Kabul, Afghanistan
JAN. 3, 2005

Over Christmas, Aïna Kabul was quiet for a few days and I thought it okay to take off toBamyan. I waited at the airport praying that my flight wouldn't be cancelled due to snow. Praying didn't work and my only option for going to the site of the fallen Buddhas was to go by car; something I just couldn't stomach at the time. From Kabul it's more than 8 hours drive, and that's when the roads are clear. I was upset, really needed the time away. More than anything I had been looking forward to a long walk in cold clean air. Ugh!!! I ended up in a car leaving Kabul anyway--but going the opposite direction from the snow on a slightly shorter trip.

Khost is on the Pakistan border, 5 hours South East of Kabul by private taxi. One of Aïna's 7 regional centers is there and since part of my personal mission here is to see as many of our centers as possible, I jumped on the chance to go. I had promised Harris and a few others who were worried about me coming here in the first place not to travel to this part of the country but I couldn't help it. This would be part work, part adventure, and most importantly, it would get me the heck out of Kabul. I'd be among self proclaimed losers that I happen to consider my most conscientious and ambitious colleagues. Lane and Nigel keep me sane by encouraging me to be myself in a country where dissemination of female energy is blocked at every corner.

In Khost for the first time since I've been here, and based on the advice of Pashtuns that I respect, I covered my hair and wore a Shalwar Kamiz; traditional Afghan outfit of calf-length shirt and baggy pants. Lane borrowed the light peach color (ugh!) outfit for me from one of the Aïna guards. He and Nigel wore blue and brown versions respectively. The first day I wore the shirt and the pants. The second, third, and fourth, I refused to wear the pants and further loosened my scarf which had a tendency of slipping off anyway. Oops!

We travelled with Yunnis, a Pashto speaking Khost native who works with us. The most inconspicuous way to travel in these regions is by private taxi; so that's what we did. 5 of us including the driver in a Toyota Corolla station wagon--with yellow side panels, random stickers on the hood, and semi-tinted windows. All the taxis from Kabul to Khost areToyota Corolla station wagons. Tough as nails, these cars. The roads are not quite roads--straight out of Hummer commercials, but somehow the Corollas travel them without fail back and forth at least once a day. It cost about 12 dollars each. 1500 Afghanis total for the trip. The road, rough at times was consistently beautiful. There were mountains in front, behind, above, and below at all times. Amazing faces that would make the most sophisticated climbers drool.

A town named Gardez served as a rest stop; we ate kabobs on skinny flat metal skewers and shared a Kit Kat for dessert. Yunnis wanted us, "foreigners" out of there quick; he seemed paranoid and it rubbed off a litte. We lingered just long enough to take some pictures and buy a cassette of "Disco Dans Indian Mast Songs" (sic). Mast means drunk.

This is Al Quida territory. Taliban stronghold. Conservative Mullah-ville. Supposedly it gets more anti-American the closer you get to Khost and Paskistan. Something we would forget while singing "Masti Masti" along with the unidentified female on the tape. Still, at one point Lane had me hide his US passport and told me to put my media IDs away. Maybe it was the stories Yunnis was telling us about buses being burned and "infidels" being spotted and then trapped further up the road. I think he was teasing us a little. Later we would agree that there was no need for that; the jokes or the paranoia.

Khost was Afghanistan as I had imagined and seen it in pictures. Untouched compared to Kabul. Dusty but not polluted by diesel fumes and burning garbage. I felt a tinge of pride when I saw the first of three signs pointing the way to Aïna: Media and Culture Center. Painted on white boards in English and Pashto, they were visible and "official looking" comparatively. We walked through town quietly that first night; each of us knowing we were experiencing something most never had or would. Seeing Afghan people, almost all men, in their loose drapy clothes, with their elaborate head gear--variations of turbans and longis, patoos (wearable blankets) wrapped around them for warmth, some holding hands, many simply squatting, people watching street side or in front of friend's shops, sipping tea, exchanging stories. If they saw and recognized me as a woman, then they would stare, comment one way or another. The kids as always flirt with their eyes and repeat whatever they know in English. I quickly met a 10 year old boy named Dawoud, whom I would see showing off his new kicks and riding a bike that looked too big for him. The staff in Khost was so appreciative of our presence; all 3 of us immediately thought, maybe we should be working for Aïna in this office.

On Christmas Day, Lane and I sat with the head of the Mullahs in front of the largest mosque in Afghanistan. Lane asked probing questions and got permission to come back for the "Mullah Conference". I got permission to take photographs and sat there taking notes for the story around the story. Later we visited Sorray, Yunnis' village which had been raided by Coalition Forces just 3 days prior on Dec 22 . En route we taught Yunnis to sing Jingle Bells as his cousin documented us on his fancy mobile phone with video and audio recording capacity. There would be jokes at our expense about Al Quaida, and Taliban neighbors! Again! Oh, boy! When it got dark around 6PM, we had Christmas dinner with our Aïna Khost colleagues at Kowsar, the head coordinator's house. His wife cooked but never entered the room where the rest of us were. As always I was the only girl. Kowsar's cousin, Saddam who looked like a teenage Tom Cruise, served us white rice, red beans, scrambled eggs, along side a salad of lettuce leaves, radishes, and parsley. As usual we used round Afghan bread as our individual plates and make-shift napkins! A small TV automatically came on along with the generator around 6:15--Saddam went through a large plastic bag filled with DVDs and popped one in. It was something you might see playing in the background at a kitchy downtown bar. Indian music videos and violent fight scenes from action movies were cut together. Sexy as hell Indian ladies in skimpy miniskirts followed by a bloody prison fight with Jean Claude Van Damme set the tone. This pattern went on throughout dinner. The Afghans watched attentively with no sense of irony. Lane and I were a little alarmed by the content but remained more interested in our Afghan friends and the food.

Later in the night, back at Aïna, Lane would break out his Khost Christmas surprise; a small box of Whitman's chocolates wrapped in red paper with little green trees all over it . We shared it with Faizalrabin, the cook and cleaner who lives at the Center and was visibly sad that this was our last night at the Aïna: Khost. He's around 20 years old. A hard worker by nature, with a pleasant face, he often just lingered around us and smiled. We practiced all the Pashto we had learned on each other and kept our head lamps on after the generator was turned off at 10, talking about our families; Lane's parents, my Harris... reveling in the fact that this would be a Christmas we would tell our children about some day.

Back in Kabul, with access to satellite TV and internet, just like everyone else in the world I obsess over the number of lives lost to the Tsunami in South East Asia The latest figure was 145,000. I feel blessed --like it's a miracle that my friend Erhan who was in Thailand is safe and on his way home to NYC. I don't know how I feel about it all so l let my mind wander toward things more cerebral; an excerpt that claimed the Earth shifted on it's axis and scientists say that our days will be a fraction of a second shorter from now on. I wonder if the consequences which seem to be at least in part the result of an information failure will ever really be discussed--or if it will hurt too much to know the truth.

On a freezing-rainy day which happens to be the last day of the year, being alone proved reflective and at times irrationally emotional. What does it all mean? What am I doing here? Why are my fingers constantly cold? Eventually and somewhat pathetically I arrived at: I don't know. And maybe that's okay. As long as I'm still interested in Aïna, Afghanistan, and fighting a good fight.

Around 9PM on New Year's Eve, I change my mind about going to bed early. The invitation was to the presidential palace "grounds" via some of Karzai's special security forces. The words "presidential palace" got me; how could a sane person resist? It was mellow, casual, and expectedly surreal. I played ping pong, enjoyed free bud light in a bottle, took 2 small and painful sips of a vodka with red bull made by a novice bar tender compliments of a "machine-gunner", toasted 12:00 AM three times, a couple minutes apart since none of our watches matched and there was no common clock.

By the time I got through to Harris; it was 1:30AM here 3PM in NYC. We talked about the Harris' most recent Op-Ed in The Sun (best one yet) and how distracted the Tsunami had made us. This is the second major quake that has hit on December 26. Last year, on the same day, an earthquake destroyed an ancient city and claimed more than 40,000 lives. Remember Bam? Everyone seems to have forgotten about Bam. Maybe because it was only one city as opposed to a whole region. Or maybe because it was in Iran; not a popular tourist destination. And maybe I would forget too, if I didn't have a personal interest in Iran. Knowing first hand the effects of waning interest in a region and diminishing support for humanitarian causes over time, I can only hope that this time it will be different. That there is good thinking and quick action to go with all the money being poured in. That the commitment to clean up and rebuild communities is complete. That "Disaster Relief" actually spells relief. I know; I'm ranting like a bitter cynic. Don't worry, I'm still an optimist, just an involuntarily sad one these days.