The first question people everywhere ask me is what will happen to the girls once they turn eighteen. The second is whether or not I plan to go back to Kabul. In visiting nine school systems thus far, public and private, a cafe/theatre and an expansive retirement community it seems that the subject of Afghanistan is transfixing. From ten year olds to veterans of World War II people are eager to know, because their instincts tell them somehow the truth, as portrayed by the news and the Washington insiders, has been skirted or at the very least detained. They want to feel hope.
So it is I return to this post, because along with the faces of Farzana and Sosan, Ulfat and Omid and all the other children, in the back of my mind are the faces of my countrymen and women urging me forward as if pushing a bird from its nest into the great void. It is a humbling experience to stand before 120 octogenarians, life long educators, inventors, PT boat captains, diplomats, artists, one of them a hundred and four years old sitting attentively to the end of the story I tell. Over 40 people die at Casa De La Campanas in San Diego each year, the people there no longer gauge what time remains, and still they care deeply about this world. It is equally humbling to stand before forty 16 year olds, all of them together in one class because they have one thing in common: the first in their families who will go to college. There is the sixth grader who came up to me, pen and pad in hand and simply asked, “How do I help?” There is the first generation Indian American, a junior who has already set up a non profit to dispense micro loans to the people back in her parent’s homeland, fundraises to assist others suffering from leprosy, and still finds time to promote the kind of volunteerism Omprakash represents. Our family has grown. Americans everywhere are proud of their country and are determined to restore its reputation. Redemption from the besmirching effects of unilateral invader, torturer, greedy corporate taker, polluter, smug world shaker and hypocrite will take action. People are ready to act.
Afghans know the difference between people and governments. The love my audience sees in the eyes of those Mehan girls does not end with me, but radiates out to all who believe as they do that human beings are kind, compassionate, and giving. Americans know, albeit with a sigh, governments and institutions don’t change the world, people do.
To both, hope is not just a slogan.
The bank account depletes, but thanks to the support of my family and a stone masonry job offer by my English teacher from my own high school years, I will press forward. I will have to sell a book, or my house, or some other unknown means will come my way, but just as I could not turn away from Mahbooba when she refused to be dismissed from class, who demanded her remaining five minutes, I cannot turn away from my own fellow citizens. Volunteering, after all, does not end in the field. As I make my way around the country, should any of you be inclined to set up a venue for my presentation, just say the word. I will be all over the Northeast the remainder of this fall. Come January I drive down the east coast, all the way to Florida. Then I turn west. Again I will commit to writing in this open journal every Saturday. I invite you to join me.
In answer to your questions, we have two years to prepare. Some girls will be trained to help keep the books, run the sponsorship program, assist in the operation of the orphanages. Getting the right staff is always difficult, this will solve two concerns. Other girls (and boys) will go abroad, attend undergrad programs. I have made inroads to a new school, the Asian University for Women in Bangladesh, a program fully endowed and seemingly tailor made for our girls. Others will get certified in various skills, attend Kabul University. I am constantly searching for ideas and outlets to plan for the children’s bridge to adulthood. You are welcome to assist me in this venture as well.
And yes, I will return to Mehan just as soon as I can.
