OUR FIRST WEEK IN KABUL
AUGUST 2007

THE SHOOT-OUT: Under the dusty mountains in Kabul, Afghanistan, it was an American boy in the compound that first noticed another boy, a young Afghan, pointing his dirty black handgun up at the second story widows of his house. The young American scurried from window to window to learn more; he hid behind ledges and doors, and sometimes behind the curtain sash that flipped and flapped when the breeze picked up from the east.

The Afghan pulled the trigger, but there was only a faint clicking sound. The American boy became more and more excited. A battle was beginning, but the young American boy was missing something…his own gun!

Fortunately, his mother packed two shiny revolvers with pearly-white handles and black polished holster. “The neighbors are shooting at us,” she remarked to her husband, the boy’s father, “Is now a good time to give them the guns we packed?”

Jaden, the American boy, didn’t know half the things his parents had packed when leaving for Afghanistan, and he certainly didn’t know about the shiny new revolvers in his parents shipping totes.

Jaden’s father questioned whether or not handing his son a toy gun would be the best way to meet their new neighbors. Americans and Afghans had shot each other before, but for different reasons and with different consequences. And yet, because of Americans with guns, this young American with a plastic, silver-plated cowboy gun with pearl-white handgrips was now allowed to live and play guns with a another boy in Afghanistan. It wasn’t so long ago that the streets were deserted, and boys were beaten to death for flying kites.

As far as Jaden was concerned, nothing was new. A friend across the way was shooting him with his toy gun and if Jaden had a gun too there could be a relationship building cross-fire that boys three to tens years old always have. Two boys with guns are friends.

Jaden’s father nodded, it was OK. His mother handed Jaden and this little brother each their new six shooters in order for them to have a proper greeting with the now throng of Afghan boy neighbors. So from the widows of our rose-garden, generator-powered, filtered-watered, marble-floored apartment dining room, shots rained down on our bombed-out, brick-piled, garden-growing, mud-walled, one-storied, neighbor’s compound.

Between the shots you could hear, “hello”, “hi”, laughing, and something in Dari from across the way. Jaden’s dad lived on a residential street that had been virtually all taken over by an international school that was perhaps the finest in the country. The school’s armed guard blockaded the road between the houses with large containers full of dirt and guard-houses. They were armed with machine guns and radios and nothing passed their perimeter. Once Jaden’s mom tried to go on a walk with Jaden and his brother and sister and the guards didn’t permit her. In the school security zone, a microcosm of cultures produced expectations that no one was going to live entirely of their own customs, or entirely change. It was okay to be yourself. It that was weird to someone, they would know it was because of the microcosm, and think nothing of it.

So after Jaden had ‘met’ the neighbors, there were waves and hellos, and “Salams” outside the compound gates on the street of the school’s security bubble. When the neighbors decided to have a party, they invited Jaden and his family. “Ten o-clock”, they said, “tomorrow”. Jaden’s parents never turned down an invitation if possible. There is no substitute for being on people’s good side.

THE PARTY: The morning of the party was special too for other reasons. Jaden’s dad had found pancake mix at a local ducan (shop), and maple syrup to boot. He had become desperate for good breakfast food, and some mornings when he got up, he had no idea what he and his family would eat that day. If it wasn’t for the fact that another family had dropped off yogurt, bananas, and cereal shortly after arriving to Kabul, they really wouldn’t have had anything to eat. Jaden and his brother also got an education on healthy eating as when food for lunch and dinner was provided by the school, it usually had vegetables and didn’t come out of a grocer’s freezer.

But on this particular morning, Jaden’s dad was prepared and made enough pancakes for everyone. There was butter and maple syrup too. The only thing Jaden’s dad lacked that morning was vegetable oil, but he fetched from the school’s kitchen early before anyone without children woke up (which was everyone besides Jaden’s mom and dad). The sun poured in the gigantic kitchen window from the east, looking over the mountains that cradled Kabul, which used to be the window of another room before the school had the kitchen installed. Jaden lived in the upstairs house of a rich Afghan, who now lived in Germany.

Pancakes filled every plate. And Jaden’s dad made coffee he brought from America, prepared in a French press. The electricity went out about 5 am as usual, but those who live in Kabul get by nonetheless, although it took a while for Jaden’s dad to get a cash advance from the school, change it to the local currency, find where matches were sold, learn the Dari word for matches, and buy them before he could light the gas stove also newly installed by the school.

Out the windows of Jaden’s house, the Afghan neighbors dressed their children for the occasion. Everyone was looking their best. A four-year-old boy had a full western suite on, with navy-blue sport jacket, and a girl younger than him had on what most modern folks would recognize as a party dress. The teenage boys had on blue-jeans and collared shirts while the girls the same age wore slimming pants with stylish skirts over the top and neat western looking tops. And those older wore a combination of western clothes and traditional, some men wearing Muslim shalwar-kamis covered by a sport jacket.

Jaden’s dad knew he should shave and put on ‘teaching clothes’ consisting of kaki pants and a polo. Jaden’s little sister had on her party dress and he and his brother wore smart, western looking boy clothes. When breakfast was cleaned up, and Jaden’s dad finished throwing water on the bathroom floor and squeegeed it into the drain, everybody was ready.

Jaden’s mom and dad wondered if life inside the security bubble would mean never getting to spend time in the homes of Afghans; they wondered how long it would be before they could taste Kabuli food again, as they did when they lived in Peshawar, Pakistan and stayed in the homes of Afghan refugees. Jaden’s family knocked on the gate of their neighbor’s house.

Jaden’s neighbors received his family with open arms, and quickly escorted him, his mom, brother, and sister to one room and Jaden’s dad to another. Jaden’s dad sat in a small, clean, room painted sky-blue. They put an orange drink in front of him that tasted like Tang. Jaden’s dad knew that it was made with water that could contain elements that might cause some unpleasant future inconveniences, but relational decisions are made quickly whether you act on them or not. So Jaden’s dad didn’t hesitate, and took a sip. Later he saw a neighbor’s family member taking drinking water from a 50 gallon drum in the yard. Oh well. Jaden’s dad said a prayer. After some time of writing down new Dari words in Jaden’s dad’s notebook from the neighbors, Jaden and his brother came piling into the sky-blue room from where Jaden’s mom had gone.

Apparently, Jaden’s mom was taken to a living room sized space in the next building where a live Afghan music group was playing. Jaden’s dad wondered why the neighbor’s neighbors were blasting their music so loud, but it was actually the same party and coming from the same room where Jaden’s mom and sister were. Jaden’s mom thought her ears were going to explode, but the 50 people in the room and Jaden’s sister didn’t seem to mind. Jaden’s sister Ava clapped, did twirls, and was mobbed by Afghan women fascinated with her blonde hair and independent spirit.

After about an hour and a half Jaden’s mom came to get Jaden’s dad because Ava was getting fussy and tired. Jaden’s dad got up and helped collect his sons, who were not ready to leave the party. “Can we please stay longer?” Jaden asked his dad. At the same time Jaden’s dad tried to guess if the neighbors had wanted them to stay longer for a meal of if they were relieved the foreigners had left so they could enjoy themselves.

He had forgotten about the fact that the next door down was the building were he learned he would be the high school disciplinarian at a staff meeting. Jaden’s dad would be teaching high school science in another building in a room of another Afghan mansion and attempting to be the final word of fear in a school the size the private one he went to when he was a kid.

At any rate, it appeared Jaden’s dad would leave the party and go back ‘home’. Back at home, Jaden’s mom and dad marveled over the fact that it had only took a week to be invited over for a true Afghan experience, and Jaden’s dad marveled that it occurred inside the school’s security bubble.

Jaden’s dad told Jaden to write this day on the calendar because not only did you enjoy pancakes for breakfast, and then Afghan hospitality, but now he would get Velveeta Shells and Cheese for lunch. Half way through cooking it, one of the neighbor’s party workers hollered out over the wall if we wanted food from the party, Jaden’s dad said in his best Dari that Jaden’s family was okay but thank you. After lunch, when Jaden, his brother, and sister were taking a nap, there was a loud banging at the gate. Apparently, Jaden’s dad must have said, “yes, okay, thank you” to the party chef because there was entourage of teenage boys holding a platter of the finest Afghan party food available: a mountain of rice garnished with sweet carrots and raisins, a savory meat dish, a ‘salad’ that looked and tasted just like pico de gallo, and fresh cut melon.

Jaden’s mom and dad felt a little guilty about leaving the party early, but good about the fact that they had made an appearance and communicated their best positive regards. Jaden’s dad took the food tray from the boys at the gate and went up to Jaden’s flat (apartment). Jaden’s mom and dad looked at each other and tried to figure out what the best thing to do would be, since they just got done eating and weren’t hungry. “Take away about 80% of the food and put it on another plate” Jaden’s dad said, “if we take it all it will look like it wasn’t enough, and if we take too little it will look like we didn’t like it”. So off the plate scraped 80% and after waiting an appropriate amount of time, the tray was returned with gratitude and ‘that was yummy’ hand signals.

They say if you don’t want to be kidnapped as a foreigner you should stick with crowded areas because most Afghans will protect you with their life. Most Afghans will also invite you to the party, and most Afghans will love your children, and wave to you in the street. I hope most foreigners wave back.

When Jaden woke up from his nap he heard that the generator had been turned on so that the fans could blow in the house and his dad could type on the computer about the day’s events; he didn’t think twice about waking up to a life in a third-world war zone, with an enemy around every rock. He only thought about where he had left his toy gun, and when he would play again with his new friends over the compound wall.