FICTION
Women’s view
The Hindu
AUNOHITA MOJUMDAR
A Thousand Splendid Suns documents, in vivid detail, the lives of Afghan women, in both the richness and the poverty of their lives.
Hosseini doesn’t make any overt political choices amongst the warring factions, but does portray the mujahideen years and that of the Taliban as the worst for women.
A second book is often an unfortunate addendum to a great first book, a limping shadow that disappoints, lurks and then disappears into obscurity, taking with it the author who is quickly transformed from the creator of a best seller to the writer wh o could not repeat his genius. Not so Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns.Splendid repeat
The Afghan-born author’s book has shot to the top of the bestsellers lists soon after its simultaneous release in several languages. Hosseini, it appears, can rest easy, at least with his publishers, having repeated the success that came to him with his debut novel The Kite Runner, which explored the story of friendship between two Afghan boys.
Comparisons between the two books are inevitable, more so because Hosseini’s new novel returns to some of the territory familiarised in the first book. Yet the stomping ground is quite different. The first person narrative is replaced by the slower cadence of lives observed. In A Thousand Splendid Suns the main characters are all women — four portraits spanning four generations and six different periods of conflict in Afghanistan. The monarchy, the new republic, the Sov iet incursion and its puppet government, the short-lived mujahideen government followed by the chaos of the mujahideen wars, the brutal order of the Taliban, followed by the American-led “bombing to liberation” and the current government.
Most of the story takes place in Kabul and in the Western city of Herat with a brief incursion into neighbouring Pakistan which has hosted million of Afghan refugees during the long years of conflict.
The core of the story revolves around two of the four women who are divided by almost a generation and by social segregation. The story of each woman is narrated in alternating chapters and the two halves slowly come together. The book documents their relationship or their many relationships with each other which they develop, discard and transcend until a climactic moment.Story worth telling
But the tale is more than a tale of two women. If The Kite Runner explored and brought alive some of the complexities of interrelationships in a ethnically diverse and unequal society shattered by war, A Thousand Splen did Suns documents, in vivid detail, the lives of many Afghan women, in both the richness and the poverty of their lives and that is a story worth telling and retelling.
Nearly six years after the so-called liberation of Afghanistan, Afghan women could well question whether this liberation was for just half of the country’s population. The denial of basic human rights to women, which demonised the Taliban and helped build the international support for the invasion, continues to be practised to varying degrees in Afghanistan. Though Afghan women now have equal rights on paper, strong and repressive social mores dictate otherwise. For the slightest degree of freedom to participate in public spaces and civil society, women are dependent on the goodwill of their families, husbands, in-laws, community, ethnic tribe and the generosity of the judiciary. Women, sometimes girls as young as seven, are still bartered to settle debts and seal bargains and the criminal system treats women running away from domestic abuse and sexual violence as perpetrators of a crime, and not as its victims, for having violated the family honour. Hosseini doesn’t make any overt political choices amongst the warring factions, but does portray the mujahideen years and that of the Taliban as the worst for women. The current situation is portrayed as a beneficial one for Afghanistan and for its women.Complex tapestry
Hosseini is a good storyteller and he weaves a tapestry in which politics, ethnicity and economics forms the backdrop, tinting it with the sounds, smells and colours of Afghanistan. Different lives and events are drawn together like strands of a warp and weft. He counts the victims, the dead and the maimed but also the survivors. One of the most powerful parts of the book is the documentation of the struggle to survive, to find enough food: the slow progress from wholesome meals to scratchy diets, the slow loss of weight, the malnourishment leading to quick aging, the creeping illnesses which mirror the political emaciation of Afghanistan.
The pace, the voice and the march of the book is distinct and different from The Kite Runner, lacking a certain urgent immediacy of the earlier book. It is at the end of the book, however, that the author of The Kite Runner shows up clearly: the build up, the climactic moment and the dissipation of tension into a neat and regular ending. The tidying up of loose ends, bringing order to the mess and mash and unfinished beginnings of real life, the trimming of a wild garden into a well- manicured lawn. It is also perhaps what makes A Thousand Splendid Suns a bestseller and a good book, and keeps it from becoming a great one.
August 06, 2007
The story behind the stories
Special Report
The story behind the stories
Newsline
Even post-Taliban, journalism in Afghanistan is not for the faint-hearted, says Aunohita Mojumdar, a reporter based in Kabul.
The Taliban may have retreated, taking with them the extreme controls on all forms of independent media in Afghanistan. However, even in present-day Afghanistan, being a journalist is not for the faint-hearted. With no tradition of independent journalism in the country, increasing insecurity, lack of information, absence of physical infrastructure and a deepening financial crisis, Afghanistan's media are in an unenviable spot.
Though the Taliban are generally blamed for the controls that virtually eliminated all but the state media, even prior to the emergence of the Taliban, media were not entirely independent. "We did not even understand the concept of an independent media," says an Afghan journalist candidly. "We did not have much exposure to the international media and thought that being aligned to one group or the other was quite normal." The result was that the media derived its strength, financial resources and protection from groups, communities or individuals it was aligned to, rather than from recognition of its independence.
While media organisations have attempted to chart an independent path in the last five years, the recognition of this is slow to come, especially in remote areas where the role of a journalist is scarcely understood. In many rural areas, even today, survival is a matter of negotiations; who you know and how you behave determine your chances of survival in areas where the state has either not reached or exercises scant control. Being a journalist, however, entails challenging the very sources of power which could provide protection. For most journalists in rural areas, survival depends on balancing out conflicting interests, deciding what issues to report on, who to report about and when to report it.
Those challenged by such reporting often resort to their own form of summary justice, which may involve seizure of materials, and going as far as threats, detentions, tortures and finally murders. While the overt violence grabs the headlines, what goes largely unreported is the daily self-censorship exercised by all Afghan journalists. Whether it is deciding how much of the content may be considered against the tradition of the country and lead to reprisals or deciding whether the source of power in a remote area is too powerful to be criticised, each media organisation draws its own limits.
Tolo TV, owned by an Australian Afghan family, for instance, has been pushing the boundaries of acceptable programming by using a large amount of foreign content and snappy, urban-oriented entertainment programmes. However, many in the Afghan media feel "the TV channel goes too far in the current context of Afghanistan," even while defending their own boundaries.
In the more remote rural areas, it may not even be the content that is offensive. There are instances where journalists asking routine questions have been detained by locals on suspicions of being spys on the assumption that that is the only reason why strangers would come asking questions.
Reporting on the battle against the Taliban is fraught with danger. It is difficult to get to the areas where there is often heavy bombardment and 'collateral damage.' The Taliban have also 'arrested' several journalists who had gone into the areas where they hold sway, the most recent example of detention being the case of the Afghan journalist Ajmal Naqshbandi, who was finally killed by the Taliban.
Naqshbandi's case starkly illustrates the double standards that exist for journalists in this country. Five-and-a half years after the liberation of their country, Afghan journalists still continue to be second-class citizens, inferior to their international, especially western colleagues. Whether it is sections of the international community or the Afghan government, international journalists find it much easier to access information and get interviews and appointments than their Afghan counterparts, especially those working for Afghan media organisations rather than international media outlets. Though this is partially fed by the language barrier (most Afghans do not speak English), there is sufficient anecdotal evidence suggesting that westerners and non-westerners usually receive different treatment. Fear of being completely blacklisted keeps Afghan journalists from lodging formal complaints, but not from sharing their grievances privately. Instances range from one in which an embassy kept Afghan reporters lined up in the sun for several hours while international journalists had lunch inside prior to a briefing, to requests for appointments being turned down without any substantive reasons.
Afghan journalists also work in conditions that are usually much more fraught with danger. Even while they run greater risks from societal displeasure, incurring the wrath of local commanders or criminals, they are usually poorly paid and unprotected in comparison to their Afghan counterparts.
Though the situation of Afghan journalists has improved over the last two years, even the occasional incident of discrimination is enough to reinforce the feeling of humiliation. However, international journalists also receive their share of humiliation, doled out regularly on grounds of security. Simple but routine examples are at the presidential palace where male journalists are lined up facing a wall, or when journalists outside the ISAF base have to stand, week after week, for usually an hour in the snow, rain or sun because five years have not been long enough for ISAF to build a tin roof that could shelter them.
While insecurity is a primary issue, it is not the only one. The lack of physical infrastructure makes operating a news agency a difficult task. Scarce power, especially in winter when power comes on for a few hours every few days, bad roads and insufficient technology plague news operations. An artificial economy sustained by the international community has made most buildings almost out of bounds for the ordinary Afghan with rents in thousands rather than hundreds of dollars.
Danish Karokhel, the director and editor-in-chief of Pajhwok Afghan News, worries about how to sustain his organisation. Pajhwok, like many other media organisations, was set up with a large influx of aid money. The funding has dropped sharply, and while Pajhwok currently raises 50% of its expenditure, it is not sure whether it can meet the shortfall when its funding is cut by another 50% from August 1. "A large number of journalists have become unemployed and have turned to other professions," says Karokhel. Several media organisations have also folded up. In a farewell editorial, the editor and founder of Kabul Weekly, Fahim Dashty, spoke passionately of his struggle to keep alive the weekly before deciding he could not sustain it any longer. Unspoken among journalists is the threat that organisations unwilling to fold may start taking money from different and dubious sources. With the power of the media slowly unfolding, control of news organisations is to be coveted by those wielding power.
In fact, it is the success and reach of the independent media that has perhaps led to increasing calls for its control. In the struggle over territory and power, all sides expect the media to join the battle on their side. The government itself has resorted to a number of measures to control information. The last three years have seen increasing restraints on government servants, including doctors, policemen and teachers, who are asked to obtain clearance prior to any interaction with the press. In the absence of any databases, information-gathering depends, of course, on the willingness of people to speak to the press. More specifically, access to information can also be used to reward those who provide favourable coverage.
More direct attempts to intervene in press coverage include a mysterious memo that emanated from the president's office before being disowned, which spelt out specific parameters for reportage. More recently, there have been attempts to impose restraints on the media through a media bill currently being debated in parliament.
Adding to the problems faced by the journalists is the difficulty of uniting different groups. While media organisations have been able to establish independence in reporting, it has been more difficult for journalists to unite on issues threatening media freedom. Years of ethnic, community and political divides still cast their shadows, as do gender stereotypes.
As managing editor of Pajhwok, Afghanistan's single largest independent news agency, Farida Nekzad manages far more than news. Dealing with threats to her correspondents in the provinces and urging on her reporters in an environment where there are increasing controls on information, is no mean task. On a daily basis Nekzad has to counter conservative attitudes from society, which challenge her role as a newswoman. In an environment where women are expected to largely efface themselves or fulfill roles within their home environments, there is little space or respect for those like her. However, against all odds, Nekzad and a number of gutsy young women have come forward to take on the most challenging roles. As managers, newscasters, reporters and even photographers, they work shoulder to shoulder with men, demanding respect and stretching boundaries. They give hope that the Afghan media will find within itself the strength to counter the challenges of what promises to be a critical year.
(The author is a Kabul-based Indian journalist).
The story behind the stories
Newsline
Even post-Taliban, journalism in Afghanistan is not for the faint-hearted, says Aunohita Mojumdar, a reporter based in Kabul.
The Taliban may have retreated, taking with them the extreme controls on all forms of independent media in Afghanistan. However, even in present-day Afghanistan, being a journalist is not for the faint-hearted. With no tradition of independent journalism in the country, increasing insecurity, lack of information, absence of physical infrastructure and a deepening financial crisis, Afghanistan's media are in an unenviable spot.
Though the Taliban are generally blamed for the controls that virtually eliminated all but the state media, even prior to the emergence of the Taliban, media were not entirely independent. "We did not even understand the concept of an independent media," says an Afghan journalist candidly. "We did not have much exposure to the international media and thought that being aligned to one group or the other was quite normal." The result was that the media derived its strength, financial resources and protection from groups, communities or individuals it was aligned to, rather than from recognition of its independence.
While media organisations have attempted to chart an independent path in the last five years, the recognition of this is slow to come, especially in remote areas where the role of a journalist is scarcely understood. In many rural areas, even today, survival is a matter of negotiations; who you know and how you behave determine your chances of survival in areas where the state has either not reached or exercises scant control. Being a journalist, however, entails challenging the very sources of power which could provide protection. For most journalists in rural areas, survival depends on balancing out conflicting interests, deciding what issues to report on, who to report about and when to report it.
Those challenged by such reporting often resort to their own form of summary justice, which may involve seizure of materials, and going as far as threats, detentions, tortures and finally murders. While the overt violence grabs the headlines, what goes largely unreported is the daily self-censorship exercised by all Afghan journalists. Whether it is deciding how much of the content may be considered against the tradition of the country and lead to reprisals or deciding whether the source of power in a remote area is too powerful to be criticised, each media organisation draws its own limits.
Tolo TV, owned by an Australian Afghan family, for instance, has been pushing the boundaries of acceptable programming by using a large amount of foreign content and snappy, urban-oriented entertainment programmes. However, many in the Afghan media feel "the TV channel goes too far in the current context of Afghanistan," even while defending their own boundaries.
In the more remote rural areas, it may not even be the content that is offensive. There are instances where journalists asking routine questions have been detained by locals on suspicions of being spys on the assumption that that is the only reason why strangers would come asking questions.
Reporting on the battle against the Taliban is fraught with danger. It is difficult to get to the areas where there is often heavy bombardment and 'collateral damage.' The Taliban have also 'arrested' several journalists who had gone into the areas where they hold sway, the most recent example of detention being the case of the Afghan journalist Ajmal Naqshbandi, who was finally killed by the Taliban.
Naqshbandi's case starkly illustrates the double standards that exist for journalists in this country. Five-and-a half years after the liberation of their country, Afghan journalists still continue to be second-class citizens, inferior to their international, especially western colleagues. Whether it is sections of the international community or the Afghan government, international journalists find it much easier to access information and get interviews and appointments than their Afghan counterparts, especially those working for Afghan media organisations rather than international media outlets. Though this is partially fed by the language barrier (most Afghans do not speak English), there is sufficient anecdotal evidence suggesting that westerners and non-westerners usually receive different treatment. Fear of being completely blacklisted keeps Afghan journalists from lodging formal complaints, but not from sharing their grievances privately. Instances range from one in which an embassy kept Afghan reporters lined up in the sun for several hours while international journalists had lunch inside prior to a briefing, to requests for appointments being turned down without any substantive reasons.
Afghan journalists also work in conditions that are usually much more fraught with danger. Even while they run greater risks from societal displeasure, incurring the wrath of local commanders or criminals, they are usually poorly paid and unprotected in comparison to their Afghan counterparts.
Though the situation of Afghan journalists has improved over the last two years, even the occasional incident of discrimination is enough to reinforce the feeling of humiliation. However, international journalists also receive their share of humiliation, doled out regularly on grounds of security. Simple but routine examples are at the presidential palace where male journalists are lined up facing a wall, or when journalists outside the ISAF base have to stand, week after week, for usually an hour in the snow, rain or sun because five years have not been long enough for ISAF to build a tin roof that could shelter them.
While insecurity is a primary issue, it is not the only one. The lack of physical infrastructure makes operating a news agency a difficult task. Scarce power, especially in winter when power comes on for a few hours every few days, bad roads and insufficient technology plague news operations. An artificial economy sustained by the international community has made most buildings almost out of bounds for the ordinary Afghan with rents in thousands rather than hundreds of dollars.
Danish Karokhel, the director and editor-in-chief of Pajhwok Afghan News, worries about how to sustain his organisation. Pajhwok, like many other media organisations, was set up with a large influx of aid money. The funding has dropped sharply, and while Pajhwok currently raises 50% of its expenditure, it is not sure whether it can meet the shortfall when its funding is cut by another 50% from August 1. "A large number of journalists have become unemployed and have turned to other professions," says Karokhel. Several media organisations have also folded up. In a farewell editorial, the editor and founder of Kabul Weekly, Fahim Dashty, spoke passionately of his struggle to keep alive the weekly before deciding he could not sustain it any longer. Unspoken among journalists is the threat that organisations unwilling to fold may start taking money from different and dubious sources. With the power of the media slowly unfolding, control of news organisations is to be coveted by those wielding power.
In fact, it is the success and reach of the independent media that has perhaps led to increasing calls for its control. In the struggle over territory and power, all sides expect the media to join the battle on their side. The government itself has resorted to a number of measures to control information. The last three years have seen increasing restraints on government servants, including doctors, policemen and teachers, who are asked to obtain clearance prior to any interaction with the press. In the absence of any databases, information-gathering depends, of course, on the willingness of people to speak to the press. More specifically, access to information can also be used to reward those who provide favourable coverage.
More direct attempts to intervene in press coverage include a mysterious memo that emanated from the president's office before being disowned, which spelt out specific parameters for reportage. More recently, there have been attempts to impose restraints on the media through a media bill currently being debated in parliament.
Adding to the problems faced by the journalists is the difficulty of uniting different groups. While media organisations have been able to establish independence in reporting, it has been more difficult for journalists to unite on issues threatening media freedom. Years of ethnic, community and political divides still cast their shadows, as do gender stereotypes.
As managing editor of Pajhwok, Afghanistan's single largest independent news agency, Farida Nekzad manages far more than news. Dealing with threats to her correspondents in the provinces and urging on her reporters in an environment where there are increasing controls on information, is no mean task. On a daily basis Nekzad has to counter conservative attitudes from society, which challenge her role as a newswoman. In an environment where women are expected to largely efface themselves or fulfill roles within their home environments, there is little space or respect for those like her. However, against all odds, Nekzad and a number of gutsy young women have come forward to take on the most challenging roles. As managers, newscasters, reporters and even photographers, they work shoulder to shoulder with men, demanding respect and stretching boundaries. They give hope that the Afghan media will find within itself the strength to counter the challenges of what promises to be a critical year.
(The author is a Kabul-based Indian journalist).
The Deviant Diplomat
Little India
A diplomatic posting in Afghanistan is not everyone's cup of tea. Sandeep Kumar has made it his pot.
By:
Aunohita Mojumdar
It was the mid 1980s when the trend of abandoning small towns for the big bad world of city lights hadn't quite caught fire. Certainly the offspring of affluent business families in his town rarely left the roost. But even then Sandeep Kumar's feet were itching.
"It's always been this love of traveling, languages, interacting with new cultures, meeting people." So after a very English upbringing at the prestigious Doon School, Kumar left his town of Najibabad in Western Uttar Pradesh to join the Indian Foreign Service and see the world. 22 years later Kumar is still stepping out of the box. A diplomatic posting in Afghanistan is not everyone's cup of tea. The country has rudimentary services; cities, villages and families have been destroyed by 30 years of war. There are pitched battles for territorial control in South Afghanistan and elsewhere, including the capital city of Kabul, where bombs, suicide and rocket attacks are commonplace. In this city most foreigners live almost an embattled existence. Behind tall walls and barbed wire, they travel from one "secure location" to another. Surrounded by a large security apparatus that prevents them from taking public transport, walking, shopping and eating in local restaurants, most complete their postings in Afghanistan with limited contact with Afghans and Afghanistan. Life is lived in an artificial expat bubble that separates foreigners from Afghans, with the real and normal life experienced during frequent rest and recuperation breaks outside the country. In this peculiar milieu, Kumar stands out by his ability to lead a normal life.A walk around his flat is a tell tale giveaway of his wide ranging interests. The walls are covered by his oil paintings, the difference in colors and styles hreflecting the progression of his travels, from the rich reds and yellows of Cape Town to the muted blues and browns of Afghanistan's landscape. Musical instruments are strewn around. In a corner is his gym equipment, the essential tools of a junkie, a man who by his own confession, is addicted to the gym. He is working on a book, Musings from Afghanistan, in which he jots down his impressions of Afghanistan, the dust, the smells and tastes of the country, the human interactions, the concerns about the rebuilding of the nation.Before Cape he was in Hong Kong, Paris, Cambridge and Vietnam. In each place Kumar managed to claim a little bit of the country through his eclectic interests. In Vietnam he joined the Vietnamese symphony orchestra, singing Vietnamese songs, traveling and giving performances. "When we returned home there would be flowers at our doorsteps from appreciative listeners." In Afghanistan Kumar misses his Sitar, something he had to leave behind because of the difficulties of transporting it. When he arrived here Kumar was fearful of missing out on his gym regimen as well. But he soon found his niche. Not in the "international only" gyms frequented by the denizens of UN and other international organizations, but in an Afghan-only gym.He writes in his diary:"Hundred metres from my place: mostly young guys in trendy tracksuits, no women. I am the only foreigner, but I am not complaining as I get right of first use on the machines (traditional Afghan hospitality). However I have to constantly watch out for the bulky weights, some of which are beautifully carved out of old vehicle tyres, steel cans and discarded weapons that get swung around wildly in all directions... At times there is no electricity/fuel, in the generator, all movements are conducted in gaslight and although it is admittedly rather risky, I prefer to attribute romantic overtones to the situation: where else in the world does one get to gym by candlelight?"
Now Kumar's relationship with the gym regulars is one of friends. "They call up saying we want to come and cook pizza at your place." The crowning glory was the Mr Afghanistan body building competition last year when Kumar cast aside the usual diplomatic reticence to take part, preparing for a month on a strict diet. Finally, in the competition solely attended by Afghans, Kumar took his place in the spotlight to preen and flex his muscles cheered on by a wildly enthusiastic crowd.At the Indian embassy in Afghanistan, Kumar is a minister, the senior most diplomat after the ambassador. He administers India's large aid program to Afghanistan, a complex and politically sensitive task, meeting with ministers, officials and visiting around the country. But Kumar makes sure he makes time for painting. In Cape Town he picked up his brush after a gap of 10 year inspired by the amazing landscape. In Afghanistan the inspiration is Afghan women. Canvas after canvas is filled with paintings of women in blue burkhas. For Kumar the most amazing thing about the women is their strength. His favorite painting based on a picture that of a woman in a burkha her hand outstretched holding a gun, a policewoman from Kandahar practicing her shooting skills, a woman he was to meet later on.He muses in his diary: "There are five paintings, hreflecting the situation of women at a cross roads of life, against stark backdrops... I can feel their collective piercing gaze slicing through me.. the muse yields, the hear quivers, the sparks solder. The painter becomes the painting."Along with other Afghan men he has learnt to look out for the telltale signs under the burkha, the paint on the toe nails, the footwear that reveals more about the personality of the wearer. "I try to get my stare to ducs on the feet of the lady in blue to see what color toe nails she apprents to her torso, but am disappointed by her all-black non-revealing footwear...."Kumar's desire to partake of Afghan life fully takes him to Afghan homes, streets, places in the city normally avoided by expats and even Afghan orphanages. A friend Hameed is an Afghan government interpreter who gave up his own academic ambitions to put his brother through college and support his family. Hameed is thrilled when Kumar decided to perform namaz. Wahid has a medical degree, but cannot practice medicine, because of the inadequate salaries of doctor in Afghanistan. Kumar becomes involved in negotiations for Wahid's marriage, even as he decries Wahid's double standards towards women in his diary. "In his own way he has been illegally 'dating' several young girls as well, but wouldn't marry them. 'If a girl can date another man before marriage, then she is not wife material' he says simply. 'And what about the man who leads them on?' I am unable to ward off the aggression and sarcasm that has crept into my voice. But he just passes that off with a disarming shrug."Kumar learns that the relatively poorer border province of Paktika apparently has the highest bride price, ranging from $10-12,000. Why he wonders later, are women not treated better if they are so expensive?Kumar's book reveals a great deal about him. Written with a painful honesty, the book records every thought, his emotions, struggles, joys and lows with an almost embarrassing frankness. He struggles with his own frustrations when the problems of living in Kabul and the country get too much for him. In doing so, it also provides a glimpse of Afghanistan. Not the Afghanistan of academic tomes and sensational stories, but the ordinariness of living life in an extraordinary land.
Little India
A diplomatic posting in Afghanistan is not everyone's cup of tea. Sandeep Kumar has made it his pot.
By:
Aunohita Mojumdar
It was the mid 1980s when the trend of abandoning small towns for the big bad world of city lights hadn't quite caught fire. Certainly the offspring of affluent business families in his town rarely left the roost. But even then Sandeep Kumar's feet were itching.
"It's always been this love of traveling, languages, interacting with new cultures, meeting people." So after a very English upbringing at the prestigious Doon School, Kumar left his town of Najibabad in Western Uttar Pradesh to join the Indian Foreign Service and see the world. 22 years later Kumar is still stepping out of the box. A diplomatic posting in Afghanistan is not everyone's cup of tea. The country has rudimentary services; cities, villages and families have been destroyed by 30 years of war. There are pitched battles for territorial control in South Afghanistan and elsewhere, including the capital city of Kabul, where bombs, suicide and rocket attacks are commonplace. In this city most foreigners live almost an embattled existence. Behind tall walls and barbed wire, they travel from one "secure location" to another. Surrounded by a large security apparatus that prevents them from taking public transport, walking, shopping and eating in local restaurants, most complete their postings in Afghanistan with limited contact with Afghans and Afghanistan. Life is lived in an artificial expat bubble that separates foreigners from Afghans, with the real and normal life experienced during frequent rest and recuperation breaks outside the country. In this peculiar milieu, Kumar stands out by his ability to lead a normal life.A walk around his flat is a tell tale giveaway of his wide ranging interests. The walls are covered by his oil paintings, the difference in colors and styles hreflecting the progression of his travels, from the rich reds and yellows of Cape Town to the muted blues and browns of Afghanistan's landscape. Musical instruments are strewn around. In a corner is his gym equipment, the essential tools of a junkie, a man who by his own confession, is addicted to the gym. He is working on a book, Musings from Afghanistan, in which he jots down his impressions of Afghanistan, the dust, the smells and tastes of the country, the human interactions, the concerns about the rebuilding of the nation.Before Cape he was in Hong Kong, Paris, Cambridge and Vietnam. In each place Kumar managed to claim a little bit of the country through his eclectic interests. In Vietnam he joined the Vietnamese symphony orchestra, singing Vietnamese songs, traveling and giving performances. "When we returned home there would be flowers at our doorsteps from appreciative listeners." In Afghanistan Kumar misses his Sitar, something he had to leave behind because of the difficulties of transporting it. When he arrived here Kumar was fearful of missing out on his gym regimen as well. But he soon found his niche. Not in the "international only" gyms frequented by the denizens of UN and other international organizations, but in an Afghan-only gym.He writes in his diary:"Hundred metres from my place: mostly young guys in trendy tracksuits, no women. I am the only foreigner, but I am not complaining as I get right of first use on the machines (traditional Afghan hospitality). However I have to constantly watch out for the bulky weights, some of which are beautifully carved out of old vehicle tyres, steel cans and discarded weapons that get swung around wildly in all directions... At times there is no electricity/fuel, in the generator, all movements are conducted in gaslight and although it is admittedly rather risky, I prefer to attribute romantic overtones to the situation: where else in the world does one get to gym by candlelight?"
Now Kumar's relationship with the gym regulars is one of friends. "They call up saying we want to come and cook pizza at your place." The crowning glory was the Mr Afghanistan body building competition last year when Kumar cast aside the usual diplomatic reticence to take part, preparing for a month on a strict diet. Finally, in the competition solely attended by Afghans, Kumar took his place in the spotlight to preen and flex his muscles cheered on by a wildly enthusiastic crowd.At the Indian embassy in Afghanistan, Kumar is a minister, the senior most diplomat after the ambassador. He administers India's large aid program to Afghanistan, a complex and politically sensitive task, meeting with ministers, officials and visiting around the country. But Kumar makes sure he makes time for painting. In Cape Town he picked up his brush after a gap of 10 year inspired by the amazing landscape. In Afghanistan the inspiration is Afghan women. Canvas after canvas is filled with paintings of women in blue burkhas. For Kumar the most amazing thing about the women is their strength. His favorite painting based on a picture that of a woman in a burkha her hand outstretched holding a gun, a policewoman from Kandahar practicing her shooting skills, a woman he was to meet later on.He muses in his diary: "There are five paintings, hreflecting the situation of women at a cross roads of life, against stark backdrops... I can feel their collective piercing gaze slicing through me.. the muse yields, the hear quivers, the sparks solder. The painter becomes the painting."Along with other Afghan men he has learnt to look out for the telltale signs under the burkha, the paint on the toe nails, the footwear that reveals more about the personality of the wearer. "I try to get my stare to ducs on the feet of the lady in blue to see what color toe nails she apprents to her torso, but am disappointed by her all-black non-revealing footwear...."Kumar's desire to partake of Afghan life fully takes him to Afghan homes, streets, places in the city normally avoided by expats and even Afghan orphanages. A friend Hameed is an Afghan government interpreter who gave up his own academic ambitions to put his brother through college and support his family. Hameed is thrilled when Kumar decided to perform namaz. Wahid has a medical degree, but cannot practice medicine, because of the inadequate salaries of doctor in Afghanistan. Kumar becomes involved in negotiations for Wahid's marriage, even as he decries Wahid's double standards towards women in his diary. "In his own way he has been illegally 'dating' several young girls as well, but wouldn't marry them. 'If a girl can date another man before marriage, then she is not wife material' he says simply. 'And what about the man who leads them on?' I am unable to ward off the aggression and sarcasm that has crept into my voice. But he just passes that off with a disarming shrug."Kumar learns that the relatively poorer border province of Paktika apparently has the highest bride price, ranging from $10-12,000. Why he wonders later, are women not treated better if they are so expensive?Kumar's book reveals a great deal about him. Written with a painful honesty, the book records every thought, his emotions, struggles, joys and lows with an almost embarrassing frankness. He struggles with his own frustrations when the problems of living in Kabul and the country get too much for him. In doing so, it also provides a glimpse of Afghanistan. Not the Afghanistan of academic tomes and sensational stories, but the ordinariness of living life in an extraordinary land.
Afghan king presided over lengthy golden age
Afghan king presided over lengthy golden age
By Aunohita Mojumdar
Financial Times
Published: July 24 2007 03:00 Last updated: July 24 2007 03:00
Zahir Shah, the former monarch who has died in Kabul at the age of 92, watched his country descend into a period of extraordinary tumult. His peaceful, un-interrupted reign of 40 years was followed by an exile of nearly three decades after he was deposed in a bloodless coup by his cousin.
In exile, he saw his country passing from his cousin's hands into those of a communist regime supported by the Soviet Union. For a while, Afghanistan was a cold-war battleground, but when Soviet troops eventually left after being defeated by Mujahideen fighters there followed a period of bloody, internecine conflict.
The Taliban movement of fundamentalist Islamists took over, until they were ousted following 9/11, and many Afghans clamoured for Zahir Shah to return. He did so in 2002, but not as king - merely with the title of Father of the Nation.
Born in 1914, he was educated in Kabul and Montpellier in southern France. Returning to Afghanistan, he was trained as an army officer and became a government minister. His reign began bloodily. In 1933, the 19-year-old Zahir Shah was thrust abruptly into the role of king when his father Nadir Shah was murdered in front of him.
Though nominally the monarch, power was exercised largely by his uncles, and it was only in the 1950s that Zahir Shah assumed full control. Although never a dynamic ruler, his neutral foreign policy and limited liberalisation fostered a lengthy period of peace - sometimes seen today as a golden age. His reign, one of the longest in Afghanistan's history, saw the founding of democratic institutions, including parliament, elections and a new constitution.
He was married in 1931 to Lady Homira. The couple had two daughters and five sons. The royal family org-anised hunting trips and lavish parties, and espoused liberal values. Women enjoyed considerable freedom to participate in public life.
But economic development remained largely confined to Kabul. This led to discontent and paved the way for a coup in 1973 by Zahir's cousin and former prime minister Mohammad Daud Khan.
Zahir Shah, who was deposed during a trip to Italy, remained there in exile until 2002. Following the fall of the Taliban regime, many thought that Zahir Shah, a Persian-speaking Pashtun, would be a unifying factor as king, who would be acceptable to the country's disparate ethnic groups. Instead, he stepped aside and became a revered but largely ineffectual and ailing figure. His family, however, retain an influential position in Afghan politics - notably through his grandson, the outspoken Mustafa Zahir.
For Afghanistan, the death of Zahir Shah brings formal closure to an era of dynastic rule. Yet the democratic reforms and institutions he introduced during his 40- year reign are those Afghanistan is trying to implement once again - an enduring tribute to his legacy.
Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2007
By Aunohita Mojumdar
Financial Times
Published: July 24 2007 03:00 Last updated: July 24 2007 03:00
Zahir Shah, the former monarch who has died in Kabul at the age of 92, watched his country descend into a period of extraordinary tumult. His peaceful, un-interrupted reign of 40 years was followed by an exile of nearly three decades after he was deposed in a bloodless coup by his cousin.
In exile, he saw his country passing from his cousin's hands into those of a communist regime supported by the Soviet Union. For a while, Afghanistan was a cold-war battleground, but when Soviet troops eventually left after being defeated by Mujahideen fighters there followed a period of bloody, internecine conflict.
The Taliban movement of fundamentalist Islamists took over, until they were ousted following 9/11, and many Afghans clamoured for Zahir Shah to return. He did so in 2002, but not as king - merely with the title of Father of the Nation.
Born in 1914, he was educated in Kabul and Montpellier in southern France. Returning to Afghanistan, he was trained as an army officer and became a government minister. His reign began bloodily. In 1933, the 19-year-old Zahir Shah was thrust abruptly into the role of king when his father Nadir Shah was murdered in front of him.
Though nominally the monarch, power was exercised largely by his uncles, and it was only in the 1950s that Zahir Shah assumed full control. Although never a dynamic ruler, his neutral foreign policy and limited liberalisation fostered a lengthy period of peace - sometimes seen today as a golden age. His reign, one of the longest in Afghanistan's history, saw the founding of democratic institutions, including parliament, elections and a new constitution.
He was married in 1931 to Lady Homira. The couple had two daughters and five sons. The royal family org-anised hunting trips and lavish parties, and espoused liberal values. Women enjoyed considerable freedom to participate in public life.
But economic development remained largely confined to Kabul. This led to discontent and paved the way for a coup in 1973 by Zahir's cousin and former prime minister Mohammad Daud Khan.
Zahir Shah, who was deposed during a trip to Italy, remained there in exile until 2002. Following the fall of the Taliban regime, many thought that Zahir Shah, a Persian-speaking Pashtun, would be a unifying factor as king, who would be acceptable to the country's disparate ethnic groups. Instead, he stepped aside and became a revered but largely ineffectual and ailing figure. His family, however, retain an influential position in Afghan politics - notably through his grandson, the outspoken Mustafa Zahir.
For Afghanistan, the death of Zahir Shah brings formal closure to an era of dynastic rule. Yet the democratic reforms and institutions he introduced during his 40- year reign are those Afghanistan is trying to implement once again - an enduring tribute to his legacy.
Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2007
A Make-up Mission
A Make-up Mission
Book Review
Aunohita M0jumdar
"She must be married. She does her eyebrows," said my Afghan friend Safia. Despite having grown up in the US, Safia is aware of the entire regimen of codes that govern the social behavior of Afghan women. For example, eyebrows indicate the marital status. Plucked eyebrows indicate marriage. If, by chance, an unmarried woman has plucked eyebrows, it is a suggestion that either she or her family is not very strict about 'morality'.So, when Deborah Rodriguez stepped into this intricate world governed by thousands of minutiae, it was a little like a bull in a China shop. Loud, brazen and colorful, Rodriguez (Debbie, to everyone in Kabul), a hairdresser from Michigan, USA, came to post-Taliban Afghanistan as part of a group offering humanitarian aid to the war-torn nation. Running away from a bad marriage, she was looking for something more fulfilling to do in life.
In her recent book, 'Kabul Beauty School ', Debbie documents how she arrived in Afghanistan to work with an aid group - mostly comprising doctors, nurses and therapists - but soon realized that she was of little help to them.However, she found her calling in a most unique service. In post-Taliban Afghanistan, the international community is not quite wearing jackboots and camouflage fatigues. Most are well-paid internationals, desperate for some beauty care. Debbie immediately saw potential in that.One to mix around easily with locals as well, Debbie discovered that until the Taliban came to power, Afghan women used to run their own beauty salons. An idea dawned on her. She realized that upgrading the skills of Afghan beauticians, forced underground during the Taliban ban on beauty salons, would be a way of contributing and helping destitute women. As she began collecting money and supplies for the school, she says, she realized another group of women had the same idea at the same time and she decided to join them. Thus was born the Kabul Beauty School.But, this is where Debbie's account begins to deviate from what other women involved in Kabul 's first beauty school have to say. Most have expressed their displeasure at Debbie not giving them their due. But Debbie and her co-author, Kristin Ohlson, deny that she has taken sole credit for the idea and the work.However, in the book, apart from acknowledging the contribution of Mary Meakin - who has stayed and worked in Afghanistan for over 50 years - Debbie chooses to blank out all others. No one else seems to exist in this story of courage, struggle and hope - except for Debbie and the women she is helping.Most reviewers, when they have not been gasping in awe at her work in Afghanistan, have chosen to document the claims and counter-claims of the contending sides. Certainly, the importance of factual narrative in an autobiography is essential. However, the book would have been equally fascinating as a work of fiction.While Debbie's flamboyant personality and marriage to a former commander (who worked for northern Afghan warlord Rasheed Dostum), make the book an easy-sell on talk shows, its appeal actually lies completely outside the how-I-married-an-Afghan-'mujahid'-and-saved-Afghan-women routine.What is fascinating about the book is the wealth of detail, the colors, patterns, dialogues and gestures that document Debbie's odyssey through Kabul. Though tomes have been written analyzing post-conflict Afghanistan, Debbie's narrative brings alive the tapestry of lives, especially of women in post-conflict Kabul, almost without a self-awareness of the documentation.Through the almost surreally-dizzy world of beauty salons, we see lives unfolding. Whether it is the problem of running hair dryers without electricity or the description of markets lined with butcher's stalls with headless carcasses or the harassment of women on the street, Debbie brings to life the sights and smells of the city.Similar is the way her layers of documentation reveal the lives of ordinary women in Kabul: beauticians desperate to join the beauty school and earn a living; or the girl at the salon who tries to get her co-wife to push her husband to divorce so she can be free of an oppressive marriage; or the young girl who has to prove she is a virgin on the night of her marriage even though she is not.At another level, Debbie provides a parallel to the lives of her girls at the beauty parlor. Trapped in an abusive marriage, Debbie tried to cope by "getting religion". Yet, she found little comfort in her spiritual leaders, who could not support her decision for divorce (as her husband had not committed adultery). Not too different from Afghan women, who are told to maintain their marriage despite all odds.Once in Afghanistan, Debbie's friends decided that she needed 'a husband', discussing a prospective partnership as if "offering me another egg roll". Despite her initial surprise, she did accept the egg roll, a mere 20 days after meeting with Samer Mohammed Abdul Khan or Sher, a henchman of Dostum. Debbie speaks frankly of language difficulties and cultural barriers. Her husband has another wife and seven daughters in Saudi Arabia and even though she was angry and unhappy when she found out, she accepted them.Despite this apparent frankness, it is clear from the book that Debbie has revealed as much as she has hidden, turning up only a small sliver of her life for inspection. How does she deal with marriage to a man she had known for less than a month and who speaks scant English? Why did she sideline all her co- workers at the salon in the book? What about her problems with the Ministry of Women's Affairs, which virtually shut down her salon/beauty school on the grounds that she was running a for-profit business? (Debbie herself acknowledges settling a tax demand through a large pay-off.)Unfortunately, these questions must wait: Debbie, a frequent fixture at the Kabul Coffee House, which she owns, has left the country. It is said she may not return and that the book may have forced her to leave the country, of which she wrote in the closing sentences of her book: "As soon as I set my foot on this soil, I knew I'd somehow managed to come home."('Kabul Beauty School: An American Woman Goes Behind the Veil' by Deborah Rodriguez, co-written with Kristin Ohlson. Published by Random House. Price Rs.700/US $17.5)
June 17, 2007
By arrangement with WFS B
Book Review
Aunohita M0jumdar
"She must be married. She does her eyebrows," said my Afghan friend Safia. Despite having grown up in the US, Safia is aware of the entire regimen of codes that govern the social behavior of Afghan women. For example, eyebrows indicate the marital status. Plucked eyebrows indicate marriage. If, by chance, an unmarried woman has plucked eyebrows, it is a suggestion that either she or her family is not very strict about 'morality'.So, when Deborah Rodriguez stepped into this intricate world governed by thousands of minutiae, it was a little like a bull in a China shop. Loud, brazen and colorful, Rodriguez (Debbie, to everyone in Kabul), a hairdresser from Michigan, USA, came to post-Taliban Afghanistan as part of a group offering humanitarian aid to the war-torn nation. Running away from a bad marriage, she was looking for something more fulfilling to do in life.
In her recent book, 'Kabul Beauty School ', Debbie documents how she arrived in Afghanistan to work with an aid group - mostly comprising doctors, nurses and therapists - but soon realized that she was of little help to them.However, she found her calling in a most unique service. In post-Taliban Afghanistan, the international community is not quite wearing jackboots and camouflage fatigues. Most are well-paid internationals, desperate for some beauty care. Debbie immediately saw potential in that.One to mix around easily with locals as well, Debbie discovered that until the Taliban came to power, Afghan women used to run their own beauty salons. An idea dawned on her. She realized that upgrading the skills of Afghan beauticians, forced underground during the Taliban ban on beauty salons, would be a way of contributing and helping destitute women. As she began collecting money and supplies for the school, she says, she realized another group of women had the same idea at the same time and she decided to join them. Thus was born the Kabul Beauty School.But, this is where Debbie's account begins to deviate from what other women involved in Kabul 's first beauty school have to say. Most have expressed their displeasure at Debbie not giving them their due. But Debbie and her co-author, Kristin Ohlson, deny that she has taken sole credit for the idea and the work.However, in the book, apart from acknowledging the contribution of Mary Meakin - who has stayed and worked in Afghanistan for over 50 years - Debbie chooses to blank out all others. No one else seems to exist in this story of courage, struggle and hope - except for Debbie and the women she is helping.Most reviewers, when they have not been gasping in awe at her work in Afghanistan, have chosen to document the claims and counter-claims of the contending sides. Certainly, the importance of factual narrative in an autobiography is essential. However, the book would have been equally fascinating as a work of fiction.While Debbie's flamboyant personality and marriage to a former commander (who worked for northern Afghan warlord Rasheed Dostum), make the book an easy-sell on talk shows, its appeal actually lies completely outside the how-I-married-an-Afghan-'mujahid'-and-saved-Afghan-women routine.What is fascinating about the book is the wealth of detail, the colors, patterns, dialogues and gestures that document Debbie's odyssey through Kabul. Though tomes have been written analyzing post-conflict Afghanistan, Debbie's narrative brings alive the tapestry of lives, especially of women in post-conflict Kabul, almost without a self-awareness of the documentation.Through the almost surreally-dizzy world of beauty salons, we see lives unfolding. Whether it is the problem of running hair dryers without electricity or the description of markets lined with butcher's stalls with headless carcasses or the harassment of women on the street, Debbie brings to life the sights and smells of the city.Similar is the way her layers of documentation reveal the lives of ordinary women in Kabul: beauticians desperate to join the beauty school and earn a living; or the girl at the salon who tries to get her co-wife to push her husband to divorce so she can be free of an oppressive marriage; or the young girl who has to prove she is a virgin on the night of her marriage even though she is not.At another level, Debbie provides a parallel to the lives of her girls at the beauty parlor. Trapped in an abusive marriage, Debbie tried to cope by "getting religion". Yet, she found little comfort in her spiritual leaders, who could not support her decision for divorce (as her husband had not committed adultery). Not too different from Afghan women, who are told to maintain their marriage despite all odds.Once in Afghanistan, Debbie's friends decided that she needed 'a husband', discussing a prospective partnership as if "offering me another egg roll". Despite her initial surprise, she did accept the egg roll, a mere 20 days after meeting with Samer Mohammed Abdul Khan or Sher, a henchman of Dostum. Debbie speaks frankly of language difficulties and cultural barriers. Her husband has another wife and seven daughters in Saudi Arabia and even though she was angry and unhappy when she found out, she accepted them.Despite this apparent frankness, it is clear from the book that Debbie has revealed as much as she has hidden, turning up only a small sliver of her life for inspection. How does she deal with marriage to a man she had known for less than a month and who speaks scant English? Why did she sideline all her co- workers at the salon in the book? What about her problems with the Ministry of Women's Affairs, which virtually shut down her salon/beauty school on the grounds that she was running a for-profit business? (Debbie herself acknowledges settling a tax demand through a large pay-off.)Unfortunately, these questions must wait: Debbie, a frequent fixture at the Kabul Coffee House, which she owns, has left the country. It is said she may not return and that the book may have forced her to leave the country, of which she wrote in the closing sentences of her book: "As soon as I set my foot on this soil, I knew I'd somehow managed to come home."('Kabul Beauty School: An American Woman Goes Behind the Veil' by Deborah Rodriguez, co-written with Kristin Ohlson. Published by Random House. Price Rs.700/US $17.5)
June 17, 2007
By arrangement with WFS B
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)