you are transported to a different world. From the tarmac itself, you can already see flat topped mountains, snow capped peaks, and the freshness and stillness of the air fills you with life. The valley here is old, historical, spiritual. The niches which the Buddhas used to occupy are stark reminders of what once was; however, this absence is not the most spectacular thing about the famous valley. The niches are set into high golden cliffs riddled with hundreds of caves in which monks used to pray and meditate. A scramble through these caves reveal ancient paintings in red and blue and green hues- images of Buddhas and lotuses cover ceilings and cracked facades. Peering out the caves onto the valley below reveals the crumbled old bazaar, a shock of vegetation unfamiliar to Kabul city folk- wheat and potato fields ringed with irrigation canals, and, in the distance, layer upon layer of ever growing mountains. When you think your eye is focusing on the tallest ridge, you notice the backdrop is not cloud, but more mountain. And behind that, still more and more mountains.

Shahmama Buddha

Gazing out over this surreal landscape, you get a sense as to why the ancient Buddhists chose Bamyan as their home. There is mystery and wonder in the air. The morning mist rises through the swaying trees and dissolves into the air like the prayers of the monks; memories of the giant stupas and domes of Borobudur, and the thousands of temples materializing through the misty Bagan sunrise tug at your heart as your breath catches in your throat. It is not often in life that you get to see the most beautiful thing in the world, but in Bamyan it is a daily experience.

stunning Bamyan valley, mountains, more mountains, and more mountains!

Due to the crippling incompetence of the now bankrupt and grounded Eastern Horizon airlines, my first stay in Bamyan was extended multiple times. I could not be more grateful. My friends and I took advantage of our additional holidays by walking every inch of land we could manage: Band-e Amir, Shahr-e Zohak, Gholghola, Foladi Valley, and a strenuous, but rewarding 16km up and down mountains trek to the Dragon Valley. My second trip, with the infinitely more dependable UNHAS flight was even more adventurous, featuring midnight motorcycle rides through inky black valleys, a Buzkashi, and sinking into 3 feet of snow while hiking up mountains for the ultimate off-piste skiing experience!

Trekking Through the Beauty:

endless beauty

My surname is Moberg, which is the Swedish word for mountain. My mother’s maiden name is Yama, the Japanese word for mountain. My Chinese surname is Shan, which means mountain. Bamyan, Afghanistan, these mountains surrounding me, towering over me… this is where I feel most comfortable, the most “me.” Trekking through these mountains is both exhilarating and grounding, surrounded by the sheer enormity of nature. You stand a thousand feet in the air, with the sensation of being on top of the world, only to realize the rock on which you are perched is a foothill compared to the surrounding peaks. You feel wholly alone, and yet completely at one with the universe at the same time. You are a tiny speck. You are, as Rumi so eloquently said, “the universe in ecstatic motion.” This place is too special not to visit– the beauty will change you.

stunning cliffs, sloping mountains, sky for ages

Shahr-e Zohak (Red City): served as a fortress and customs station along the silk road centuries ago.

Shahr-e Gholghola, the city of screams. This, and all of its inhabitants, was destroyed by Genghis Khan after the death of his son.

Band-e Amir:

As we crested the hill approaching Band-e Amir, I had the sensation that I had been there before, in my literary imagination. My immediate feelings were that I had read about this place in a C.S. Lewis book, and that this place was surely what he had in mind when he wrote about Narnia or Malacandra. This place is entirely perfect- as if God created it for the sole purpose of marvelling at the beauty. It is the kind of place that makes you Believe. It is the kind of place that steals the breath from your lungs, and the words from your mouth, that makes you incapable of doing anything but whirling around with your arms outstretched and praying “Thank You for letting me live long enough to see this!!”

surely God took all of His favorite aspects of nature and put them together here

Band-e Amir literally means “Commander’s Dam,” but is often referred to as the top of the world. truly it looks like my version of heaven…

stunning Band-e Amir

Bamyan in Winter:

Buzkashi is Afghanistan’s most famous sport. Played in the winter months, buzkashi consists of two teams of horsemen, vying for the carcass of a recently deceased goat. If you have seen Rambo 3, you know that it is a crazy, violent sport, which sometimes involves the horsemen charging into the crowd of spectators. This is a must-see in Afghanistan– wild, beautiful, full of life.

Buzkashi: like polo, except with 100% more carcasses

Snowboarding in Afghanistan, say what?? As this is the country of mountains, it seems logical. However, this is also the least developed country in the world (fact), so ski lifts and groomed runs are not exactly a high priority for infrastructure and development. That said, there are no fewer than six winter sport organizations in Bamyan, and we had the good fortune of hooking up with the Bamyan Ski Club for a day of strenuous hiking, peppered with a few runs. Though insanely difficult (imagine a not-quite-five-feet individual, yours truly, hiking through 3 feet of powder up a huge mountain with a snowboard on the back. besyaaar sakht!!), the views were spectacular, and the experience just out of this world. The conditions were *challenging*- the slope is not groomed, so in some places it is 3 feet of powder on an ice pack, in others, chunks of rock, in others, bushes and trees growing through the snow. Despite this, seeing local girls, village kids, and your odd foreigner trudging up and sailing down this barely touched mountain was absolutely fantastic. Only in Bamyan could this be so!

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we climbed this. but only once, holy moly.

long.hike.up.

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me and A on the cliff we almost skied off. thanks, random guys, for waving us away from certain death.

Whenever I am feeling beset with doubts or discouragement, whenever I am feeling that Afghanistan is lost, that this place is beyond redemption, I remember the beauty and serenity of Bamyan. I remember that, in the midst of uncertainy, chaos, destruction, violence, corruption, and inefficiency exists this perfect place- a place of harsh beauty, of intense spirituality that permeates every sense and arrests the soul. Bamyan is the Afghanistan that once was, and that still can be.

One Year in Afghanistan: Just……. Go

I just came back from a much needed break home in Hong Kong after my first year in Afghanistan. I spent the first week home feeling awful and sick and stressed out and lost and traumatised. I woke up in a panic one night after a vivid dream about a rocket (though truth be told, the only trouble I ever have sleeping in Kabul is due, in large part, to the 5am ice cream man, the bleating neighborhood sheep, and my next door neighbor, Elyas, who is the loudest and earliest rising child in the world). I cried in the shower, and spent one evening violently sick, despite having eaten the exact same thing as my friend, who was completely fine. After all the puking, I slept from about 2:00am Sunday until 9:00am Monday, with a brief break for a drowsy church service. When I awoke, after my nearly 30 hour nap, I felt… normal. I felt like I was ready to tackle my work, and able to answer the bevvy of questions about life in Afghanistan that showered down since my arrival.

So, now that I am able to articulate myself without crumbling into a quivering mess, I can reflect on what I have learned, and how my life has changed in the last 365+ days of living in the Big Kebab. In a nutshell, Afghanistan is the land of Unclear Expectations, and I am slowly learning to let it go (cue Elsa), whatever it happens to be (control, expectations, freedom, assumptions, etc etc etc).

A Type A Person in a Type I(nshallah) Environment:

Afghanistan is a difficult place to be Type A. Upon first arrival to Kabul, Type A people like myself receive a crash course on being patient and forgoing that pesky sense of needing to be in control of everything. In Afghanistan, you are in control of nothing; nothing but your own emotions and how you react to things. After nine years of running a successful business in the logical and organized mecca of efficiency that is Hong Kong, coming to a place like Kabul was a shock to my color-coordinated-excel-spread-sheet brain. Not only was I no longer the boss, I was no longer the boss in a country where steering wheels can be found on either side of the car, food comes wrapped in British newspapers from 2010, normal wait-time for a meeting or event can range anywhere from “someone-important-is-here-right-now-drop-everything-and-perform,” to “better-hope-your-phone-is-fully-charged-because-it-is-12pm-and-the-10am-speaker-is-still-on-his-way.” Nothing works the way it is supposed to. Internet (aka inshallah-net) exists, but in a 56k modem sort of way, and 3G is more like 1.5G. Even public holidays are only announced a day or two before they happen- how can you be Type A in a place like this? You have to adapt to the disorder, and adapt quickly. Although sometimes I fear that living here is making me disorganized and lazy, being in this environment is actually extremely liberating. It is a wonderful reminder to me that God, not I, is in control of everything. I don’t understand His plan for things here, and that’s ok. Life is more than efficiency and targets, life is about relationships and interactions. Endless waiting for meetings and airplanes allows for conversations. Snail-like internet (sort of) eliminates the mindless trolling through Buzzfeed and Reddit that occupies so much of my taxi/bus/transit time in Hong Kong (Facebook usage, however, remains at an all-time high. More on that later). Uncertainty about tomorrow breeds more of a sense of appreciation for today, and for the people with whom you spend your today.

Unclear Expectations and Misplaced Priority

When you open an article about Afghanistan and read Kabul City Rocked by Explosion, you expect that there are bombs raining down from the sky, buildings crumbling, soldiers patrolling the streets, while terrified women in burqas scurry into the nearest doorway to avoid flying shrapnel and concrete. You expect bread lines and sad eyes and amputees. You expect those of us that live here to be cowering in a state of constant fear. This, however, is not true, not entirely. Yes, Afghanistan is still an active conflict zone. But the conflict is a tired, furtive (thank you, Emma-jaan, for the word that perfectly encapsulates this feeling) one. We do not drive down the street dodging bullets; rather, we wake up wondering if there might be a suicide bombing somewhere in the city that day. There usually is not. It is not a constant gun battle that affects us here, it is the uncertainty of what *may * happen that breeds hypersensitivity and anxiety. It is the uncertainty of what could transpire that brings out the superlatives in us- extreme joy, extreme anger, extreme sadness. We are surrounded by these extremes; people are not just hungry, they are starving. People are not just happy, they are elated. Losses are catastrophic, successes are national celebrations. The ANA soldier who fought off six Taliban rose to celebrity status overnight, being awarded a car, a house, and no doubt countless marriage offers, and his subsequent fall from grace was just as rapid and dramatic. After just a few days, he is now in jail, disgraced, following a deadly traffic accident.

These extremes and uncertainties result in what I can only describe as an intense disparity of priority. There is a misplaced sense of gravity and import on things like Facebook posts and car decorations or what color a woman is wearing in public, whereas things that I would consider to be deserving of care and attention, like sanitation and security measures, might carry the same weight as, say, the choice between qabeli pilau or kebab for lunch. Idly written words have the power to not just damage feelings and friendships, they can also ruin lives. For most young people in Afghanistan, the majority of communication, particularly between the sexes, occurs via text message or Facebook. You can therefore understand why the things that are typed are far more significant than they would be anywhere else.

New Understandings of Danger and Safety

People living in safety and freedom cannot truly understand what “dangerous” and “safe” actually mean, and once I moved out here, my perception of these concepts changed dramatically. Basically, I do not know how to really answer the most often asked question: “Are you safe?” I am not safe in the way that YOU are safe, but again, the chances of the Taliban blowing up my house are very slim. We severely limit our movements, ie we don’t really go anywhere. Anything bad that could happen would probably happen on the road, so we do not spend much time in transit- and certainly we would not walk anywhere. There is no circumstance under which I would be walking to a restaurant or bar at night (mainly because there… are none…), providing the opportunity to be mugged or raped, so these sorts of dangers rarely even cross my mind. So I guess the best way to answer the “Are you safe” question is to say that I am extremely restricted in what I can do, but because of those restrictions, I am safe.

Afghanistan is part of the current world-wide refugee crisis. There are thousands of passport applications every day here, from people desperate to leave the country, by any means necessary. Unemployment at nearly 60%, the withdrawal of coalition force troops, unrest within the Taliban, following the confirmation of Mullah Omar’s death, and the growing threat of ISIS, have all pushed the country into deeper uncertainty. Most Afghans do not have the luxury of being able to leave at any time, as I do, and are affected by the instability in ways that I cannot even imagine. Their lives are in a different kind of danger; the danger of a hopeless future, a future that could contain a continuation of the last 35 years of conflict. This is, in a nutshell, what we are all fighting to prevent. Yes, I teach music; however, the primary goal is to provide a stable and promising future, using music as the vehicle. This is how to ensure safety for my students.

Most often asked questions:

What do you do in your free time?

There are a few restaurants (and by a few I mean like… 5) that are ok for foreigners. We also go to friends’ places, and the embassies and NGO compounds throw parties. There is one awesome NGO called PARSA, who have a weekly Friday brunch on their expansive, farm-animal-filled property, and this is an essential factor in my mental well-being.
We watch a lot of downloaded TV series. I recently brought back an old projector from Hong Kong- this will serve us well in the winter, when it is too cold to go anywhere.
There are, in fact, many beautiful and interesting places in the city. The problem is that security is not good, so we have to limit our movements. During a safer time, I was able to ride with a friend to several shrines, forts, and hilltops around the city for some urban exploration. Right now, however, this is just unfortunately not an option.
Facebook. Lots and lots of Facebook. Ugh.

What is the food like?

The great thing about Afghan food is that everything is fresh, and without preservatives or chemicals of any kind. Despite the fact that I come from the land of All The Foods, I actually now feel healthier eating in Kabul. (also, as one of my housemates is diabetic, we have cut out oil and sugar from our diets, which is very helpful). The main problem is not that it is not tasty, but that there is not a lot of variety. There does not seem to be any clearcut distinction between breakfast, lunch, and dinner foods, so there is a lot of kebab consumption. The main foods here are:
- Naan: a stupidly delicious bread that is consumed with every meal, and is like manna from heaven. Unfortunately, in addition to being insanely delicious, it is full of pesky things like calories, and therefore do nothing for someone watching their figure, which is nobody, because everyone here is hungry.
- Ghosh: meat (lamb, beef, goat, chicken). Lots and lots of meat.
- Oil: everything here is drowning in oil. I love banjaan sia (eggplant), but whenever I get it, it is basically a pool of oil with something that once resembled a vegetable resting limply at the bottom.
- Kebab: grilled meat doused in spices, inside a naan, accompanied by a hot pepper, roasted tomato, and a few french fries. Kebab can be very delicious, but for breakfast? And again at lunch? And again for dinner? Yikes.
- Qabeli pilau: rice made with oil, carrots, raisins, and a hunk of mysterious meat in the middle. Same with the kebab, can be very delicious, but not three times a day.
- Mantoo/Ashaak: much like naan, this is food sent from heaven. It is the Afghan equivalent of xiao long bao, but without the soup inside. The meat is spiced ground lamb, and on top of the dumplings is a delicious tangy yogurt sauce, lentils, and coriander. Ashaak are kind of the vegetarian version of mantoo, made with something green on the inside, and not nearly as delicious. I could eat 30 mantoo in one sitting and be very happy. Fat. Happy.
- Legumes: lubia (Afghan equivalent of… chili? Without the meat? So just the gross kidney beans?), nakhut (misspelled, chick peas in some sort of sauce), dahl (lentils, so good), and various combinations of the aforementioned, with other similar legumy bean things.
- Juices: here is where Afghanistan cannot be beaten—mango juice, pomegranate juice, banana juice etc etc etc. All of these seem to be made with the secret ingredient of the nectar of the gods.
That’s pretty much it.

How do you get around?

We have a vehicle from the Ministry of Education (when they have enough money to pay for gas, which is… infrequently) that brings us to and from work, and to the grocery store if security is ok. There are also expat taxi services that we can call if we want to go anywhere else.
I also have a motorcycle that I no longer ride, as the security situation is not good right now, and there is no need to put my life in further danger.

What do you wear?

I can wear pretty much the same things as I did in Hong Kong, except that I have to wear them all at the same time. So I can wear a nice dress, but with pants underneath, and a cardigan on top, or “arm socks” to cover my sinful wrists. Chador (headscarf) at all times outside my house.
Arms and legs must be covered at all times (outside my home), and my shirt/skirt/dress should reach to the knees (or close). Clothing should never be tight, and we should not show the shape of our bodies.
I do not wear a burqa.

“Who could be so lucky? Who comes to a lake for water and sees the reflection of moon.”

“Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn’t matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.”

This is one of my favorite quotes of all time; it embodies the excitement I feel for the world, for immersing myself in new cultures. 10 months ago I moved here to Afghanistan, embarking on what was supposed to be a year-long sabbatical from nearly a decade of running a music school in Hong Kong. After just a few weeks, however, I knew that I had fallen irrevocably, steadfastly, and undeniably in love with this incredible country and its inhabitants. I knew that I would not be able to leave and return to my gilded life of security, fast internet, educated children, shopping malls, false eyelashes, restaurant choices, travel, beaches, paddling, modernity, and bacon. I knew that Afghanistan was not just a stopover, but a destination. And just like, nine years ago, Hong Kong became my home, Afghanistan has become my new home. I have resigned my directorship in Hong Kong, and will stay here… indefinitely!! I can think of no greater poet than Rumi himself to help me explain why:

“Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”

I do not know what I ever did to be given not only what I need, but also what I want. Many years ago, I asked God to let me go to Afghanistan. It wasn’t a need, like a roof over my head, food on the table, or sustainable health, but rather an arbitrary desire, like a nice beach vacation or laser hair removal. Yet somehow, after leading a wonderful and fulfilling life in Hong Kong, the greatest city on Earth, my pie-in-the-sky wish was fulfilled. I get to live in my dream country, work at my dream job, surrounded by a dream team of colleagues and students and friends. I love it here. I love what I do. I love where I am.

I do not even know how to adequately express the gratitude I feel to be here. I suppose the best way to show my gratitude is to continue doing what I am doing, and do my absolute best. I can think of no greater thank offering than teaching my students to be great musicians, than giving them a well of beautiful music in their minds and hearts from which they can draw at any time, than embracing and loving this mission more and more.

“Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.”

Since coming to this country, I have met the most extraordinary people. People who have done extraordinary things, people who have lived through extraordinary circumstances. Strong people, interesting people, beautiful people. Although this country is also rife with expats who are here for the wrong reasons, whose salaries would make you blush, who are under lock and key and do not get to experience anything of the majesty that is Afghanistan, there are so many here who change your life with one conversation, and inspire you to be a much better you.

Among the people I am privileged to know, there is someone who rode a bicycle from London to Hong Kong, someone who rode a motorcycle from Kabul to London, the director of a Kabul library, an Argentinian poet/activist, a female helicopter pilot, the curator of the museum, a man who buried his instruments in the ground so the Taliban would not find them, a boy whose father was imprisoned for allowing him to listen to music, a girl who stood up against her uncle for beating her mom, a celebrity top chef, a woman who lost her childhood across a myriad of refugee camps, a local girl who rides bicycles, a disabled man who teaches kids to skateboard, a rapper, the guy who started the Kabul circus, a girl who spends her mornings riding horses in the mountains, a TV producer, a doctor-turned-media-expert, someone who photographs refugees in Syria, a husband and wife documentary film making team, the man who started the country’s only music school, a girl who rides a vespa around town, a woman who trains local veterinarians, the daughter of a fourth wife, who was shunned for having a boyfriend, a movie star, the First Lady of Afghanistan, an American who was born in my hometown, but grew up here in Kabul, a motorcycle gang of wanderers…….. the list of fascinating people with fascinating stories is endless.

It is wonderful to know so many people- local and foreign- who are here because they REALLY want to be here, who share this passion and zeal for Afghanistan. For us, the security threats we face, and the restrictions we endure (or ignore, as the case may be) are insignificant in the face of what we GET to do here. All these people I have met are an incredible inspiration to me. Unforgettable, unsurmountable, unbreakable.

“Christian, Jew, Muslim, shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river, each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged.”

This last week, the first 7 days of Ramazan, has been filled with intellectual and spiritual discourse on the reasons for fasting, the nature of God, the differences and similarities between religions. I enjoyed a sublime iftar with a Buddhist, a Muslim, a Sufi, two agnostics, an atheist, and myself, a Christian. I have been waking up at what I would have previously considered to be ungodly hours (2:30am) to have the sahari meal and pray before the sun rises. (fun fact: it is full daylight here by 4:42am.) Although I am of a different faith, there is something extraordinary about being awake in the still of the dawn, praying at the same time as 30 million of my adopted compatriots.

To be honest, I am not very good at Ramazan, and have only had a few successful days of fasting. However, I am so humbled to at least be trying to join the rest of the country in this unbelievable exercise in faith and sacrifice and self-control. I am humbled to be faced by my own short-comings and lack of will power. I am so grateful to have a constant reminder of just how much I have to learn and grow, of how much more I could be integrating my faith into my daily life. For Afghans, faith is not something they kind of do, it is what they are; Islam is life. It is every aspect of life; there is no separation between their faith in God and their daily ins and outs. What an inspiration! What a conviction.

“Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.”

I have been asked why I think, from a spiritual perspective, Afghanistan has gotten such a raw deal. Over three decades of war, endemic corruption, crippling poverty, and a broken economy have left undeserving people in what appears to be a hopeless cycle of dependence and exploitation. Pain and sorrow run deep here. Children are born into generational disenfranchisement, and are taught not to live in joy, but to survive out of necessity. I do not have an answer to this question of “WHY?” I do not know why this beautiful country has been made to suffer so much. However, I do know that development will happen. Security will return. Corruption will diminish. The economy will recover, the children will be educated, society will modernize, and this country will, indeed, be lifted out of the ashes of war and oppression. And when this does happen, inshallah, the revival of this place will be unparalleled anywhere in the world. The healing will be even more beautiful than the mountains that cradle Kabul in their laps, because when you come from a time and place so low, so dark, recovery is not easy or swift, but it is sweet, significant, and relieving.

“Observe the wonders as they occur around you. Don’t claim them. Feel the artistry moving through and be silent.”

I could never deign to say that Afghanistan is my country, that even this experience belongs to me. I can only revel in the fact that, for however long, I am permitted to get a glimpse of the mysterious beauty, and that I get to share in the story.

(All quotes are by Rumi, most from “The Essential Rumi.” He is the master of beauty.)

Only in Afghanistan

ONLY IN AFGHANISTAN

There are so many misconceptions about life in Afghanistan. It is true, the Taliban are still here, there is widespread poverty and malnutrition, and the road to recovery from the past 30+ years of war is as pitted and potholed as the majority of our roads. It is also true that we have sustained multiple egregious attacks over the last two weeks, with more casualties than anyone can stomach.

However, there are also so many things that are so delightfully Afghantastic that could only happen here in Kabul:

Adventures in Kabul Airport:

Only in Afghanistan can you run in and out of immigration three times in one hour sans passport without getting into trouble. In fact, during my final, apologetic, sweaty exit from the departure gate through the passport hall, the officer said to me: “I don’t want to see you again. You know you’ve broken the law three times already, right?” Oops.

Camilo parenthesis:

We were driving to Le Jardin for a much-needed dinner of western food and exorbatently overpriced wine. In the midst of a deep conversation, Camilo announces, “Here is big parenthesis: I need to stop and buy two black socks. Right now.” We all laugh at this complete non-sequitor, but then Shabeer stops the car IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD, jumps out, runs across the street, and returns three minute later with two pairs of black socks.

Nacho’s makeover:

I got a really nice tan a few Friday’s ago while… bathing and cutting the hair of my new baby goat. His name is Nacho, and his favorite food is everything that is not made of concrete or metal. I’m pretty sure his favorite activities are pooping everywhere, and ignoring the cat. All of my students and colleagues are shocked to learn that I do not plan to eat this goat, but that his main purposes are to keep our grass at an acceptable length (and destroy all flowers, vines, and other beautiful things), and to entertain his city-slicker owners.

Kabul Traffic:

Technically, University Road (that’s not its real name. in fact, this street has no name. none of them do.) is a four-lane street. Two eastbound, two westbound. However, during rush hour, which is every hour in which there is sunlight, it becomes seven lanes of absolute mayhem and arbitrary nonsense. The number of east or west-bound lanes is entirely dependent on the patience, or in most cases, lack thereof, of drivers. Wais, our personal king of the road, routinely forms his own impatience lane number eight, careening around anyone foolish enough to get in his way. He has actually driven the wrong way down access roads, between security bollards, whatever, in order to avoid sitting for too long (this is for security reasons, right?), or taking longer than he deems necessary to reach our destinations.

Hospitality:

Upon discovering that my housemates were out of town, Bibi, the indomitable matriarch of the massive family that lives next door (upon last count there were 15 adults), took it upon herself to feed me. We are talking mantou, ashak, lubia, naan baked in her own tandoor, sweets, and more visits than I, as a preferably solitary person, could handle in one weekend. She calls me her daughter, and regularly sends her actual daughters and grandchildren over to keep me company. When she can handle the walk (she is my mystic sister in Afghan foot breaking, and is currently hobbling around with a crutch, after being struck by a motorcycle), she herself comes over to sit in state over Casa Mexicana. People talk about Afghan hospitality, but I never truly understood it until now. I actaully sleep better at night now, knowing that I have such an incredible adopted mother looking out for me just next door! (In fact, while writing this, I was summoned outside to hold council with all of the next door ladies, who are literally shouting at me from their rooftop.)

Explosions of Roses:

Recently, the Taliban announced their “Spring Offensive,” which to me, honestly, sounds more like the start of baseball season than a reign of terror. The first few weeks were extremely quiet, but the city emerged from the miserable winter, exploding everywhere with…. Roses. The transformation of this dusty, brown, poop-filled metropolis into a lush green garden was shocking: medians, whose cracked dry dirt was formerly strewn with withering, barren trees, and junkies getting high under their filthy patos, now burst forth with roses of every color you could imagine. Where was once brown, there is now green and red and yellow and orange and pink. Even the harsh brown mountains that tower over the city are now a furry green. Kabul is BEAUTIFUL.

So, lest you be misled by the constant media reports of IED’s, suicide bombings, kidnappings etc, that Afghanistan is nothing but a lawless failed state, please understand that it is a place of constant delights and surprises, and the kindest and most welcoming people you could ever be so lucky to meet. Only in Afghanistan could you have such a juxtoposition of bad and good, barren and lush, chaos and convenience, desolation and beauty; but this is what gives me such hope for its future. Yes, we are in some of the lowest lows, however, in the midst of that you can still see the highest heights. Only in Afghanistan could such intense desperation give way to such intense hope.

Salaam from Nacho-jan!

Afghanistan from 29,000 feet

So Afghanistan may not be the safest place on Earth… but flying into Kabul is like living in one of Antoine de St. Exupery’s dreams. The landscape is so beautiful and mysterious, and the mountains are like living beings; ancient creatures from the formation of the Earth. The desert is vast and brown- every imaginable shade of brown. An occasional ridge of low mountain surges out of the desert like the backfin of a great fish, and the distant Hindu Kush rise and fall like smoky blue and white waves. But the brown and caramel and tan and beige spreads out like a great blanket the earth pulls over itself to keep warm in winter.

About 120 kilometers from Kabul, the beige smoothness of the desert is suddenly interrupted by jagged mountains; the tallest capped with bright snow, the majority of the others bursting out of the sand with rough hewn rocks and foreboding dark stone. The mountains lurch up from beneath the sand, shoving, jostling each other out of the way, as if trying to free themselves from the endless desert. Winding roads snake through the sharp valley crevices, and even from 29,000 feet in the air, one can see that these inaccessible paths make for perilous journeys. The endless bumpy vastness between Kabul and anywhere else boggles the mind; that the Taliban, let alone any other overland invaders, could ever make it into the city is incredible.

As we fly over denser and denser lines of mountains, each ridge successively higher than the last, I don more and more layers of clothing and covering. Kabul is enshrouded by a protection of mountains and desert; I am enshrouded by jacket, arm socks, leggings under my long skirt, hijab, sunglasses, and the ubiquitous Afghan scowl. Mountains give way to plateau, plateau gives way to a cloud of reddish brown dust; the cloud gives way to Kabul.

Welcome home, traveler.

Democracy: A Tale of Two Cities pt. 2: Kabul

Afghanistan’s first round of elections took place on 5^th April 2014. An unprecedented 8 million people- men and women alike- came out to cast their vote, despite Taliban threats. As there was no clear majority, the elections went into a runoff vote on 14^th June to determine if the next president would be Abdullah Abdullah, former Minister of Foreign Affairs (and warlord from the Northern Alliance) or Dr. Ashraf Ghani, former Minister of Finance and founder of the Institute for State Effectiveness, which focuses on rebuilding failed states (this election should have been a no-brainer, right?). The ensuing months were at first a heated race, dwindling down to a stumbling not-quite finish. Both sides were of fraud, and an audit of the votes was necessary. Abdullah Abdullah protested and withdrew from the recount process so many times that his name became synonymous with a joke about Gul Marjan, a village girl, who refused all potential suitors, until she died an old maid. “Gul Marjan ye nemanee.” The months prior to the entire election process were fraught with violence and terror, with devastating attacks on restaurants, guesthouses, and hospitals. The months during the election recount slog were also peppered with violence as well; however, by the time Afghanistan limped over the democratic finish line, there seemed to be no fight left for aggression.

After recounting first 10%, then 20%, then 100% of the ballots, eliminating about a million as fraudulent, Ghani surprised nobody by winning over 55% of the vote. I don’t know what I can say about Abdullah. As an outsider, I was so unimpressed at his whining and withdrawing and threats of running a parallel government. Even up to the very last day, he threatened to boycott the actual inauguration, as his demands that the official numerical results of the final count be kept secret from the public were not met. In the end, a tragic compromise was reached: the winner would become President, the loser would become Chief Executive, a post which would eventually transition into Prime Minister. The IEC (Independent Election Committee) had to make an outrageous number of concessions, including giving powerful cabinet positions to both candidates’ cronies, no matter what the Presidential outcome. So what was the point of the election at all? The point was that at the very least, Afghanistan got to choose. The people of Afghanistan got to let their voices be heard. Twice. (and then wait, and wait, and wait, and endure, and talk about nothing else but the election).

September 28^th marked Afghanistan’s first ever democratic transfer of power, and instead of the customary celebratory pickup trucks full of AK47s and testosterone, Kabul heaved a great sigh of relief, and slept in late on the inauguration day public holiday. A friend, who has been in country for several years, mused that the people were simply too tired of the elections to fight anymore. Today was day one of Ashraf Ghani’s presidency, and the Afghan people are ready to get back to work. Bring back the businesses, bring back the contracts, bring back the projects, bring back the development. People are keen to resume life as normal!

Meanwhile, in my alternate reality, Hong Kong people are surging onto the streets to protest the diminishing of their democratic rights. After the initial night of tensions between demonstrators and police, crowds swelled to a reported 150,000 strong. Solidarity movements are in force all across the globe, from Taipei to New York to Berlin to a small band of Afghan students and teachers wearing yellow on October 1^st.The eyes of the world are fixed firmly on Hong Kong this week. And my own eyes are fixed on Hong Kong as well.

Hong Kong, my adopted home. To paraphrase a friend, you do not get to choose where you are born, but (sometimes, if you are lucky) you do get to choose where you live. By the greatest providence ever, Hong Kong seemed to have chosen me 8 years ago, welcomed me into her steamy embrace, molded me, formed me, introduced me to the best friends I could ever know, and gently guided me towards my dream, Kabul. And although I have a different address now (at the end of the access road beyond the second gate past Kabul University secondary entrance…. Who am I kidding? I have no address. It’s Afghanistan.), Hong Kong will forever be my home.

The crazy juxtaposition of these two opposite cities is unbelievably hard to wrap my head around. Most people would think of Afghanistan as a failed state, yet we just peacefully transferred the power over a conservative Islamic republic to a man who spent decades of his life in America, and is married to a Lebanese Christian. Most people would think of Hong Kong as a very developed and stable, but politically apathetic city full of money-chasers. And yet, faced with the mortality of our burgeoning democracy, we take to the streets in peaceful, but adamant protest.

One thing that I have learned this year is that one person CAN make a difference. Our efforts, no matter how small, combine to form world-changing movements. If a little violin teacher from Upstate New York can help bring stability to a child’s life in Kabul, then one person’s tiny voice can add to the roar against tyranny and suppression. I am writing this from the Dubai airport, as I could no longer sit back and watch history in my home-by-choice unfold in such a crucial manner. I am on my way back to join my adopted brothers and sisters in Hong Kong in the noble struggle for democracy tomorrow on October 1^st, Chinese National Day. Please lend your solidarity and support in our fight to keep our democracy and our rights! Wear yellow on October 1^st, and send a picture to a friend in Hong Kong. 加油, 香港!!!

Ashraf Ghani is sworn in as President of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, as Hong Kongers peacefully protest for the right to elect our own Chief Executive

A Well In The Desert

“Ce qui embellit le desert… c’est qu’il cache un puits quelque part…”

“What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere inside it hides a well.” -Antoine de St. Exupery

Kabul is a city of walls and gates and compounds. On first glance it is harsh and unfriendly, foreboding and dangerous. Streets are lined with concrete and steel blast walls- some with bricks peaking through the worn sections, some pockmarked with bullet holes, some heightened with corrugated metal for extra privacy. The mirrored windowpanes of the houses reveal nothing but the reflection of the street below, and at night, not a crack of light seeps from behind the blackout curtains into the inky Kabul darkness. People are likewise covered up- women in dusty burkas float around like blue ghosts, or like solemn graduates in their abayas and chadors. Even men are often swathed in scarves to keep out the swirling dust (which, I have been told, is 15% dried feces. Ick.), hiding their faces from view. Kabul seems to be a place where everything is hidden, where what you see is most certainly not what you get.

However, when you peer over one of these walls (assuming you don’t get shot, eaten by a guard dog, or ripped to shreds by the ubiquitous barbed wire… ok so: don’t peer over walls, just use the gate), there is a whole other world. What lies beyond the blast walls- a stunning blue-tiled mosque, a music school, a garden full of roses- is a total surprise. Homesick for Hong Kong, I and another DAAD guest embarked on Mission: Comfort Food. We pulled up to a secret-agent-man sliding eyehole on an iron door in a non-descript alley, and were led into a security tunnel with another eyehole on another iron door, which led into another security tunnel with yetanotherslidingeyeholeirondoor, after which CHINESE RESTAURANT IN THE MIDDLE OF KABUL. I’m talking red lanterns, bamboo screens, chopsticks, Xinhua clippings on the walls, legit dumplings, and inexplicable Milli Vanilli playing on the stereo. Girl, you know it’s true. From the dusty, pitch black alley, you would never in a million regular-world years know that inside was a little slice of Sheung Wan—all you can see is darkness and razor wire, all you can hear is… well, nothing. It is this kind of hidden yeung chau chow fan haven that makes Kabul so magical for me (so far). I have been thinking about Le Petit Prince a lot lately- striving to see the elephant inside the boa constrictor- and realizing that behind all these blast walls are mysteries and stories waiting to be discovered. There is just so much… possibility.

Of course, not everything that is hidden is beautiful. I know that also hiding behind the walls is crippling poverty, poor sanitation, girls who are married at 13 years old, children that are starving, people- even kids- who work three or four jobs to support their families. I know that these security walls can be like prisons; not just shielding eyes from looking in, but preventing anyone inside from seeing what is beyond the concrete. These walls can be barriers to education, healthcare, to freedom. The secrecy breeds a sense of distrust and hardness. Kids here are harsh- they grow up in this harsh and unforgiving cityscape, surrounded by dry mountains and dusty dried up rivers, fighting to survive and thrive. The roads are harsh; they cannot even be described as “potholed,” as there is more hole than road in most places. There are no traffic laws- the steering wheels are on either side of the car, and the basic rule of driving is “go.” You can get a modification to your car so that your horn sounds like a police horn or siren, seatbelts are sometimes present, but seldom used, and in the vast sea of battered Toyota Corollas, shiny Land Cruisers, and janky mini-van-cum-buses, pickup trucks with young men heavy with machine guns careen through the shredded streets. Even the animals are harsh- herds of goats eat garbage and unmentionables from the dried up Kabul river bed, and then are in turn eaten by us.

I wish all people in this city could step through the gate at ANIM. It’s like the secret garden. Students are transformed when they step inside. A little boy came into my room today and proudly showed off a violin his family had found somewhere. The bridge was on backwards, the strings had not been tuned in ever, and the bow was as horse-hairless as he was shoeless. But he was so proud that he had this instrument, and was beyond thrilled to show it off, excited for it to be transformed into something with which he could make music. I have the privilege of working with several ensembles (Afghan Young Artists, Afghanistan Girls Quartet, the Kabibis (the “choochagak (little ones)” quartet), and the Low Strung ensemble of 2 violas, 2 cellos, 2 contrabasses). At the first rehearsal of the Afghan Young Artists, the kids refused to leave when I said we were done. They wanted to stay in the school compound, stay hidden behind the walls, stay with their instruments, and continue playing. We rehearsed for 2 hours. I had two girls fight over who got to take the extra lesson spot vacated by an absent student. One of my students told me if it weren’t for playing the violin, he’d be selling potatoes off a cart in the street. Now, he spends his time working on vibrato and emotional phrasing. Music is like le petit prince’s well in the middle of a desert, bringing forth life behind the blast walls.

Kabul by moonlight

City of blast walls, gates, and bars

Door to… Chinese Food!

Afghan Young Artists Quartet

My new normal

Helicopters are flying over my guesthouse, and I just heard gunshots in the distance.

Til now, I have had such a hard time talking or writing about being here in Afghanistan, and I could not quite place my finger on why. Obvious reasons would be culture shock, security issues, adjusting to new job, the intensity of work juxtaposed with the bizarre Melrose Place idyl of my guesthouse… None of these were quite it. It wasn’t the fact that I have to pass through three layers of armed security to get home, or that I was frisked and had my violin sniffed by a bomb dog to get into our last performance. It’s not even that I have a hard time comprehending that I cannot be out past 8:00pm, and that I must be accompanied by a man at pretty much all times in public. These are just details.

What I realized the other night after watching a documentary about my new workplace, “Dr. Sarmast’s Music School,” is that from the moment I was unceremoniously wheeled off the plane at Kabul International Airport, my life drastically changed, and is never going to be the same. Emerging into the dusty, dry, glaring sun, I felt myself being stripped of the remaining layers of doubt, fear, self, expectation. I feel like everything in my life has been leading me towards Afghanistan, and I have finally arrived home.

But, I have seen things that are so far outside my scope of reality, that I am unable to articulate or describe, for fear of diminishing their gravity and the impact they have had on my life already. I will never be the same again. I have been here for 13 days. The students… sometimes I forget where I am, forget where these kids come from. Sometimes my mind tricks me into assuming they are just normal kids, coming happily into my room for their violin lessons, or thinking perhaps these are the privileged elite of Kabul, who are wealthy enough to afford this sort of tuition. You might say, “But Jennifer, all kids are the same.” But circumstances are not the same, and my lovely students are growing up in a war. There are orphans. There are those who have witnessed death and killing. Many used to be refugees or homeless. Some of them are so poor that their families send them to orphanages to live, because they cannot afford to feed them. Many of them used to work on the streets, selling plastic bags or trinkets, to support their families. There are girls from the provinces whose families are so conservative that they have to hide the fact that they attend music school from them. Sometimes kids disappear from international school tours because they are seeking asylum from the war; this endless, perpetual war. Kids eat enormous school lunches here; they don’t have food at home. So many of them are tiny- the 11 year olds look like they are 5 or 6. And yet despite their size, their faces show that they have already lived through a lifetime of conflict that none of us will ever come close to even imagining.

I had a little girl sobbing in my office today. “Cheraa gerya-karden, dokhtar-jan?” (why cry, dear girl? ps dari is the most beautiful language ever) She was crying because the orphanage where she stays is closing for a week, amidst election uncertainty. She was worried that if she went home to her province, she would not ever return. At first I thought that was preposterous, but then I realized that at 13, she is old enough to be married, and it is not unlikely that this would happen. I couldn’t hold back my tears. This is real. This is happening. This is now, in 2014. I cannot even fathom sharing most of the stories of these kids’ lives that I have already learned. Their stories are not mine to tell, and you would not be able to handle them.

This is my new normal. I am so grateful that I have been allowed to come here, so humbled that I can witness this reality. I don’t know if I will be able to change anyone’s life, but I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this country has already changed mine.

If you are in the US and cannot view Al Jazeera English videos, you can check out the trailer below:

This is the documentary about my incredible boss, Dr. Ahmad Sarmast, and the Afghanistan National Institute of Music:

The cost of changing the world

For HK$2800 (US$360) a person can:

– Fly economy from Hong Kong to Seoul

– Purchase a “Saffiano Accordion Zip” wallet from Coach

– Drink a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal

– Consume 101 tall black coffees from Starbucks

– Play Call of Duty on a new XBox One

– Ride the tram in Hong Kong 1,217 times

– Exercise for four months at Fitness First (or, wastefully pay Fitness First for four months of non-exercise)

– Pay for one month out-of-pocket for health insurance in the States

– Break your foot at a trampoline park, take a taxi, see an orthopedic surgeon, and get one set of X-Rays at Hong Kong Sanatorium Hospital

– Receive education, lunch, and family stipend for a year in Afghanistan.

Let that sink in for a moment. US$360 buys an education for a child, and a salary for a family in Kabul for an entire year. Many of the students who attend the school at which I will be teaching are street kids or orphans. Many of these kids peddle goods or beg on the streets to earn US$0.50 a day, which supports their families. Many parents are reluctant to allow their children to go to school, because it means a significant loss of income for the family. Therefore, the families of ANIM’s most disadvantaged students receive a stipend so that they are not forced to return to the streets to support themselves and their families.

So with just a bit of money , it is actually incredibly easy to contribute to the *dramatic transformation* of a child’s life. [In fact, it is so easy, it makes me downright ashamed of my several four-month-blocks of non-exercise at Fitness First . OK full disclosure: the only time I actually interacted with Fitness First in the last two years was to cancel my membership. And in fact, I did that over the phone, so…. Fitness Last is more like it. But I digress….]

When a child’s life changes dramatically, the impact is not simply on the child. Her family has hope for a future that is no longer steeped in poverty and subsistence. Her friends notice her change, and want to join in on it. Improving one child’s life creates a snowball effect; changing several children’s lives creates a blizzard. What the Afghanistan National Institute of Music is doing, and what you can join in doing, is changing a GENERATION of lives; a generation that will become the future leaders, educators, policy framers, and peace makers of the country. Imagine these kids, instead of growing up disaffected, marginalised, and hopeless, are growing up empowered, educated, talented, with a sense of responsibility and ownership. They are learning to create harmony not just with their musical instruments, but also with each other. Imagine what a dramatic impact this will have on the future of Afghanistan!!

So, internet, can you just sit there and do nothing, when you know that it would be so easy to contribute to the *dramatic transformation* of not just a child, but a whole country? I hope you cannot! I hope you think twice about your handbag or XBox, and instead consider changing a life. Contact the Sponsorship Program at the Afghanistan National Institute of Music (http://www.afghanistannationalinstituteofmusic.org/contact). Do it! Do it now!!

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The Banana Stand

a widespread campaign of Violins and Chinrest