Small Steps

Coming back to Earth after a long trip on the Depression Express, i'm reminded of the first time i rode a bicycle and braved the neighborhood hill, only to reach the bottom in such ecstatic glee that i hadn't though ahead about what would happen when i got there and needed to make an abrupt turn. Consequently, i crashed into a fire hydrant and walked the bike home with blood spilling down my leg (my first and still visible bodily scar). When my father saw me in the driveway he actually had the gall to laugh; though i'm sure i've never recovered from his total lack of empathy, he was right about needing to get back on the bike as soon as i'd bandaged myself up. Feeling overwhelmed by the plethora and speed of changes in the world - positive as well as degenerative - or perhaps better stated, not being sure of where to start in communicating the variety of stuff flashing around my synapses, i'm just getting back on the bike here and taking a small step in order to get my blog breathing again.

Last winter, i stated volunteering with the Alliance for International Women's Rights, helping a young Afghan lawyer develop projects (and write grant proposals to fund them) in the areas of legal aid and female lawyers' education. Her organization is called Justice For All, and i cannot even begin to measure the extent of bravery she and her colleagues have conjured up to deal with the complexities and sexism that characterize the legal system and culture in Afghanistan at this point in time. Under Karzai's presidency, the country has gone back to implementing a mixture of secular civil codes 'normalized' with Shari'a law , and international legal conventions, which in some cases cannot be normalized with the Islamic codes. It's such a complicated mess and there is so much transitional chaos that, according to the woman I work with, many practicing lawyers lack effective knowledge of current statutes, especially regarding the rights of women and children. So JFA is organizing to fill in some of these voids (the role of US-AID remains unclear, but they are certainly pumping money into their concept of how the legal system should operate). To describe fighting for women's rights as an uphill battle would be a severe understatement, contrary to the Bushes' et al. repeated assessments that huge strides have been made. Small steps, yes, of course. Monumental leaps? Not while the country remains under foreign occupation, that much is clear.

A few months ago, another AIWR volunteer sent the rest of us a letter following her departure from Afghanistan and has given me permission to publish it here. Rethink Afghanistan is definitely work checking out to understanding why the US/NATO needs to leave ASAP, yet first-hand accounts like the one below are also important for getting a bit of an insider's view into what the lives of Afghani women entail in this period of so-called 'liberation'. Read and be deeply moved, or more empathic, or just a bit less cynical. The war is not helping these women, but war never does - we knew that much already, or at least we should have.

Since I left Afghanistan in December, I've been reflecting almost every
moment on my life there and on the lives of the women who crossed my paths
and touched my hearts. With all of the media coverage giving such an
ill-informed image of Afghans, I often find myself wanting to reach out to
my Canadian friends, colleagues, and family, to tell them my stories. To
tell them the stories of Afghanistan.

But what are the stories of Afghanistan?

When I ask myself that question, I stop and, becoming intensely overwhelmed,
my thoughts wander to something else.

Why is it so hard to talk about Afghanistan, to share what I saw, to help
you feel what I felt? My instinct, which, bordering on maternal and
therefore strange because I am not a mother, is to share a tale of beauty. I
want to protect the stories of my friends, my sisters, by not sharing them.
I want, instead, to tell a tale of the splendor of a mid-summer morning in
Kabul - golden strands of sun gently tickling dusty roofs and small, cracked
feet; globe sized roses in red, peach and pink; the smell of fresh bread
luring me into bakers' glass houses; the haunting call to prayer. The land
of majestic, proud mountains; a land of glittering gems.

Afghanistan is a land of barren, aching beauty. Afghans are the offspring of
this beauty, a proud and dignified people. Their land is a treasure chest;
their women the treasure. They are a treasure, precisely because they are
alive. Alive, but their lives are a battlefield, and their hearts are
broken. Yet they triumph. Their spirits soar to the peaks and back again.

Afghan women suffer in a sea of beauty. Their land has become a chest with
no treasure: The lakes, the rivers no longer flow. The night extinguishes
the light into darkness. The snow and cold pierce those old, tired bones.
The day starts before dawn, with the chill of eight little pairs of hands
fighting over one pair of stiff plastic shoes. The propane has flown away
and the mouths are so hungry. A cold sip of tea, a half morsel of dry
bread. The path is steep and icy; a treacherous journey down. The horns and
pollution meld into one below. The cars drive by, twelve feet hanging out of
each trunk, bodies getting in, out, crushed and squeezed, breath held in,
the words of Allah exhaled through the front dash. A flowing sea in a dusty
land; everyone going somewhere, nowhere, everywhere.

She reaches the university; standing at the base of the mountain. It is the
future's foundation, built on cracks. Cold, dark hallways, urine and
something else trickles out from under the door, no water again today. The
last door on the right. Forty six students; six chairs, two without seats,
one backless. Reaching into her pocket, there is no chalk. Crumpled class
notes, stained with the legacy, the trauma of history. Textbooks? Not today.
Not yesterday. Perhaps tomorrow. Ninety two eyes, expectant, patient,
angry, hollow. The lesson begins, then ends. Then another; another still.

Weary, it is time. It's been on her mind like a hot shower since dawn. The
second floor. Above the cold, empty library. There is a warm, bright,
welcoming space. A chair. A smiling face. Paper. A connection to the outside
world. There is more than this. Out there, somewhere. Someone. Dry, aching
fingers, fumbling over the keyboard. Password? Username? Memory. Memory.
Memory. Computers. So difficult to operate. It is ringing.

Red or green? The green button.

She presses. Green. Lifeline. A warm, caring voice. English. The world.

Just for her.

by Sky McLaughlin, 2009
English Language Program Director, Higher Education Project, Afghanistan

As an addendum, AIWR is always looking for more supporters and volunteers - if you are female and skypable and want to connect with women in Afghanistan or other Central Asian countries, check the link above and contact them. From my own experience, i can certainly recommend both the organization and the personal value of bouncing through satellite signals to help give women the skills and confidence they want to reach out to the world and make their own dreams of freedom, personal development and real national security become a reality.