Naruz, Afghan New Year is not associated with Islamic tradition, but goes back 3,000 years. It was once celebrated in England, and has roots in almost every culture in every part of the world. It is, after all, spring equinox. Where better to begin? It is fitting no matter how fast a plane can fly, getting to Afghanistan is grueling. This time I thought to make things better by avoiding India and entering through Dubai. Not any better, especially hauling around an eighty-pound duffel, a fifty-pound piece of luggage, a twenty-pound satchel and a thirty-pound instrument. (I know these things because each airline was keenly interested in charging extra). As I made my way from New Hampshire to Washington to Italy to Dubai, I accumulated computers, telescope, gifts, routers, Tshirts and various other items for the orphanages. I was glad to do it. Shipping would have been more expensive and problematic when it came to customs. But I had to discard clothing and shoes and expendables to make room. It was as if this five months of shedding my former life required one last round. Out go the blue jeans. They take too long to dry on the laundry line. Out go the sneakers, I don’t suppose I’ll be jogging down the streets of Kabul.
When finally I arrived, I was emotionally stripped clean. I was a blank slate. No sleep for 48 hours, no life behind me, no debts, no house, no girl friend, no job. Only my loving immediate family and my closest friends cheering me on, and a thousand Americans who had come to hear me speak, many of whom gave to the education fund, wishing me well. In this state I pushed a dolly packed high with my baggage through the dingy Kabul airport. This time I knew where I was and what to do. I brushed off all those who followed me, those hovering with their suspicious motives, and pushed my way out the first and second ring of security, out to the parking area. In the distance I saw approaching me a dozen little children. The first of their faces came into focus. “Razia!” Then Medina, and Farid, and Rueen and Sunbola. I fell to my knees and opened my arms. They fell into them. Several children held brightly colored silk flowers in their little fists, roses and lilies. One by one they came forward and handed them to me. And there, standing behind them, smiling, unassuming was Jamshid. I had somehow against many odds found my way home. For this I was awash with thanks.
On the drive across from east to west Kabul, as elated and relieved as I was I reminded myself to prepare for the unexpected. I am different, the children would be different, Kabul itself would be different. In fact I already could see it, the terrible increase in pollution and dust, the degree to which normally wouldn’t arrive until June. I felt the increase in population, the energy slightly more desperate. I prepared for bad news, and I did not have to wait long to discover it. One of the guards, Niazudin, the older man with beard and traditional hat who had danced with me in a bohemian section of the city, who had such a rough exterior but a soft heart, had been shot and killed by a cousin of his back in their village. Just after informing me of this tragedy, Jamshid got a call from a man in Herat. The man’s son had committed suicide, the fate of hundreds of boys and girls across Afghanistan. He was hysterical and begged Jamshid to take his other two children into the new orphanage there. Then I heard news that Karzai had signed into law a resolution absolving any of the warlords of war crimes committed before 2001, an insult to millions of devastated Afghan citizens. New Year was approaching, but there was nothing new in the trajectory of these developments.
We arrived at a new AFCECO building bordering the Kabul River. Here Jamshid had moved all of the offices and staff. (Andeisha is of course traveling the U.S. gaining support). The space would also be my home; it is no longer feasible to live in the orphanage. Security has deteriorated in proportion to the growing public attention from foreign media and awards. One of the local television stations (owned by a fundamentalist warlord) had sent a film crew to ostensibly cover the “amazing” orphanage. They were there to defame. Having created a warped propaganda piece suggesting all sorts of outlandish things as prostitution and money laundering they aired it on a loop every day for two weeks. One of the ministries came knocking, but luckily AFCECO has friends in every corner of Afghanistan, including the government, and someone on the inside stopped the harassment. So it was true, life would be different. I swooned with a sentimental longing for last summer, realizing my staying in Mehan last year was a once in a lifetime experience not only for myself, but perhaps for any westerner for any foreseeable future.
Inside the new abode I met two women from Italy, long time activists who had worked tirelessly for years to improve the rights of women around the world. This was a delightful thread, seeing as I had just been immersed in their country. The building will also serve as a guesthouse for the steadily increasing stream of visitors who come through Kabul. All future volunteers will live here as well. In just three days I have met people from the U.S., from South Africa and various parts of Europe, more westerners than I saw the entire five months I lived in Kabul, all of them in their own way trying to combine efforts or at least support AFCECO in its quest.
Change has come, too, for the children. Two small homes have been rented to house the older boys and older girls aged 15 to 17. I wondered as we drove through the gates of Mehan how this will have changed the dynamics in my old home. Growth can elicit insecurity. Insecurity for these children could be magnified.
I got out of the car and first to greet me was Malalai butterfly, from Nuristan. She was in tears as we hugged and kissed cheeks three times. Second was Nabila, my siren who hundreds of people around the world have watched give new meaning to Dylan’s anthem Blowin’ in the Wind. I climbed the steps and looked for my sandals I had left behind. Yasim, the house parent told me that the children had taken them upstairs to clean and shine. I walked down the veranda where we had played leap frog and where so many dusks we sipped chi. I turned the corner into the orphanage and there were all the rest of the girls, lined up on each side of the hall like sentinels welcoming home their teacher. They smiled their big smiles, and then they started to applaud. The feeling racing through me had no language to speak. I went up to each girl and somehow remembered all of their names. Masuda, Shagufa, Farzana Nori, Maqbola… a kiss and a hug, a quick reference to old jokes and nicknames. Slowly the older girls trickled in, Jamshid had called them from their new residence just down the street. Susan, Sitiza, Maria… There was someone missing.
“Where is Frishta?” I exclaimed.
“Here I am, Ian-jan,” came a shy voice from behind the bigger girls. There she was, a grin on her face, little Frishta.
“My bumblebee!” I said, opening my arms.
She ran into my big hug. I picked her up and twirled her around in my arms.
The joy of reunion was overwhelming. They clung to me, hemming me into a corner of the orphanage. I felt their sense of immediacy, perhaps a little insecurity. This is to be expected, with the growth of AFCECO the plateau they had reached was somewhat reorganized. Older children moved out, younger ones moved in. The 13 and 14 year olds would now take up the role of leadership in Mehan. On top of this many of the children had only recently returned from their villages. Always there is a grace period when they catch up to where they were before leaving. All the more imperative is it to build them up to be strong and confident enough to carve their way when they enter the adult world.
My duties are clear, and my load full. I will teach two groups of four in my own fully outfitted classroom in the guesthouse, twice a week for three hours. These are the 16-17 year olds who have a chance to get into university. One girl’s and one boy’s, Jamshid and I must choose the candidates. Similarly I will teach three groups of four 12-13 year-olds who are advanced in their classes. The goal here is to get these children a) to read and write English b) to be able to write an essay and do a simple research paper and c) to be able to take an entrance exam. In addition to these special classes, I will visit Mehan and Sitara orphanages twice a week, from 8am to 7pm, teaching larger classes to all the other children. Twice a week I will lead a drama group. Eventually I will lead another photography class.
Of course we need reinforcements. Andeisha has enlisted a woman from NY who will volunteer from June to August. Another from Idaho has passed my vetting process (it is vital that volunteer candidates be put to the test, as a wrong match could be devastating under the circumstances here in Kabul). She will arrive in August and stay to the end of the school year in December. Both will teach the Sitara I children English. Angela, the woman from Idaho will give a martial arts class to the older children. We are going to hire tutors for the children who are having trouble passing the Afghan curriculum, and when everything is up and running I intend to hire an extra full time English teacher who can help with the Mehan and Sitara II children.
Then of course I will do a lot of writing for AFCECO, and somehow in the mean time work on my book. I am agented, and he is very eager for me to complete my proposal. Title is:
Farzana Reads Me Rumi
An Answer to War Inside an Afghan Orphanage
I hit the ground at a sprint here in Kabul. It is odd to think I continue to earn not a single dollar. But then again I feel richer for it. I have eliminated all debt, all bills, and in some fashion all possessions. This was the only logical way forward for me, given my situation. Nothing particularly selfless about it. I almost feel guilty. Work is the bread of life, they say. Of that I have plenty.
