Closing Thoughts from Mazar-i-Sharif

Here we are in the last week of our three month work stint in Afghanistan. It has been challenging and difficult, unique and surreal. I would characterize none of our three months here as comfortable or easy, but every bit of it as worthy of our time and effort. I will leave this place with a larger heart, a mind more able, and experiences unforgettable.

As a young person, I have begun to understand the challenges of training in a culture that values and respects age, even over education and experience. I have sought to train with grace and humility, and by asking questions rather than making statements. The managers seem to have learned quite a lot in spite of the different approach. After several weeks of training, I feel that they respect me, even as a young fella with few wrinkles on my face, and hands yet to wither in time. 

Beyond the age issue, the concept of management in this culture is ambiguous, specifically middle management. Trust is grasped tightly by everyone, and more-so by the financially able. Money tends to stay within the family network. As a result of this, people that are capable may not obtain jobs they are qualified to do, while an unqualified family member is given a job.


In my experience here, business owners hired managers outside of the family, only to have lower level employees undermine them. Because the lower level employees were family, they perceived a right to work, which the managers couldn't overcome. Needless to say, those managers couldn't stay due to their lack of authority within the system. The new managers are perhaps more competent than those before, but could face similar problems if we don't adjust the structure of management to absorb these issues. 

Now, magnify this management problem on a national level; think particularly about the centralized government that has been built by a single figurehead in Kabul. This very same issue has stymied this country from creating a stable government that can stand beyond the limits of one individual. Without international support, this system that has been built over the past ten years could quite possibly crumble before the eyes of Afghans and the world. Afghan voices fill with fear when I've asked what they think about the next few years here. I'm not arguing that the US should stay; I'm only trying to relay what Afghans around me feel and think about their situation.

As a fairly punctual person, it has been challenging to work in the Afghan time scheme. I've faced this before, but not in the same manner as I have in the working environment at the factory. It is uncommon for anyone to be less than fifteen minutes late, which has been very frustrating. It has also been difficult to take on the wavering expectations and commitments of our partners and employees; getting electricity to the factory has been quite the fiasco.


As all things ebb and flow here, so have my responsibilities. Some weeks, I've felt the weight of preparing for WFP Inspections, training managers, and working toward a sustainable electrical solution, and other weeks, I've struggled to find emails to respond to just to keep busy. While most of the things above are negative, I don't view my time working here as negative, nor as a waste of time. I have learned from Afghans, as much or more as I may have given them. I will remember how challenging it was to work and live in this environment, but also that these challenges have only forced me to be all the more innovative and adaptive.


This blog may seem quite random; one paragraph doesn't necessarily lead to the next, and such is the way life happens in Mazar-i-Sharif. It is a taste of life in these muddy streets. Each day brings something new to the doorstep, sometimes adversity and great frustration, sometimes confusion, and sometimes delightful hospitality. Through my western eyes, I miss much of what goes on around me, but somehow it all comes together to create a coherent flow. I only hope that this flow moves in the direction of a modern economy, some degree of political freedom, and ultimately the rise of a country at peace with the world and at peace with itself. It may be far-fetched, and it most definitely isn't the responsibility of anyone but Afghans to make happen, but there is a glimmer of hope. I see it in the smiles of children as we pass them on the street. It's in each brick placed in the wall of a school and each girl that gets to attend there. It's in each Afghan college graduate, angry at the corruption and ambitious for change. 

Pictures: A Little Variety

Another day of Buzkashi with some new friends; this time in Mazar-i-Sharif.

This guy must have been close to seven feet tall, and his horse was quite the giant as well.

The overcast sky and muddy, icy fields made for a spectacular Buzkashi game with over 100 riders.

Having lunch at work. Sometimes a surreal experience. We have Kabuli Palao and bread. Kabuli Palao, or Kabul-styled rice, is made with lots of oil, raisins, and shredded carrots. We share large platters of this rice between two or three individuals, and usually eat with your fingers or bread (though I sometimes cheat with a spoon).

This is our night chowki-dor which is basically a watchman. We enjoy a cup of tea once or twice a week while he practices English and I Dari. This particular evening we worked our way through the magazine, Fur, Fish, & Game.

This picture can seem empty to the untrained eye, but there are many things we can pull from it. Notice the hook-shaped tube in the upper right corner. This is a lantern attachment for a bottle of natural gas, and probably the main source of light for them at night. There's also an oil lamp in the window, which would be used if they need to go outside of the lantern-lit room. They do actually have flashlights but said they prefer this. This large Persian rug is handmade and marks the main commons area; at the far end of the room, you can barely make out everyone's shoes, which are always taken off at the door. You can say a glass bowl of candy at the bottom, and a large thermos of chai on the right, two essentials in Afghan culture.

This is one of the gates over the central road in and out of Mazar. On the left, Ahmad Shah Massoud stares down at the road; he is a hero to many Tajiks and Northern Afghans but a warlord to others. He was assassinated on September 10, 2001 by two Arab extremists. An emblem of the Afghan flag sits in the center, and Hamid Karzai, the current President of Afghanistan is on the far right.

We pass these men selling fish every day on the way to the factory. I believe they are from the Amu Darya, an ancient river of the north. Most of them are carp, so I haven't exactly sought out an opportunity to eat or cook them.

This is the road toward our office. A woman begs sitting in the muddy road.

Your average orange stand, usually sitting on every other corner.

If you can make it out through the mud and snow, this is a chaikhana, or teahouse, around the corner from our house. I wrote about this in a former entry for those of you that have been tagging along.

The streets are always busy, lots of cars and many people. Its hard not to wonder what all of the are doing, where they're going, and why.

Gifts from the "Poor"

Natalie and I went to a friend's house for dinner last night. It took about 30 minutes to get there, and quite a while on muddy, potholed roads. We parked in front of a rickety metal door, which was set into a mud wall. We were greeted by younger brothers, maybe 8 to 12 years old, and ushered inside. As always, we removed our shoes at the front door, and continued the greetings for each sibling, friend, and family member present. Usually, you ask how the person is, how their health is, how life is, and how the family is; it can take 15 minutes just to say "hello" to everyone. This is revealing of the relational side to Afghans. We sat on toshaks, which are basically large pillows laid on the floor around the edges of a room, and waited for the main course. In the meantime, we made small talk, as much as possible in the bits and pieces of Dari we know. They served us nuts and drinks and brought in a small oil lamp to provide lighting.

The main course was brought in and placed before me and Natalie. We waited for others to be served, only to find out that everyone had already eaten with an aunt who had come a few hours before us. It was a little awkward to be the only ones eating the main course, but we had no choice but to dig in. As we began to eat, we learned everyone's name, how old some of them are, and what they do. The oldest brother has just finished a degree in Science from a local university, which is quite an accomplishment for a lower class family in a culture with a high illiteracy rate. We enjoyed the mantou, meat dumplings smothered in a yoghurt sauce and eaten with bread. Then we wrapped up the meal with tangerines and a sticky substance made from walnuts, similar to peanut butter but quite bitter.

I've often spoken with my American friends of the hospitality I've received abroad, mainly from Thailand, Morocco, and India, but due to the constraints of American media and lack of experience, I typically receive a critical eye. Here I've found yet another example. A family I would consider "poor" by western standards opened their home to us, stuffed us with delicious food, and even showered us with gifts. We haven't done anything in particular for this family, but they wanted to do something nice for us. Natalie received a nice (and interesting) pair of shoes, a bracelet, and a hair beret, and I received an embroidered, white handkerchief. Not much in our world of "stuff" back in America, but these things are symbolic for something far deeper--that "things" are nothing compared to friendship. The "poor" here seem to understand better than me that all these material things will rot away one day. It makes one ponder where their treasure is.

Beyond our wonderful evening with these friends, we see daily acts of kindness and hospitality. After visiting guests, they often place your shoes on the doormat facing out, making it easier for you to put your shoes on and head down the road. They almost always make you go first through a door, and won't have you letting them go first. And as in the case of this family, they thanked God for the food and for their guests at the end of the meal. Sometimes my view of "poor" is wrong and miscalculated. This family may not have much in material terms, but their hearts are filled--with friendship, kindness, and laughter. Certainly, cold winters are difficult for them, and I'm sure food isn't always that easy to come by, but they find ways to be happy. I'm glad they shared their happiness with me.

Daily Life in Mazar

I began reading Over the Oxus, a chapter of Colin Thubron's Shadow of the Silk Road. I'm jealous of Thubron's ability to create excellent prose and a flowing narrative of his experience crossing the Uzbek-Afghan border and his travel to Mazar. It reminds me of an old adage I heard a few years ago--"go somewhere for a week, write a book; go somewhere for a month, write an essay; go somewhere for a year, write a few words." The longer I'm here, the more difficult it becomes to describe in detail what I'm seeing, but having even a small audience is encouraging and helpful. Here's my shot for the day:


We woke up to wind and rain, slamming the winterizing plastic nailed around our windows as cheap insulation.  For a while I just laid there thinking of how nice it was to have the day blocked out to read, write, and relax. I eventually dragged myself from the warm bed and into the cold morning air. It was dark, as usual, and the electricity was out, so before anything else I went out to turn on the generator. Natalie & I cooked a nice brunch and did the routine email and news check over coffee. After that, I started a fire in the boukhari (wood-burning stove) to get the house warmed up and read for a while.


We needed a few things from the store, so I got in our Toyota Four-Runner and honked for our chowk-i-dor (gatekeeper) to open the large, rusty steel gate to the street. I backed out from our gravel pad and sunk in the muddy alley where our straw and mud walled lot sits. I always have to dodge passers-by, the most stressful of whom are five or six young neighborhood kids. I'm always afraid I'll hit one of them and it'll be the end of me, perhaps literally. I shift into drive and pass the small candle-lit shops we regularly buy bread and veggies from and wave at the friendly shopkeepers.


As I pull onto the larger mud road, several men and women are walking in the center of the lane. The men wear traditional puran-tom-bone, a baggy suit, and a pakool hat made of wool, flat on top and rolled up around the ears. They also wear a sweeping woolen blanket-cloak of sorts for warmth. The women walked several feet behind the men and migrated to the opposite side of the road from the men as I passed in between them. They both wore sweeping head to ground pleated burkhas, one white and one blue. Sometimes it feels like I'm passing ghosts; yet, I know from Natalie that behind closed doors these women are exuberant and lively. They have dreams and big hearts, willing to share with any woman who will come and listen.


I pull onto the paved main road, nose my way around the three wheeled zarang carts, pass several mechanic shops, and weave my way around two roundabouts. As I drive up, my imagination runs for a moment, constructing a scene around the store like a bomb exploded out front. I've often wondered if we should even shop at this store because its where all the westerners go. Then again, they have salsa, and violence is pretty uncommon here. After parking on a side road, I walk past the beggars and cookie shops, cross the jooey (an open sewage ditch), and enter the grocery store.


On my way home, I began to think about the recent paranoia I have developed. My fears are fueled by the countless scenarios I allow to run through my mind. They are most pervasive at night, when the wind rips at the walls, metal doors bang somewhere in the distance, and cars rumble by at the latest hours. It drives me crazy, even though it isn't probable that anything would happen; in fact, its probably more likely to be broken into in Nashville. Its good to get out, walk, work, and be around people. Often, my irrational fears subside when I'm making friends with those who seem to stare through me as I drive past. I'm learning to breathe deep, control my thoughts, and confront these fears, day in and day out.


When I turn back south, onto the mud road, the snow-covered Hindu Kush Mountains rise starkly in the background, reminding me of the rugged beauty here. I see it reflected in the weathered faces and gray eyes of the elderly. The looks are penetrating, as if they're trying to judge me, whether I'm a threat or not. I don't blame them after thirty years of war, and hope my presence is known as a kind one.