djelem djelem
chu doin?
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Jen, Najla, Sahib Latifi, and Sahib Nazhand during discussion of needs analysis
short answer: the reason i am in Kabul, on CARE’s dime, is to help the country office prepare for potential emergencies.
less short answer: i am preparing a document called the Emergency Preparedness Plan (EPP). it is a very very very excrutiatingly detailed document outlining the various reponses that CARE Afghanistan could have to a number of potential disasters.
generally, the first step is to choose some hazards. the most common, or the ones that would have the biggest effect, or the ones that are the most complex and therefore require the most planning. there is some methodology to the decision-making, but suffice to say, it is an intuitive, strategic, educated guess. The “top” three form the basis for the rest of the Plan.
for each risk, we define a scenario. which is simply what the disaster would look like. again, there is an element of researched assumption involved. but the local nationals, who have grown up in this country are an invaluable resource. it’s home. they understand the nuances. however, the other edge of that sword is that they are used to the environment. some things don’t always stand out. but the office does have some international staff too, who offer a more removed insight. i take a group of this staff and facilitate a conversation. then i record the main points.
once we describe the needs of the hypothetical situation in detail, we decide what CARE will do to respond. what do we want to do, ideally. and then what can we do, practically.
after all that, we make a plan of how to get there. an action plan.
Aye-rabs
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i arrived in Afghanistan yesterday afternoon, local time. as the plane landed, most ofthe foreign women onboard quieted down and drew the scarves up over their heads. i followed suit. i want to be culturally sensitive and keep a low profile. that means not talking to men, smiling, or even making prolonged eye contact. it was awkward for me, because i tend to be smiley. especially in new or uncomfortable situations. a warm, genuine smile is often quite disarming. my weapon of choice. as i walked, eyes cast down, i could feel the gaze of the men. mostly those working at the airport. less those travelling. i could feel them looking and i wanted to look back. communicate that i too had a point of view and could equally drink them in. but i refrained.
at the Kabul International Airport, the first exit takes you to a curb with cars arriving. at first glance, it would seem the right place for you. only if you are a UN worker. you continue on to the next pick-up area. it is only for government officials and other certain clearances. i kept walking. my pre-departure security brief warned against taxis and public transportation, “they are mostly criminals”. the brief also included a map of the airport which indicated the correct lot where my driver would be waiting. the map said it was “just outside the metal gate with armed guards”. that’s like saying “the park bench next to the pigeons.” nevertheless, i managed to find my way to a stone-faced Afghan man holding a piece of paper with my name printed on it. i approached him so quietly that i seemed to startle him. still trying to find that balance of not looking like a hooker but still feeling like myself in my own skin. as i introduced myself, another man stepped up from behind him. Jesse.
Jesse is a stocky white Canadian guy, built soundly for his job as a security officer. imagine a romantic comedy where Seth Rogan plays a Middle East security advisor. Aviator sunglasses. a woven poncho. black and white checkered “ethnic” scarf. cargo pants and boots. a vision in camel. a cigarette cupped in his hand. fast talking. faster walking. in fact, i couldn’t write Jesse as a character in a movie. you wouldn’t buy him because it would seem unimagined and trite. all this to say that i love this character. i just have a hard time believing Hollywood was right all along in their depictions.
i was trying to take-in a lot of the scene around me without looking too doe-eyed or out of place. i was trying not to show the two men how relieved and thrilled i was to see them. i was trying to take in all the precious, life-preserving information that Jesse was rattling off in short, direct sentences. the words were piling up outside my ears, getting jumbled in the bottleneck to get into my brain. mostly i focused on how close all the cars, bikes, children, and old ladies were to our speeding vehicle.
as we darted around the dusty streets of the capital city, Jesse would point out a street we weren’t taking because it was getting busy and demonstrations were expected, as the Mosques were just letting out. we would pass an unmarked steal gate here and there that Jesse would call an office or a compound. in all the places i’ve visited in Kabul, the procedure is similar: the car stops next to a man in a uniform holding a machine gun. indistinguishable from all the other times the car inexplicably stops next to other men in uniforms with assault riffles. a small doorway opens in a metal gate wrapped in razor wire. everyone stares at me as if to say “uh, we’re here. why are you just sitting there still?”
it is in this fashion that i was ushered into our security operations room where, among other things, i received my walkie-talkie for nightly check-in. Jesse says “just make sure you check in, because if you don’t, after twelve hours we call your family and tell them we consider you, well we don’t say you’re abducted, just missing and not to expect you. and that’s a hassle that you don’t want to go through. we don’t want to go through. just check-in okay.”
it is in the same fashion i was dropped at my guest house, which i found is just another name for a motel, more or less.
in the same fashion i was taken out to the pub “L’Atmosphere.” where beers are 300AFG, which i still cannot convert to $USD.
the kind of gal i am
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here is a very honest look at the caliber of person we’re dealing with…
on my way out, after dining at a most delicious and expensive restaurant, i went to the bathroom. in the stall was a forgotten box of leftovers. its contents: filet mignon, one onion ring, sauteed garlic spinach, and creamed spinach. there was a brief moment of deliberation. before…
i snatched up that box, took it home, and ate it for lunch.
delicious.
ma3lesh
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one new year’s resolution for 2010 was to blog once per week. i’m pretty sure i haven’t touched this thing since january. actually, i know this for fact, because the previous post was from january, listing those resolutions. whattayagonnado? ma3lesh, as they say in Arabic.
i find it really irritating when bloggers waste my precious attention span with apologies for not writing in a while. like their readers were absolutely directionless since the last post, rocking back and forth in the corner sweating like a junkie in lockup. i don’t care when you wrote last. if i’m reading your blog, i want to hear your perspective on the various and sundry items that interest me. get to it already. of course you’re busy. who isn’t? honestly, do you know a single person who says “boy oh boy, i have so much time on my hands. plus i have a surplus of motivation. i am up-to-date on everything. i can’t think of a single self-improvement i could perform.”? i don’t. they sound annoying. if they exist, i don’t want to know them.
so… dear Readership, i am soooooo sorry that you have been without guidance this entire year. you can quit holding your breath. finally. whew.
i have often thought about blogging, but stopped short, thinking that what i had to say wasn’t interesting enough. but plenty of blogs aren’t about interesting topics. plenty more aren’t interesting at all. lo and behold, the world is still rotating. by the time i get to the little text window anyhow, i’ve forgotten what i was thinking. that’s how we got here. all dressed up with nowhere to go.
sometimes going through the motions is all one can do. just the practice of sitting down and typing will get me closer to my goal. my goal being… well. what is my goal? i guess it is being expressive. and eventually down the road, my five-year-plan includes being interesting. babysteps. eventually, i’d like to have links to the blogs i read, without feeling like a turd floating in the bowl pretending to be a goldfish.
nipples down the tubes
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as i decided to revive my blog, i noticed a saved draft. i am posting it below, as is, knowing that i was going somewhere with it when my computer crashed.
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it is easy enough to say “breast pump.” doing it, on the other hand, is a whole different world. in case you are unfamiliar, i will paint a brief picture. first i must describe the evolution of a mother’s nipples. breastfeeding or not, pregnancy deals some funny cards.
i started with very small boobies that resembled mosquito bites on a washboard, a fact that i deeply resented during middle and high school when the BoobFairy left luscious gifts for every girl but me. ”Particle Board” was one harsh –albeit uncreative– name doled out by colleagues. but come college and on, i accepted it. even grew fond of it. i recognized the convenience and economy of space, which afforded my brain the freedom to entertain more important matters. then pregnancy. oh, that transformative beast.
during the gestational period, the areolas swell, expand, and warp like the wood of an untreated deck in monsoon season. they puff-up and spill-over like baking bread with too much yeast. they darken like weathered old beach bums. they become nearly unrecognizable from their pink and springy youth. this turns out to be only the beginning.
i chose to breastfeed which invited an entirely new metamorphosis. like a butterfly’s life in reverse. i started with beautiful wonders of nature that fluttered around on spring afternoons to the sound of chirping birds. my nipples battered about Cinderella as the mice and bluejays tied her hair in pink ribbons. i loved those carefree feelgood nipples. but those nipples spun a cocoon and crawled inside, battened down the hatches. and then my son came. and my nipples cracked and peeked out. slowly they wiggled and emerged creepy, crawly, and unrecognizable.
fuck these fucking fucks
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i’ve got some new years resolutions cooking.
i find there to be too much hype around major holidays. especially ones that are a single day. christmas is stressful, but at least there is christmas eve for wiggle room. Chanukah and Kwanza got it right in terms of spread. thanksgiving is a single meal, so the pressure there is pretty high. but it is New Year’s that gets me. for christ’s sake, there is a COUNTDOWN. it all comes down to one moment. a single moment where you are supposed to have your shit figured out and straight. an instant in which to say goodbye to an entire year and simultaneously set a precedent for the next. yeah yeah it is supposed to be renewing and atoning and all that shit. but i have never believed a single moment holds enough power to make or break anything. so what we are left with is a high-stress scenario with no actual fortitude. fuck that. i can do without more-stress-less-action.
New Year’s Day, however, bring it on! i really treasure my relatively new tradition of eating a big delicious meal –cooked with love– around friends and voting on a slogan for the year. for the record, 2010 says: “Bring it on, Ding Dong” to all challenges, gifts, and in-betweens. the evening tradition is laid-back and friendly. and most wonderfully, there are no big expectations. everyone is a little spent from the night before and mulls about with the mild deference that only a nursed hangover can instill. to date, it is my favorite (perhaps only) “holiday” tradition.
because January 1st’s dinner is so redeeming, i cannot forgo the holiday’s whole resolution-bit. i just apply to it my own relaxed and worldly twist. i test-run a few directives at the beginning of january and then revise the list around Chinese New Year, which typically falls around february. with that in mind, i offer these goals…
*write a blog entry once per week
*rock the socks off my first semester in graduate school with a 4.0 gpa
*continue the Flying Hyland’s triumphant return to the circus studio
*keep a log of what i eat
*work feverishly to escape the grasp of the tentacles of negative energy
*do not smoke regularly
*fuck these fucking fucks
i can elaborate on that last one. i try. i try very hard with certain people and scenarios in my life. i expend excessive energy trying to distinguish their cryptic hidden meanings. i beat my brains out trying to determine the best course of action. 2009 was a year of being insecure and unsure of most of my actions. i sought approval from others, which is a dark and slippery slope. though my intentions were pure as gold, i tried so hard to see through certain others’ eyes that i actually hated myself at times. to all this i say: fuck these fucking fucks.
if you hate me, you hate me. not my problem. not my fault. not my concern. i will not be harsher or meaner. i will be more guarded, for sure, but i will also be more pleasant and uninvested. the fucking fucks are getting no more of my time or energy. bring it on, Ding Dong!
Giving thanks
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This time of year people bitch about their families. A lot. (The rare few like to swoon about how they are all best friends, but those ones are weirdos and will probably end up in a cult.) I am not exempt from said bitching. I could go on about my cold apathetic family. I could muster great fervor to describe the father of my child’s ignorant and hateful kin. But that will get me nowhere.
So let me give thanks instead… I am grateful that my family doesn’t insert themselves into my life. I am free to live it entirely without their input. There is a very pleasing sense of freedom that accompanies that.
mama didn’t raise no… uh, mama didn’t raise nobody
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i just started admitting to myself how fucked up my childhood was and how totally absent my parents were.
i hope i do better than them.
most of the battle is just showing up. and not being an asshole.
however, just that much is harder than i imagined it would be.
never alone with a cigarette
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first of all, i really enjoy the Sun City Girls.
also, i really enjoy smoking cigarettes. i don’t like the cigarettes or the smoke. it actually grosses me out. so why am i a smoker, albeit a self-proclaimed fake one? i don’t know. and i do not like to think of myself as a gal who does things without knowing why. i want to get to the bottom of this.
i started smoking because i was such an adamant non-smoker. i was downright irritating. as a child i would wet a napkin and hold it over my face while my parents smoked in a restaurant. there was no such thing as a non-smoking section back then, but had there been my folks would certainly have avoided it. not that it would have mattered anyway. have you ever been in a carpeted Bob Evan’s? they don’t exactly air out. there is a much-loved Frisch’s Big Boy just outside detroit that i assure you still smells like my Grandmother’s boyfriend, Geno’s, hair gel. i would love to go back to pay my respects. i could hold a seance with all the relics that still hang in the air. i doubt that if my family chose the non-smoking (or “fag” section, as my dad would have referred to it. and no, he’s not British), it would have made any difference. stale cigarette smoke and road salt are the MSG of rural midwest. no matter what you ordered, you had the same soggy smoggy cardboard seasoning.
i had a catalogue of ways to express my dissatisfaction with my parents’ smoking. and i would like to say that i grew out of it. unfortunately, i remained an exceptionally annoying non-smoker. shooting dirty looks, coughing, waving, talking loudly about my disapproval. on a prankier side, i would take the plastic wrapping off of my friends’ packs and put it back on upside down, stopping the top from opening. i can’t believe how often it was overlooked and unappreciated that i was so dexterous.
so i started in order to get past that character flaw. i made it a 2007 New Year’s Resolution to start. the other resolution was to remember more if i had flushed the toilet. not flush it more or less, just remember.
it was work. i actually had to put forth effort to get over the initial disgusted hump, much like learning to drink beer. but i persevered. (and you said i can’t follow through with anything, dad.) it might be worth mentioning that i was living in the Czech Republic at the time, and even four year-olds smoke in that country. the Kolej where i lived had freestanding ashtrays every few doors. the security guard sat in his 4foot square booth and chainsmoked. i’m pretty sure the only ventilation was the holes through which you yelled your poor grasp of the Czech language to no avail, because unbeknownst to you he was Romanian. it was also very cold in November in Prague. somehow smoking provided warmth. perhaps it was because it so often accompanied heavy drinking. maybe it was the matchstrike. my physics editor is still fact-checking, but in the meantime take my word for it. smoking was comforting there. despite the “SMOKING KILLS” labels attached to cigarette packs. when i returned to the states, it was such a fucking hassle to smoke. our public health policies are effective, whether or not i resent them. i didn’t smoke much after my return. it was more like i was a non-nonsmoker for a short while.
so lately why am i smoking like the twin towers? (too soon?) it could be that stupid capricious rebellious streak i cultivated around age 13 that i won’t seem to let go. i couldn’t smoke for 9 months of pregnancy; i could be “sticking it” someone. or maybe it is a 7 minute break. i’m not sure. and that’s probably it. when i think about it, i have no particular interest in smoking. but i have been on autopilot since the baby, at least. maybe a little sooner.
i’m excited to be growing back the ability to make choices on purpose.
big feet, baby steps
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it is my belief that no single event makes or breaks an existence. if there is going to be great change, i believe that it comes by a SERIES of actions. it is a liberating thought. i am not concerned that i will slip one time and fuck up everything. there is a lot of freedom, and i am afforded the luxury of being driven by forces other than guilt. (guilt seems to strangle so many people around me.)
but on the other hand, in order to make things better, i have to consistently choose the positive and constructive decisions. or at least choose them more times than not. with this belief structure, change is arduous and slow. but it is also inevitable. every small decision is contributing to a whole. it is impossible to remain impartial, even that has some small effect on the course of one’s life.
in short, if you are not making things better, you are making them worse. a teeny tiny bit at a time.
i often forget or overlook this. and then all of a sudden i look up and i am living in a crummy negative space. i’m bewildered by how i let things get so bad. but i didn’t “let” anything happen; i had an active roll. i consistently chose options that led me closer and closer to gross unhappiness.
so now i’m here. and impetuous youth demands that i fix it. right now. all of it. this very instant. but that’s not how it goes. i just have to start aligning my decisions and actions with the way i want to feel. while it’s frustrating to know that it will not be an instantaneous shift, is encouraging to know that it is entirely manageable. what could be easier than one small action at a time?
