The Cherry Blossoms of Kabul

Under construction.

Hoda Ofice...Blessings and Safety

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"Your Eyes are Beautiful"

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Pagmand by the River

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Wedding Cake Houses

Under Construction

Ich Spreche Ein Bißchen Dari

The words are elegant script read right to left and I cannot decipher them. I now know well the sound of Dari, the official language of Afghanistan, and have enjoyed music, poetry, and even the traffic officer beyond the Serena who hollers at the cars all day long. We spend all of our days with Afghans, and as the weeks have passed, I have spoken with so few Westerners, I can name them on one hand; thus it has been that I have been immersed in Dari, much to my delight. Many of the Afghans with whom we spend time daily are Mirwais's relatives, including two uncles, Hismatjahn and Faridjahn, who left Afghanistan 25 years ago for Germany, but still conduct business in country. We met the uncles during our early days in Kabul and I learnt straight away that they spoke little English, but naturlich, spoke fluent Deutsch. On learning I had lived in Austria, the uncles launched into a campaign compelling me to talk with them in German. Our family conversations frequently are trilingual, and whilst my head spun early on with speaking or attempting to monitor three languages simultaneously, it is now wholly normal.

Because I began studying a second language quite young, although not particularly fluent or wholly literate in any, I am relatively facile in French, German, Russian, Spanish, and Italian. As I began working in India, I chose to begin to learn the language of Karnataka, Kannada, and now find myself with Dari, which is more or less Farsi. Within days, the fog of unknown sounds began to dissipate, and I found myself picking up a few words here or there. Now into our third week in Kabul, I routinely understand anywhere from 25% to 75% of what people are saying, and both surprise and amuse people with this.

My spoken Dari is still highly limited, but I have made efforts to learn basic phrases of civility such as Salam, which although it means "peace" is the standard greeting. Salam wah lehkum is the appropriate response when greeted first. Nay works for no and Baleh for yes and for answering the telephone. Choi lutfan will get you a cup of tea if you please and Tashakor is the proper way to say thank you. As Dari 101 continues, I note that as with anywhere on this planet, people are touched and pleased that I make the effort to speak even a little of their native tongue. It is only right.

Afghan Eyes

One of the few things I did know prior to coming to Afghanistan was that during the Taliban’s grip on this land for several years, a woman’s attire had changed from principally Western attire to the fully encasing burqua. Following the collapse of the Taliban, women theoretically were no longer force-fed their apparel, however the religious conservatism that came with Taliban, remains to some degree. How much women choose burqua and how much it is imposed remains debatable, but what is absolutely the case is that all women wear at a minimum the hijab. Women’s feet, hands, and faces, along with some wisps of hair around the forehead, may show. Fashion varies immensely. One day a woman may wear jeans, a long tunic top, and her scarf. Another, she may don a long jacket, a tailored, ankle-length skirt, a coordinating scarf, and heels. Some women wear full-length chadars that reveal only the eyes.

Men’s clothing also is very conservative and varied. Some wear Western shirts and jeans or slacks, but many wear the classic shalwar kameez—the long tunic with loose-fitting pants—along with sandals and some form of scarf or shawl tossed either around the neck or on the shoulder. I have noted Western-style suit coats over the top of the tunic and vests, as well. There is something terribly exotic and romantic about the clothing, and I find myself quite swept up in the man who is in classic Afghan attire. Frequently, men also wear headgear. I have seen the Karzai-style fez, turbans of silk, and kufis—skullcaps in a dizzying array of patterns and colors and materials. It seems the companions of the Prophet (peace be upon him, as Mirwais always adds) always covered their heads, and so the significance is more than a mere fashion statement.

On one occasion we rode the narrow streets of the city in one of those high profile SUV’s as the insistence of MomoHismat, Mirwais’s uncle, with our armed guard literally riding shotgun, and ventured into tiny shops in search of fabric for Mirwais to have his own shalwar kameez and shawls. The shopkeeper showed him a variety of fabrics and the men discussed the colors and textures. About $12 USD later, Mirwais had selected fabrics of beige and grey—enough to make two new outfits. Whilst our guard watched over me carefully, we continued through the bazaar until we arrived at the tailor’s shop. He invited us into his tiny quarters and Mirwais reviewed the many possibilities for cuffs, necklines, and embroidery. Measurements complete and a price agreed upon, I learned that the tailor would have all of this ready by the following day.

During our outing I tried to take pictures, but I have learnt that my camera draws attention—principally positive, but on occasion consternation—and one of the keys to our security is to melt into the crowds, which, in my case, is all but impossible. I have developed several new behaviors, wholly foreign to me until now. I have come to make surreptitious eye contact with men. Rather than look directly at people, I frequently glance, and if I note a man stares just a little too long, I pull my scarf even further down on my head, look toward the ground, and make myself just a bit smaller. When in public places, Mirwais frequently takes the lead and Cousin Nazir, who is with the Afghan Secret Service, but whom I affectionately call, Afghan CIA, watches my back, literally.

So, as the days have passed and the city that was once wholly new becomes dotted with familiar landmarks, I discuss with Mirwais the issue of women’s dress nearly continually. I quip that given the fact that men are men, regardless of what a woman wears, that perhaps the feet, hands, and eyes become the object of men’s fantasies, since they can see little else. I had remarked in our early hours how surprising it was to see the Burqua Babes with perfect pedicures and high heels and lacy pantaloons peeking below the pleats of their gowns. I noted a bit later how the women wore henna art on their hands, along with multiple rings and bracelets. And those Afghan eyes. They take my breath away. Men’s. Women’s. Children’s. Even at great risk, I cannot resist looking into those soul-filled windows. I am captivated.

Blackhawk over Kabul

It is the year 1387 and two Blackhawk helicopters are circling above and just beyond the Serena this morning. Could it be additional security because of the New Years holiday or could there be a problem just beyond our doorstep? We know that the Taliban use these occasions—or any for that matter—to make political statements. Now, a third helicopter just flew over me—a transport chopper with military—and others keep circling through the area. The usual noise of commute traffic and police broadcasting their terse instructions to drivers has been replaced with the din of the choppers. Mirwais calls me and suggests the activity is in the direction of the Presidential Palace and that President Karzai may be heading out. It is a strange and eerie feeling to have so much movement dependent upon security far beyond that which I have ever witnessed.

We have seen the security teams here at Serena change, and additional precautions put in place over our stay. Sharpshooters now grace the rooftops and I can see one outside of my window. Additional men with bayonets gracing their weapons stand guard at the entrance to the hotel, which is across from a park in which Taliban would behead people. Indeed, life in Kabul has many surreal aspects, for on the one hand, daily activity of individuals seems on first blush wholly common: a man guides his cart with sacks of potatoes; a trio of women in burquas with several small children in tow barter with a shopkeeper; a traffic policeman hollers through his megaphone at the cars in the roundabout. And yet, as I spend time here, I come to feel, to see, to taste, and to hear the profound trauma of a people preternaturally accustomed to existence in a war zone.

Beyond our official security, the Serena also serves as long term residence for security teams from a couple of the nations helping to rebuild Afghanistan. Each morning, Mirwais and I observe several men leave the lobby with cases that are holding neither a pool cue nor a Stradivarius violin. As he and I are meeting with a variety of dignitaries ranging from Parliamentarians to Ministers and Chancellors to Presidents, each arrival has its security protocols, varying from the guard asking if we are carrying any weapons to full body searches, fingerprinting, and photographing. Nevertheless, it is Afghan New Year, the country is shut down for three days of celebration, and the Blackhawk over Kabul is a part of the welcoming committee for Dick Cheney, who also, it appears, has dropped in for pilau and kabob.

Direct from Kabul

It is not yet dawn. In my closet I can see a prayer rug on the top shelf. I open my window and cool air rushes in. I can hear the call to prayer at a local mosque outside of my window. I am in Kabul. Sometimes, the journeys of our lives take us places we can never anticipate and I try to reflect back on the series of events that have led me to these beautiful people and this war-torn country. Yesterday, a minister of the government met us at Kabul International Airport and as quickly as I was photographed and my passport was stamped, he whisked us away through the barriers and armed guards that protect it and down the road that only the morning before held carnage from a car bomb. The target was the International Security Assistance Forces (ISAF)—the NATO-led security and development mission of more than forty nations that is trying to help the country. The victims, however, were Afghans. I recalled only hours earlier in the Dubai International Airport wondering why it was that masses of individuals were also flying to a war zone.

I awakened at 2:30 a.m. in Dubai so as to make it in plenty of time to meet Mirwais; Veronica, his wife and another of our graduate students; and “Magoljahn,” a term of endearment for Mirwais’s 73-year-old mother—at the airport by 4:30. Mirwais saw me straight away and we proceeded through Terminal Two, which is this otherworldly version of what is otherwise a state-of the art airport in Dubai. The airport says flights from this terminal go to “places of special interest.” The marquee for departures reads like all the dark and frightening news on CNN: Islamabad, Basra, Peshawar, Kabul. Strange and dangerous places. Why, then, did a sea of people in an array of headdresses wait to depart to them? No one seemed anxious and rather, men pushed and shoved their way in front of us to obtain their boarding passes for the flight. More than once Mirwais launched into an argument in angry Dari in which he demanded they return to the back of the line. As it approached 5:30 a.m. and we still waited in the line, we noted that the flight which was scheduled for 6:30 a.m. was now not leaving until 8:00 a.m. We somehow discerned as we moved toward the front of the line that it appeared the agent was turning away people with tickets, asserting there were no more seats. Within several minutes, Mirwais, with all of our passports and paper tickets in hand and his commanding presence at the counter, had secured our boarding passes and we headed to the gate.

A Kam Air flight, also headed for Kabul, was equally delayed in its departure, and I asked no one in particular how it was that we seemed to have so few on our flight and they had hundreds. As I observed their flight begin to board, one woman spoke with a man who was clearly United States military. She asked whom he thought would win the election for president. He said he did not know that it really mattered. I chimed it. “In terms of US foreign policy in Iraq and Afghanistan, do you really think it does not matter?” That caught him off guard. He replied that he had a “wait and see” attitude and wanted the candidates to talk about their foreign policy perspectives on the two nations. He said that when you are in the mountains of Afghanistan you had very different questions. Before I could ask what they were, his line moved on. The eight o’clock departure became a ten a.m. flight and we boarded. We gasped as we found the flight nearly full, for we were unaware that it had originated in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. No room for carry on luggage and barely enough seating. We piled our luggage where others had: in the bulkhead in front of my seat. As we prepared for takeoff, a man’s mobile phone began ringing and I could smell cigarette smoke. I could only muse on the number of violations we were committing by FAA standards.

When first I set eyes on the Hindu Kush mountain range dusted with snow, I recalled what so many have said to me: “You are going to love Afghanistan.” The mountains gave way to dusty plains and we landed at Kabul International Airport. On deplaning, Mamajahn kissed her hand and passed it to the earth in a signal to me that she was thankful to be home once again. She had fled with her family in 1979 when the Soviets invaded, and only returns every several years. Later, on greeting her brother’s son, the tears flowed freely as they embraced and he kissed her hand repeatedly. I recognized in that moment how precious freedom is and yet how painful the cost.

In late January, three suicide bombers shot to death a guard at the entrance to the Kabul Serena Hotel—Afghanistan’s only five star property—and killed seven others in its lobby and health club. This is where we are staying at present. When I wrote to the Serena to enquire as to their rates, I joked with my student that they are having a “post suicide bomber” special, as they extended to us a rate about 50% off the standard charge. One of my more wry friends added that “if you survive three nights, the fourth is free.” This sort of dark humor is necessary to cut the edge on the issue of security in Afghanistan. It does not make you less cautious, but it does allow you to be here. Outside of my window are solid steel gates now protecting the entrance to the compound and over one-half dozen men armed with machine guns. Other armed security guards walk the perimeter of the property continually. We understand that they are not your run of the mill security people, but now from the government. Yesterday afternoon, a German dignitary arrived, accompanied by several Mercedes Benz SUV-style vehicles and his entourage of armed security men. I asked Mirwais, “Do you think you are safer in a high profile vehicle like his or walking anonymously down the street to catch a local cab like we are doing?”

As it turns out, I may very well be our little group’s biggest security risk, for Mirwais, Veronica, and Magoljahn all fit in terms of appearance. Veronica is not Afghan; her parents are from Ecuador and Peru, but with her brunette hair and olive complexion, she looks Afghan. In a sea of dark hair, I clearly serve as a beacon for possible trouble. As one of Mirwais’s cousins exclaimed yesterday on meeting me, “She looks like a doll!” That was moments before she dressed me in hijab—the head scarf that covers a woman’s hair and neck area. Afghan men do not seem to stare at your garden variety woman, but it is not the standard Afghan man who is the problem. There are, to put it delicately, certain elements in Kabul that are looking for opportunities—opportunities to make a quick Afghani with a kidnapping or make a political point with a bombing.

I have taken the cue from the chameleon. The more I can blend in with my surroundings, the less likely I am to cause us any problem. Furthermore, every woman wears at least some form of headdress. They range from hijab with some hair showing at the crown of a woman’s head to the full burqua, which seems to run about 1:4, surprisingly. I had heard that women in Kabul wore hijab and in more conservative parts of Afghanistan such as Kandahar and Jalabad, burqua was the norm, but we have surprisingly seen these blue butterflies with high heels and perfect pedicures everywhere. If we venture out of town, Mirwais and our driver have said we must wear burqua. Meanwhile, we still await our luggage, which did not make that oversold Ariana flight, and so I practice keeping hijab on my head, for remarkably, regardless of the sort that I wear, wisps of hair slip out and the cloth continues to slide unceremoniously off of my doll-like face.

Malaysia-->Bangalore, Dubai-->Kabul

Growing up in the West, my experience of the Middle East as a child was principally limited to the world history I studied in junior high and high school. I recall deserts, camels, and Bedouins. I do not recall if I knew then that Afghanistan was in South Asia, not the Middle East, and that it was not an Arab nation, although it did embrace Islam as its principal faith tradition. As is typical of my research initiatives, my focus is principally on that country where I will be doing work and I forget that I may pass through many fascinating places between LAX and my destination. Such has been the case once again, as I have found myself in Dubai, the capital of the United Arab Emirates. Such was the case, also, when I spent a couple of days in Kuala Lumpur prior to initiating my work in Bangalore. I knew very little about the nation, but made an effort once in country to begin to learn. It so happened that I met an executive who invited me to attend a conference for entrepreneurs and so I spent a day with men and women from throughout Southeast Asia.


As Malaysia became the hub between Los Angeles and Bangalore, I began to pay attention to its role on the global stage and became quite impressed with its progress. In spring of 2006, Malaysia became one of a couple of nations to be amongst those selected as finalists for a new manufacturing facility for Dell Computers. In a wholly impressive move, the Malaysian government worked swiftly with the private sector and before India could barely blink, it had landed the very-lucrative deal. If “government” and “swift” seem wholly oxymoronic within the same sentence, you are not alone in your belief. Nevertheless, Malaysia has got an infrastructure that allows it to navigate some of the typical bureaucratic labyrinths in ways that have helped it begin to achieve its economic objectives in a world where, as Thomas Friedman says, anyone can play anytime and anywhere.

As I began to learn about Afghanistan in preparation for the initiatives that Mirwais and I are undertaking, I reflected back on Malaysia. In one scholarly study that I read—one of few related to educational leadership post-Taliban—the authors suggested China as an analogue for Afghanistan. I found this recommendation wholly inappropriate. Indeed, some of the broader lessons of any developing nation are wonderful talking points: the role of education in Chinese society or the strength of the national government, for example. China, however, is a Communist nation. Indeed, even with Communism as its principal doctrinal policy, they have made monumental strides in merging capitalistic principles with classic “Soviet-style” command and control leadership. Even so, Communism at its best tolerates religion and at its worst has historically oppressed those who attempt to adhere to tenets of a faith tradition. In the case of China, there are the Buddhist monasteries, and yet the government’s tolerance has its limits. To wit, the Party does not recognize the Dalai Lama as Tibet’s spiritual leader and only today, the Indian government arrested more than one hundred Tibetan exhiles on a hunger strike. The Indian government? Obviously, nothing is black and white.

This is the polar opposite of Afghanistan, whose proper name is the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Whilst even that title provoked quite a lot of debate in the Parliament, with some suggesting that it was an exercise in tautology, few in the nation are not Muslim and the collective conscience of the nation is wholly Islamic in its world view. How, then, can one adequately take into account the role of religion, of Sharia law, of Quran, and coupling that with a political system whose assumptions are that of a budding democracy, consider China as even remotely relevant?

When I recently had tea with Afghanistan’s Consul General, Atiquillah Atifmal, I asked him if he had been to Malaysia, for I considered it, as a Muslim nation, a better analogue for Afghanistan than China. He relayed to me a story of a visit he had made with President Karzai, where as they drove for over forty-five minutes through the city, the President declared every few minutes that the next grand building just had to be the one that housed the conference. The place is that compelling in terms of its economic development. In talking with the Prime Minister of Malaysia, Mr. Atifmal, who at the time was President Karzai’s Chief of Protocol, asked how it was that the nation had made such great strides in a seemingly short period of time. The Prime Minister cited a commitment to education as one of the principal drivers. He had taken quite a number of the best and brightest of the nation and had sent them abroad in a several year plan to become well educated. Furthermore, the nation made a broad commitment to education of its people so that they would have a well-prepared workforce.

Whilst neither of the initiatives was a quick fix, the principle was noteworthy: education of a population gives a nation possibilities and to move fast you sometimes have to move slowly. Several Indian executives with whom I work have cited this factor as one of the keys to its rapid growth. Although education in India is rife with problems, even its lumbering system, where at least the governmental employees have the sense to call themselves “bureaucrats,” do recognize that the British schooling system has resulted in a middle class larger than the entire population of the United States. Will I find in Afghanistan that the nation has begun to embrace the Malaysian model to any degree?

But, Dubai. This is where I find myself on this day of intense blue skies and brilliant sunshine. Dubai makes Las Vegas seem a mere pretender. The peerless Burj Al Arab, whose billowing sail rises majestically on the Gulf, will set you back nearly $2500 USD per night for the budget accommodations. More cranes grace this city than anywhere else in the world. In my one, full day here, however, I chose to spend it in Old Dubai, which is nestled on the shore of Dubai Creek—a quite substantial inlet of water that resembles a small river more than the Western notion of a creek. My driver told me that he was from Pakistan and that he did not understand the violence that racked some parts of the Middle East and of South Asia. He blessed me when he learnt that I am an educator.

I headed first to the Dubai Museum and the Al Fahidi Fort, where I became enchanted with a class of young boys and their teacher, whose task it was to help her charges understand something of Dubai’s rich history. They became most enchanted with the gift shop, where they played with every object, from the Aladdin’s lamps to the water pipes, much to the exasperation of the shopkeeper.

Following the museum visit, I happened upon “Little India,” where alleys barely wide enough to accommodate one person were filled with merchants selling all things Indian: fragrant jasmine flowers, which flooded me with the memories of Bangalore; marigold flowers fashioned into necklaces; Hindu gods of every type.

The alley ended at a Hindu temple, where I spent some time with the gods and with the many worshippers, observing how they perform pujah. Hands under chin, many of the worshippers touched the photos of the gods, gave offerings of coins and food, and did obeisance, fully prostrate on the ground. Little India gave way to the textile souq—hundreds of shops laden with cashmere and silk. One man from Kerla in Southern India who tried to sell me pashminas, laughed when I told him that I worked there and recognized that the scarves were Indian, not Arabian.

Later in the morning, I stepped into a market to purchase some water and a coconut juice drink As I admired the displays of walnuts, pistachios, and almonds, the young man told me he was from Sri Lanka and that the almonds were from California. I laughed. As I purchased my water, one man whose wife wore a burqua, began arguing with the check-out clerk. He made one, dramatic parting shot in Arabic and stalked out of the store. Three other men began a heated discussion about what had just transpired, and I discerned Farsi, English, Hindi, and Arabic intermingled. I asked, “What was that about?”

The Indian man said, “That man was arguing with the clerk, saying that he should only address him in Arabic. That sort of arrogance makes him appear that he believes he is superior to others, but as you can see, we in Dubai speak many languages. How can we survive if we do not respect each other’s differences?”

As I headed back through the textile souq, I passed several mosques and could hear the call to prayer. A gentleman struck up a conversation with me. Daniel Asgari, a cruise ship captain born in Tehran and living in Liverpool, England, discussed seriously about fighting in Iraq many years ago when he was in the Iranian military. He joined me for a stroll along the creek and pointed out many of the sites in Dubai, for he takes his ship through several of these countries regularly and knows this city well.

In only a few hours, Dubai- as-crossroad introduced me to citizens of Pakistan, India, Sri Lanka, and Iran. How is it that this city can hold its ancient roots, and yet embrace modernity? In his first treatise on globalization, Thomas Friedman's The Lexus and the Olive Tree suggests that those countries most successful in the new century are those who grapple with the creative tension of opposites continually and find ways to honor the past and imagine the future. How shall Afghanistan address the ancient and the modern? Let us see how this journey into a nation that has suffered from nearly three decades of devastation is faring.