Afghanistan, My Turn – Abbas Abdulhussein

It
all starts at the local mosque in Sanford, FL, like all other troubles.
Yusufali is telling me about his trips to Afghanistan, all the work Comfort Aid
International (CAI) does and what a life
changing experience visiting Afghanistan is.  The next thing I know, I am telling him I’d love to go. 

Weeks
go by, I have forgotten about our talk when Yusufali calls and says he has room
on his next trip to Afghanistan, coming up in two weeks.  Now, once you’ve told someone how much you
love to do something and they hand that something to you on a silver platter,
you can’t really say no; so I say yes.

Why the hell are you going
to Afghanistan is the question I start being asked.  To be quite honest, I really don’t have a very
good answer; except I know I want to go. 
Pretty soon everyone is trying to talk me out of it. You are a father of four kids! What are you
doing going to a war zone? Or some derivation is what I hear
constantly.  The only supportive person
of this adventure is my wife, which now makes me wonder if she is trying to get
rid of me. In the midst of my preparations, worried friends and family trying
to change my mind, I keep remembering Yusufali’s words It’s a life-changing trip; my resolve is firmed, I am going to Afghanistan. 

A
week before the trip, the Muslim world learns of a movie The innocence of Muslims on YouTube and some countries begin to ignite
in protests and violence. The American ambassador to Libya is killed; American
embassies are attacked and invaded in the Middle East. It is all very scary
stuff; my resolve begins to waiver.   I
call Yusufali and ask if he is canceling or deferring the trip due to the
security situation.  There’s no problem insha’Allah he replies. With confidence reinstalled
in me by those words, I board a flight for Dubai. 

We
arrive in Dubai and go our separate ways promising to meet up the next morning
at Afghan consulate. Bright and early, we appear at the consulate for our
visas; all forms and pictures ready. Only to be told the forms downloaded from
Afghan consulate website are old and unacceptable; this is not a good
start.  We fill new ones and return.

I
approach the desk with my new form and smile at the clerk; it is not
reciprocated. 

What company, where is
company paper?

No company,
I answer, I am going for a marriage.
I say this with my best charm.

Marriage, whose marriage?

My
mind goes blank. I stand there for what seems like eternity, trying to recall.

W…W…Wasi,
I say.

He
looks at me suspiciously Wasi who?

I
regain my wits and hand him a copy of Wasi’s non-existing brother’s
non-existing wedding invitation. It’s not a real lie actually; there is a mass
marriage of 67 couples that CAI is sponsoring… He looks at the invitation and
then at me a couple of times, then nods with resignation. 

Later
that day, Yusufali casually mentions he is monitoring the worsening riot
situation in Kabul, liaising with Wasi (CAI representative in Afghanistan). What
security situation? Just a day ago, in Orlando, there were no problems insha’Allah! Little did I realize this is just
starters; Yusufali trying to scare the crap out of me, perhaps. Over dinner he
recounts how on one trip, his vehicle almost skid and fell into a ravine, with
Wasi and him about to jump through the window. He asks if I have packed Imodium,
one of them had been sick last time. He then adds bathrooms are so filthy; you
hold your breath or throw up. That there is no power; if you slip, you might
end up in the gaping hole filled with piles of s___! Finally, he tells of a CAI
MD stopped and searched by the Talibaan. They find a mohr tablet in his
possessions; this confirms him a Shia. The MD is given marching orders to climb
a nearby hill, a sure sign of impending bullets from behind. While the MD
recites the Shahaada and calls on Imam Mahdi (A) for help, a passing Afghan
army jeep on patrol engages the Talibaan and a firefight ensues; one Taalib is
killed, the rest escape, the MD hides and is in acute shock, unable to properly
converse for a week afterwards. I began to wonder if Yusufali’s life changing trip has more than one
meaning. After each of these bombshells, he smiles and says but we’ll be fine. Where were these
tales in Orlando, when I could still change my mind?

As
we board the aircraft for Kabul, I am extremely nervous, so I do what I always
do when I’m tense; I take a nap. I awake looking out of the window to an alien
landscape, undulating hills of brown spread out below as far as the eye could
see; we have begun our descent into Kabul

I
almost forget the country is at war, driven through people packed, commerce
driven busy Kabul streets; it feels like Mumbai or Delhi.  If not for some unkempt, suicide or bombed
hit hotel or some other building, I can easily become complacent about the
city. I wonder how people attempt to live a normal life with the terror of a
bomb explosion that can explode anywhere. 
Bombs that target not only military sites, but hotels, schools,
marketplaces full of men, women and children. Late Ahmad Massoud Shah’s portraits
are everywhere, like a large middle finger extended toward the Talibaan, to let
them know, perhaps, Afghan people cannot be cowed.

Like
most homes in Kabul, Wasi’s is walled and has an inner courtyard with a garden
that is now full of beautiful roses in bloom. We are treated to a large
breakfast of fresh and wonderful bread, cheeses, jam, sweet cream and tea. If
there is one thing Afghans do better than anybody, it is to bake bread; they
are masters, there is nothing better tasting than fresh baked Afghan
bread.  Bashir (Wasi’s partner) quips There are two things you find everywhere in
Afghanistan, bread and dust.  Not so
crazy about the dust, but the bread is to die for. Afghan people are extremely
hospitable to invited guests (if you go uninvited, its a different matter; ask
the Soviets!) From this first meal to every home we then visit, Kabul to tiny
villages, we are overfed; by the end of the nine-day trip I have gained 4
pounds. 

We
go to see CAI’s first project, fresh water in Chandaawal, Kabul. 

Kabul
sits at the bottom of a bowl surrounded by mountains; these are dotted with
homes.  Most countries in the West have
homes on hills for the rich, from where they can look down upon a dirty or
decaying city; it’s reversed in Kabul, where the most poor, especially
internally displaced refugees live. Yusufali relates his first visit here, in
winter; children scrambling down the mountain for water, then lugging the
plastic jerrycans up home in bitter snow, ice and wind.  Moved by their plight, he asks if he could feed
or clothe them, but they ask for easier water access; the project was born. It
is an engineering marvel. At the base of the mountain is a station with an
immense pump and generator that propels water up to tanks at different levels.
Each level then has a hand pump that easily provides unlimited fresh potable
water. As we ascend, my leg muscles burn; I stop frequently, bent over, hands
on knees, cannot imagine how these children did this, carrying gallons of water
in the dead of winter; I finally make it to the top where CAI has also
constructed a mosque and Gusul Khana. 

Descending,
carefully even, is precarious; I frequently slip and trip in the loose dirt and
stones. To my embarrassment, troops of children no older that ten recklessly
breeze by in very sure footing. I stare at them in wonder; they look back, say Sallam, whiz past. When I safely reach
bottom, I am exhausted, my knees wobble; Yusufali has a big smile on his face;
is the guy an Energizer bunny? We call it an early day and return home, to a
huge meal.  We have an early flight and
Kabul airport security is a long, tedious process; we must get there early.

No
kidding!  We go through at least six
security checks; out of our car, walk to be frisked, to car, out for second
frisk, to a security room, x-ray luggage, out again, another pat down, load a
bus, drive to terminal, a frisk, another x-ray for luggage, a thorough body
check and x-ray for hand luggage. I don’t think I will complain about Orlando
Airport anymore. Kam Air, a local Afghan carrier, flies us to Mazaar where we
lug our luggage perhaps a mile to a waiting van. A four-hour drive takes us to
a small village for the opening of a school by CAI.

Driving
in rural Afghanistan is a challenge, not for the fainthearted. They are bumpy,
dirt roads filled with fine dust and rocks, meant for animals and carts, not
motor vehicles.  The roads snake up
mountain sides with jaw-dropping sheer edges, or wind down valleys ending on
bridges that support donkeys, not cars. 
Whenever we run out of dirt roads, we take to riverbeds. There is no
better way to see local life than driving down a river, water splashing the
sides of our car.  I see children taking
baths, farmers, women washing clothes, run into group of bee-keepers tending
their apiaries in protective suits.  They
look like astronauts on some distant planet.

Once
our Toyota Hiace is climbing a mountain and I am looking out at the drop-off,
thinking how we would maneuver an oncoming bend when the driver comes to a
stop. l look ahead, there is another car approaching.  Oh…its
a two-way road, I remark. Fortunately our driver, who we nickname Rambo
because of his speeding on these passes, manages to ‘squeeze’ by. Those
mountain passes are the scariest parts of the trip, but also the most
exhilarating; and the six-seat chartered flights, of course.

We
make it to the village in one piece; it seems the whole community has come for
the event.  As we pull up to the new
school, I see hundreds of children sitting outside; they make a beautiful
picture. We have the opening ceremony, one village elder after another speaks
incessantly and it looks like the ceremony will go on for hours; thankfully
Yusufali points out it is salaat time and it abruptly ends. 

After
salaat and lunch we are taken to see the current school. There are many things
about this trip I may forget, but never this ‘school’; it is a dank dark hole
in the wall.  The children sit on dirt
floors and old cracked blackboards are plastered to the mud walls; one room had
a collapsed wall. OMA!

Next
few days we visit schools, clinics, mosques and orphanages across Afghanistan;
every place is the same. But with beautiful, hospitable people surviving a
harsh land that has not seen peace in over thirty years. Everywhere I look,
there is so much need.  Yet each place has
a small ray of hope. CAI sponsored clinics where pregnant women now go have
babies safely, children immunized and illness treated; these clinics draw
people from miles around. Many have never seen a doctor, ever, travelling for
hours on donkeys and foot. I see burdens eased, comfort given, children
educated, water-wells dug and sick bodies healed everywhere we go.

In
the midst of all this pain and misery, we are busy building mosques and centers
costing millions of dollars… The admonishment from Surah Maun in the holy
Quraan comes to mind. 

Have you seen the one who
denies the Judgment

It is the one who repulses
the orphan

And urges not the feeding
of the poor

So woe to those praying
ones

Who are heedless of their
prayer

Who do good deed only to
be seen

And refuse to supply
simple assistance

The
lesson I learn in Afghanistan is that Maun
stands for simple assistance or small sacrifices make the difference between
life and death for many people in our world. A good warm twenty-dollar blanket
makes the difference between life and death for a family in winter.  Having a clinic with antibiotics nearby means
the difference between seeing a child die of fever or him playing with friends,
a doctor who can reset a broken arm on a child means growing up strong and
healthy or live a life mired in disability. Blankets, heat, water, medical
care…everything we take for granted is survival to those without. We have the
ability to make these things happen for these hapless Afghans. Ability and an
obligation, according to our glorious Quran.

There
are many good habits to take away from Yusufali, my travelling companion;
Emerson once wrote Every man I meet is in
some way my superior. I learn the importance of giving priority to salaat;
stopping everything and praying first. There are times we drive early mornings
and it is Fajr; he insists we stop at a house or on the side of the road and
pray. I learn the importance of working with determination; do things with
passion and love. We spend two hours at a bazaar in Kabul looking for the right
blanket at the right price. We return to same vendors numerous times, Yusufali
holding, feeling, asking, rejecting, concerned about quality, whether it will
hold up to the approaching wicked winter. Too
thin, it will freeze the children and the old, lets look at something else,
he says.

He
reminds me of a Khalil Gibrans quote:

And what is it to work
with love?

It is to weave the cloth
with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that
cloth.

It is to build a house
with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.

It is to sow seeds with
tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat
the fruit.

It is to charge all things
you fashion with a breath of your own spirit.

Finally,
the most important lesson is to never give up hope in our ability to create a
better world and help others, no matter where they are. In the ocean of
darkness, even, be a beacon of light.