A few more stories from Afghanistan

I know my blog posts about Afghanistan have been slow in coming. Work has been insanely busy, and by the time I get home in the evening, inspiration is elusive. But I'm on vacation now, so I thought it would be a good time to start writing again!

I've been back in Kuwait for over three weeks, and Afghanistan feels a million miles away. In the midst of the flaunted wealth of the Gulf, it's hard to believe that mere weeks ago I was traipsing through Kabul. Many people ask about my experience, and it's still difficult to find the words. One of the fun stories from my trip was the night I was able to do an Eid visit with an Afghan family. In the Middle East, there are a couple Eid vacations...one after Ramadan, and one in November. The November one coincided with my time in Kabul. During this Eid, sheep are killed and the meat is distributed to the poor. It is tradition to do Eid visits...you basically spend three days going from home to home visiting friends and family. The lady that hosted me was invited to visit the home of one of her Afghan employees, so she invited me to go with her. We put on our hijabs (headscarves) and went out to find a taxi. I found out later that most foreigners use what is called a "safe taxi" (basically, a taxi from one of a couple companies that promise not to kidnap you). Well...those taxis are more expensive, so we just got a street taxi. Luckily we didn't get kidnapped! We wound our way through Kabul as the sun set, trying to get to our destination before dark. Our cab turned down dark muddy streets until we got to a neighborhood devoid of electricity. The homes were tiny...one or two rooms generally without furniture. One room is the sleeping room, cut off from the main room by a curtain. In the main room is a mat on the floor (used for eating), and cushions around it for sitting. In many ways, it was like stepping back in time. The room was lit by a generator-powered lightbulb. We were greeted by the man who works for my hostess, and he brought in the rest of his family- 3 small sons, his brother, his father, and his wife. For the next hour we sat and drank tea with them. The man's brother is a high school student who spoke good English, so he translated for us. No one else spoke English, so at times our conversations stumbled as we translated between Dhari and English...it was especially interesting since my hostess is from New Zealand- so her English was like another foreign language! As I sat on the cushion and drank cup after cup of tea (it was freezing, so the hot tea was a comfort), I wondered at the experience. To sit in that room with three generations of Afghans in Kabul was something so few people get to experience. This was the real Afghanistan...or at least a little taste of it. The man's father looked ancient. I can only imagine what he has experienced in his lifetime...the time of the warlords, the soviets, the mujahadeen, the taliban, the american invasion. The struggle to survive in a perpetual warzone. And yet he sat, grizzled and smiling in his traditional turban, staring at these strange foreign women. To my left sat the wife, smiling and beautiful with only her hair covered (no burqa). She spoke no English, but had a young baby so we just laughed and passed him back and forth. The young brother kneeling respectfully and translating to the best of his ability. Two young boys hiding under a blanket in the corner giggling every time I looked at them. This is a piece of Afghanistan that the military and the contractors never get to see. After we had drained the fifth cup of tea, they decided to bring us dinner. They brought out some fresh bread and a bowl of lamb. For these people, that bowl of lamb was probably the family's meal for that day and the next. And yet, they gave it to us. They didn't eat...they just kept telling us to eat. So we practiced the fine art of eating steadily to show our appreciation, but trying to take the smallest pieces possible in order to save meat for the family. At the end of our visit, the man went out to find a taxi for us (no small task in that area...he was gone for a half hour!). He accompanied us all the way back in the taxi, and insisted on paying for the ride. To put this into perspective, this man's income supports his entire extended family. In the west, we watch the news about Afghanistan and read about the taliban and the terrorists and all the evil. And yet, we sat in this family's home and they fed us...people who represent what many there believe are invaders. They fed us the food they were supposed to eat that day and protected us by riding in the taxi and paid for something we could easily afford. I know there are bad people in Afghanistan, just like anywhere. But this is the Afghanistan that will stay with me.

On another day, I was asked to facilitate an art therapy workshop for Afghan children. We decided to hold the workshop at a place called the Garden for Peace and Hope. Up until a year ago, this "garden" was a bombed out wreckage. Then the government decided to allow one of the nonprofits to rebuild the garden with the hope that one day it would be a place of peace and hope for young Afghan artists. They cleared the wreckage, rebuilt the walls, brought in beautiful roses, planted trees, and constructed a fountain where they placed small marble pieces with the words hope, peace, love, kindness, and patience. They have a small room that shows a pictoral timeline of the transformation...from wreckage and hopelessness to beauty and hope. It's a beautiful place. So one of the small schools brought ten boys to meet with me. I was a bit intimated...how do I, someone who has lived a life of privilege and blessing in comparison with these children, teach them anything? But the beauty of art therapy is that you really don't teach. You use the art as a tool for children to explore something themselves. So the director of the garden walked them through the story of the place...showed them the before and after pictures. Gave them time to walk around the garden. The boys were young- probably nine to fifteen. Some were the poorest of the poor. I brought drawing paper and crayons and markers. They started by drawing the things that make them feel hopeless. As I walked around and asked the boys to describe their pictures, I heard stories of rockets, and grenades, and guns, and opium plants. Red blood. Destroyed buildings. Then we had them turn over their papers and draw things that could bring them hope. They drew books to symbolize education. They drew houses with trees and flowing water. They talked about a life of normalcy- the kind of life that any child would want. One boy showed up late. I found out later that he had come to school without the parental permission slip for the field trip. He was distraught when he found out that he couldn't go. The rest of the group left without him...and then he showed up! Apparently he wanted to participate so badly that he found his own transportation! We still don't know how he got there...if he somehow managed to get a cab or bus to bring him, if he hitchhiked. No clue. But he wanted to be there, so he found a way. For these kids, the field trip was the highlight of their month. For me, it was a rare glimpse into their lives. As a foreigner in Kabul, there are so few opportunities to interact with the Afghan people (due to security concerns). I feel so privileged to have had several chances to spend time with Afghans.

I don't really know how to summarize my trip. These are just a few small snippets...stories to supplement the impressions I blogged about in previous posts. Words to complement the pictures posted here and on my facebook. But in reality, my own experience in Afghanistan was just a small snapshot of life there. It was one week of walking in a place that receives so much news coverage but that is rarely truly seen. The military now talks about winning minds and hearts. It's not enough to go in with guns blazing...operation cobra's anger or whatever this week's military lingo might be. I support our military...I think that what they are doing is necessary. But I wonder if we can ever win hearts and minds when we spend our time behind barbed wire and machine guns. I know there is risk when we venture outside our fortified walls. Driving in "unsafe" taxis, walking into barricaded restaurants, riding through the streets separated from machine guns by a simple pane of glass...I know it's scary. I definitely had moments of wondering, "what in the world am I doing as a single American woman chillin' in the middle of one of the most dangerous places on earth?" But then I think of the kids in the art therapy workshop. I think of the family feeding us their dinner. I think of the smiling burqa-clad woman waving at us from the compound...and I'm so glad I had the opportunity to slog through the muddy streets of Kabul for a week. I try not to be too political in my blog, but I do wonder if we might start seeing more success if we showed up with clean water, plant seed, wood for stoves, a warm coat for kids...before we showed our machine guns and tanks. We probably need both...and I know that our military is giving their lives to both fight terrorists and to accomplish humanitarian missions. There really isn't an answer. Afghanistan is called the graveyard of empires. They are a fiercely independent people. You can see it in their eyes. They are survivors. And they are beautiful people. I hope I get to return someday...but for now, I hope that my stories have given you a small glimpse into their world.

A Week in Kabul

It's hard to describe Kabul itself. It's a blend of third world poverty, war wreckage, gray-brown mud, and absolutely beautiful rugged people. Few of the roads are really paved, and the ones that are have huge ruts. It rained several times during my stay, which turned the dust into rivers of brown and made driving quite interesting. Kabul has suffered from a drought for many years, so the river beds run dry and over the years the trash has piled up. Buildings lie in wrecked heaps, piles of concrete rubble sit beside barbed wire and sandbags. In the midst of this are the people. Kabul was built for 500,000 people. There are now over 3 million. The streets are filled with men, some wearing western clothes, some in traditional Afghan clothes (baggy pants with a long knee-length shirt and either a turban or a skull cap). There are women in blue burqas or headscarves, and children bundled up to protect from the cold. What you don't see are foreigners...it has become too dangerous for foreigners to walk the streets, so they just glide through the city in cars and vans and jeeps, attempting to avoid attention. And there are guns. Lots of guns. There are soldiers and building guards and random civilian men walking around with machine guns...some dating from decades ago when the Afghans drove out the Soviet army. For the first few days, you notice the guns and the barbed wire, the blast gates and the sandbags. But then you grow used to it. Your eyes start to notice other things, like the random goat beside the store, the bright colors of carpets for sale, the many people on crutches or in wheelchairs after losing a limb to a landmine, the beauty of faces that have survived more suffering than we can imagine in a lifetime. There were so many moments when I just wanted to hop out of the van and walk the streets. One day we were driving near an outdoor market area. The rain had stopped and there were so many people out and about, bartering for deals in little shops lined up against the river bed. I wanted to join them, maybe barter for a few local goodies, enjoy the wash of culture. But security dictates so many aspects of life in Kabul, especially for foreigners. So I rode in the car and just enjoyed the privilege of being out and about in Kabul...even if I observed through the glass of my window.

I've been asked by many people how it felt wearing the headscarf. I've thought about this often, both in Kuwait (where I don't need to and rarely wear the headscarf), and in Kabul where I had to wear it from the moment my plane set down until I left. Within the walls of western/foreigner compounds I could take it off, but for all the rest of my trip it was simply a part of my wardrobe. I chose to wear the Kuwaiti hijab (headscarf). It's a two-piece black headscarf. The first piece is like a bonnet...you put it over your hair and tie it in the back. This holds the hair back. The second piece is the black scarf, which is wrapped around the head and then around the neck. Most foreigners in Kabul just wear a colored neck scarf over their hair, so my wardrobe choice stood out a bit. It actually caused quite a bit of confusion amongst Afghans, since I look Arab or even Afghan once I've covered my hair. When I was leaving the airport at the end of my stay, the passport control agent refused to believe I was American. Even though he was holding my blue American passport, he first spoke Dhari to me (assuming I was Afghan), and then insisted that I was Arab. I told him I was Irish. Then he asked if I was Muslim. I told him I was Christian. He then insisted again that I was an Arab Muslim, and I told him I was an Irish Christian. We had a good laugh about it, and agreed to disagree. He did tell me that I should be an Arab Muslim again as I was leaving...I think he was actually flirting, but I just smiled and went on to my flight. My van also got stopped at a security check-point when we were traveling back from the mountains to Kabul. The best I can understand is that we looked suspicious because it looked like a van full of foreigners with a random Afghan or Arab woman (me!) riding along. We were pulled off to the side of the road, and I was asked for my passport. After clearing up the fact that I was, indeed, an American, we were allowed to continue on our way. I do have to admit that it's a bit nerve-wracking to be pulled aside by security with machine guns at a barbed wire checkpoint in the middle of Afghanistan!

Ok, back to the headscarf. As my plane landed in Kabul and I wrapped myself up in the black material, I felt like a little piece of myself was disappearing...hidden. It's an odd paradox actually...because what I've noticed is that the more I cover my hair, the more comments I get about my eyes standing out. In my mind, the eyes are much more alluring, much more dangerous than hair. If the purpose is to protect men from the dangerous allure of women, then it seems like a self-defeating prospect. In any case, when you first put on the headscarf it feels stifling. The material around my neck made me feel choked, hot, inhibited. But as I walked out of the airplane, surrounded by men (since I was the only female in sight)...I felt relief. Relief to be hidden, to have this thin piece of material that I could pull around my face. It was as if I could disappear, become an observer instead of the observed. I don't think it actually stopped any of the staring, but it was like a wall had been erected, protecting me from all that was around. When I think about the veil, I think of it as a subjugating misogynist tool...a label or tool inflicted on women to designate them as sinful and dangerous. The evil temptress. In my mind, that is what I believe. I don't agree with the forced use of a headscarf. And yet...the feeling of protection and near-anonymity that it offered was strangely comforting. As the days went by and I grew accustomed to wrapping myself up against the eyes of the world, I actually started to like the veil. For one thing, you don't have to worry about your hair! You can have a bad hair day, or even just skip the shower completely (since I showered with almost zero water pressure while standing in a bucket, skipping the shower from time to time was quite appealing!). It also keeps you warm in the frigid temperatures of Kabul.

But most of all, I grew to love the feeling of anonymity and blending...I loved the fact that when our van sat in traffic (the most nerve-wracking points of the trip for me...since we're sitting ducks when the van is hemmed in on all sides by other cars), I could just pull the veil over my face and withdraw from the stares of others. I know this sounds odd. It's completely opposed to my stance as a sort of Christian feminist. I don't actually believe that any woman should have to wear the veil...but I also understand its appeal. When I went to Afghanistan, I just couldn't understand why women still wore the burqa even though the Taliban is gone and they are now allowed to just wear a headscarf. But having walked a short distance in their shoes, I can understand. If you're used to being protected from the eyes of others, uncovering yourself would feel terrifying. If you have spent a lifetime hidden, surrounded by a wall of impenetrable fabric, how do you suddenly walk into the world unprotected? I don't really have any answers. As I re-read this blog, I'm confused by my own words. I haven't fully processed or come to any conclusions...but there is a small part of me that wishes I could wear the headscarf whenever I wanted. Perhaps it's the part of me that is the observer...the part of me that is global nomad, that is the cultural chameleon. If no one can see you, then you've achieved the ability to blend flawlessly. Looks don't matter. No one cares if blonds have more fun. You can hide from prying eyes and unrelenting stares. There's something just appealing about that. One last thought for today...on the day we traveled to the mountains, our van driver decided to make a pit stop. He suddenly veered off the road and bounced over potholes until we stopped in front of a house. The door opened and a woman in a burqa came out, leading two small children. They piled into the front of the van, and off we went. I was so intrigued...who was this woman? What did she look like? The burqa actually has a screen that covers the eyes, so that their entire face is hidden. We rode on for an hour, and then bounced off the road again. We pulled into a side street and stopped at a gate leading into a compound. The woman got out with the two small children. Apparently she was the driver's sister and was going to visit her family. She hadn't spoken a word to us. We sat in the van as she walked through the gate of the compound. Once she had crossed the threshold of the gate, she suddenly turned and lifted her burqa. With a beautiful smile, she waved at us and then turned and walked away. Under the blue fabric was an incredibly beautiful woman. Her smile was contagious. When you drive through Kabul and see all the walking blue figures, it's difficult to imagine the women beneath. I won't soon forget her face...it was a rare peek into the strength and beauty of these people. I don't know what she has survived. I don't know anything about her story. But I can guess that she is a courageous survivor...you have to be to make it in Afghanistan.

More blogs to come soon. I know it's been slow in coming, but it's difficult to find the words to convey the experience! Here are a few more pictures.

Afghanistan...start of a journey

For those of you who didn't know, I just returned from a week-long trip to Kabul, Afghanistan. As I prepared for this trip, and as I interacted with people in Afghanistan, many people asked...why Afghanistan?! The journey really started about six months ago, at a time when I was feeling down and disappointed by a lack of purposefulness in my work in Kuwait. I'm a bit of a news junkie, and found myself spending way too many hours reading news stories on CNN. This was about the time that the Swat Valley was exploding in violence in Pakistan, and my heart just ached for the people trapped in the middle of endless violence. I felt God calling me to do something, to get outside myself and my relatively easy life in Kuwait. I knew that God had called me to Kuwait, but He also blessed me with a job that provides great time off and enough financial independence to afford a trip on my own dime somewhere. So I started sending off emails to contacts in nonprofits, begging for an opportunity to go somewhere and serve, even if it just meant handing out bags of rice. My focus was Pakistan, but after several no's (and a comment about me being too white to send into the Swat valley due to danger), the founder of a nonprofit (a man I knew from decades ago when my family was living overseas) suggested that maybe I would be interested in Afghanistan! I jumped at the opportunity. I had never really thought about going to Afghanistan, but for years I had been hearing my mom talk about her desire to go into that country. After a flurry of emails, it was decided that I could go during my break in September...but as the political uncertainty and the election violence heightened, September became impossible...then I was told I could go ahead and come during my break in November! I found out that there was a direct flight from Kuwait to Kabul that flew once a week, and the dates worked out perfectly. So I bought my ticket, started shopping for conservative clothes and headscarves (all shirts/sweaters had to be a few inches above my knees), and braved the Afghan Embassy in Kuwait to get my visa! The visa process was easy, but was also my first glimpse into the reality that I was an oddity...the visa people couldn't believe that I, a single American woman, was requesting a visa to Afghanistan! But they graciously processed it in 24 hours, and I was all set to leave! And so the adventure began...with lots of comments from co-workers about how I was probably going to get blown up. But knowing that God had opened this door, I just wasn't all that worried. There were certainly moments of fear, but overall I felt a profound peace and excitement about my decision.

So on Thanksgiving night, after a fabulous meal with some American friends, I packed up my suitcase and left for the airport. Up until a week before my departure, I wasn't even sure what I would be doing...but then word got out that a counselor was coming to Kabul and would be available for whatever people felt was needed! Suddenly, I found myself with a full slate of activities- leading a 7-hour training on how to be critical incident debriefers (teaching leaders and member care staff in different non-profits how to debrief their staff after a disaster such as a bombing, kidnapping, threat, etc), teaching a module on child protection/child abuse, meeting with expats in Kabul to provide one-on-one counseling, meeting with the expat high school youth, facilitating a meeting with member care staff to talk about how they can care for their people, and providing an art therapy workshop for Afghan children. My last week in Kuwait was a scramble to pull together resources and create a giant (54 slide!) powerpoint for the debriefing training. It was crazy, but it all came together.

Back to Thanksgiving night...I got to the airport, and found the line for Safi Airways...the Afghan airline that would take me straight into Kabul. When I got in line, I noticed that I was the only female in line. In front of me and behind me were about 40 Afghan men...all in the traditional clothing. I quickly became the center of attention, and then one of the men approached me. He gestured toward another airline's counter for a flight to Dubai, and told me I was in the wrong line. I told him I wanted to be in the Safi line. He said, "no, Dubai!" I said, "no, Kabul!" With an incredulous look, he went back to his group of men and told them all I was going to Kabul. They couldn't believe it. A few minutes later, a new group of men got in line. They stared at me, and again approached me to tell me I was in the wrong line. This happened about 4 or 5 times. By then I was just cracking up, but trying to keep a serious look on my face (it's never a good idea to be too smiley or friendly in that context). Finally, the manager at the counter noticed me in line. He immediately ran up to me, apologizing for the fact that I had to wait. He pulled me out of line and opened a new counter for me. After verifying that I was, indeed, traveling to Kabul, he anxiously began to scan the passenger manifest. He then told me that I was the only female on the flight! He urged me to upgrade to business class, but I refused to pay the extra money. The girl behind the counter just stared at me, and said "but they'll eat you alive in economy!" I just smiled, and they decided to put me in the bulkhead row (front row of economy), and to block off the entire row so I would be alone. Note: the Afghan people are incredibly kind and thoughtful...I wouldn't have been in any danger, except the uncomfortable staring. So with a smile and a thank you, I was on my way!

Ok, this post is long enough...so I'll save the next segment with stories from my time in Kabul for later tonight or tomorrow! Check back for more :-) In the meantime, here are a couple pics from Kabul!

On Avoiding Collisions (at all cost)

The air is turning chilly in Kuwait. There is a cold wind blowing, and as I rushed through the sliding glass doors to get into the warmth of the school building, I almost ran into a male student. He too was rushing, but in the opposite direction. He wore the traditional robe and headpiece, indicating perhaps a tendency toward the more conservative in this region. As time slowed to a crawl and our impending collision neared, we each twisted frantically. In a nanosecond, we blew past each other, narrowly avoiding catastrophe. In this region of the world, it is haram (forbidden) for men and women to touch. In a crowded university environment, this aspect of culture makes for some oddly hilarious moments. The elevator doors open and a gaggle of female students rushes in (to take the elevator up one floor). As the doors begin to shut, a male student hits the elevator button and the doors open again. The boy stops, staring into the elevator, confronted by the age-old-dilemma...do I enter the elevator and risk brushing up against a female student by accident...or do I wait an eternity for the slow moving elevator to return empty? Nine times out of ten, the boy shrugs, steps back, and allows the door to close again. When I was moving into my new building several months ago, I had several experiences when the elevator was filled with male construction workers. I was always amazed by their ability to fold into one another so that they could give me at least a 2-foot margin of space. I realize that contrary to my life in the west, I can go weeks without brushing by a male. It's like the invisible electric fence...a flashing danger sign against the possibility that a physical touch will ignite something hidden and forbidden. Perhaps this is why men chase women in cars...it's a desperate attempt to get close, to feel the adrenaline, to somehow initiate contact...even if the contact ends with the woman's car wrapped around a pole. As a counselor, I wonder how marriage can work when the man and woman have grown up in societies where even speaking to someone of the opposite gender can ruin the family reputation? Can you really spend your entire life avoiding the collision of the genders? And is that really a healthy way to live? I wonder, will I keep doing the non-collision dance even when it's no longer needed? How do you tune your mind and body to shift from culture to culture...twisting away, avoiding eye contact, driving with eyes straight ahead in the Middle East, but smiling, making eye contact and (gasp) even flirting in the west! Living between cultures can be like a masquerade...a different costume for each corner of the globe...but as globalization continues its fierce march onward, will there someday be a chance to throw away the costume and just be? I don't think there's an answer to that question, so in the meantime, let the masquerade ball continue!

Happiness?

According to the recently released Happy Planet Index, Kuwait is ranked 128th on a global happiness scale...just 15 spots above Zimbabwe, which is the unhappiest country in the world. That means that Kuwait is the 15th unhappiest place in the world, coming in dead last for both the gulf region and the middle east as a whole. I didn't really need to see a happy planet index to tell you this. It's apparent on the roads, in the stores, at the malls, even at my work place (which I think probably is one of the happier places in Kuwait). It's apparent in the news, where daily "crime section" articles detail an appalling list of stabbings, vehicular manslaughter, abuses, kidnappings, and other unpleasant things (despite the small size of this country, the crime section seems to deliver an endless list of grief, brokenness, and evil) . It's apparent each time a student asks me if I like Kuwait...always accompanied by a grimace as if to say, "I know what's coming." Incidentally, I try to be positive whenever I'm asked that question. I don't believe in beating a dead horse. Yes, there are difficult things here, but I try to balance that out whenever I am telling a Kuwaiti about my experience here. The unhappiness is apparent even in the general health of the country. According to recent statistics, 82% of the population is obese or overweight. Kuwait has the highest per-capita rate of Diabetes in the world. It's apparent in the driving, the road rage, the harassment of women...it's just sort of obvious.

In light of all that, I've been thinking how blessed I am by the fact that I'm generally happy. YES, it's been a killer 10 months. There have been some very low lows...many moments when I wanted to just drive to the airport and hop a flight home. Too many days questioning God's purpose in bringing me to this small corner of the world. Loneliness. Sadness. But God has been faithful and present throughout. And 10 months into this crazy insane adventure, I find myself happy. I recently started seeing clients (students) at the university for counseling. I'm doing it in addition to my regular career counseling job, but I love it...I really really love it. For the first time since getting here, I feel like I'm actually making a difference. I know that most of these students would never have the opportunity to get counseling if I wasn't here. And in that realization, it feels like this winding twisty road that God has been revealing step by tiny step actually has purpose! I'll write more about counseling in a later post...but suffice it to say that it's been incredible (and heavy and heartbreaking). I just started teaching an introductory learning course at the university, and that's been awesome (I'm Professor Amy now!). I'm heading out in 8 days for a week in Afghanistan, working with a local nonprofit there. It just feels like things are coming together. That doesn't mean that there aren't still days of profound loneliness...that the weight of living here doesn't sometimes feel oppressive and unending. But I have a hope that I believe can only come from God...and even though Kuwait is the 15th unhappiest place in the world, I'm still surviving and some days, even thriving...and I can still smile, which I think is a good sign!

Hilarious (sarcasm intended)...

I absolutely had to post this article from Kuwait's daily english newspaper. Maybe (just maybe!) this is why it takes forever for anything to get done. Enjoy!

‘30,000 public sector staff paid without going to duty’

KUWAIT CITY, Nov 14: There are indications an estimated 30,000 workers from the ministries and government agencies have not been to their offices for several years. Similarly over 20,000 ministry workers spend an average of two or three hours daily at work without any medical reports to support them. They only arrive there to fingerprint or punch cards, reports Al-Watan Arabic daily. A source revealed those employees return home immediately after they have completed the fingerprint attendance, and depend on others to sign out for them at the end of working hours.

Help
The people who help them in the act do it because they are blood relations, friends or for financial gain at the end of the month. He stressed the 30,000 absentee employees collect their full salaries and entitlements, due to their families’ political weights in various constituencies. He said some dedicated undersecretaries and directors are determined to punish the employees and force them to be punctual, but orders from above warned them against any untoward actions in that regard, and stated they threaten the senior officials with transfer to locations where they would be rendered irrelevant.

Living in a Man's World

I've been living in Kuwait exactly 10 months (yesterday was my 10 month anniversary). It's hard to believe it's been that long...although there are certainly days when time seems to race by. In many ways, Kuwait is a man's world. Like anywhere in the world, the male/female ratio is pretty even; however, in Kuwait you see men everywhere. There are certainly women out in the city, but they tend to blend into the background. In Kuwait, most women wear the black abaya and black hijab. As such, their presence in malls and stores is almost like a backdrop...sometimes they stare at me and sometimes I stare back. But we pass each other like silent ghosts drifting through the halls of a man's world. The men, on the other hand, wear a long white robe and white headscarf. The contrast between the black covering of the women and the white gowns of the men is stark. On my university campus, the contrast is less...many of the girls on campus wear western clothes or spice up their coverings with jewels and embroidery and oh so much make-up. Within the walls of our campus, people breath. There is a loosening of the rigid gender parameters, banter and even friendship between boys and girls. But when the school day ends and the Mercedes and BMWs pull out of their haphazard parking spots to re-enter the traditional society, culture's influence shifts the paradigm back to the norm of this place. For me, as a Western woman, there are times when the gender contrasts leap to the forefront of my daily life. Yesterday was such a day. I made what I like to call a poor life choice. After church, I decided to stop somewhere and pick up lunch. I ran into a little thai restaurant and looked over the food...but the flies and questionable cleanliness forced me to do an about-face and bolt for the exit. As I got closer to home, I remembered a little arab restaurant that is always crowded (always eat where the locals eat!). I decided to try it out. After maneuvering through the crazy traffic, I managed to secure a parking spot right in front of the restaurant...and promptly got parked in by another car. As I looked around and got my bearings, I saw a sea of white...men men men. All men in white dishdashas. Not a woman to be seen. Holding my head high (and pulling at my clothes to try to ensure that the least bit of skin was showing), I got out of my car and walked into the restaurant. Only men. I scanned around for some kind of menu in English, and nothing. There was a group of men clustered around the check-out counter, so I wedged my way in (careful not to touch anyone), and asked for a menu. The man looked at me, said "no english menu" and turned away. Keep in mind that this is not typical treatment here...most restaurant workers are incredibly gracious. Apparently I was suddenly the focus of all attention, as all the men turned around and with various degrees of success, asked me what I wanted. By this point, I was incredibly flustered, uncomfortable, and my antenna was up. I don't like being in a man's world in this context. Although I don't think anything bad would happen, it just didn't feel safe. I turned around to just leave, but a kind man with great english stopped me and asked if he could help me order. We were able to place an order, and with a knowing look he told me I could go wait in my car and they would bring it out to me. I contemplated just getting in my car and leaving (without the food), but I was still parked in...and the owner of the offending car was just standing there staring at me. So I sat in my car and fiddled with my ipod and played on my phone and did everything possible to avoid the stares of all the men in the joint. Apparently, the fact that I was a woman and that I was american was almost too much for them. I was a novelty, and in a place where the western "no staring" rule doesn't apply, I was fair game. So I sat there for twenty minutes, a piece of meat on display. Culture is culture. There are differences, and that's ok. But there are times when even my broad worldview can't take it. There are times when the discomfort and the tension make me want to either run away, or stand up and fight. But in this context, in this place, my defiance would do no good. I can stare back. I can grimace or wave them away. But I won't win this fight. It's much deeper than any action on my part can influence. So I learn to look away, to not make eye contact...to still hold myself with pride...but to pick and choose my battles. Sometimes it's easier (and safer!) to blend into the background. To acknowledge that for this moment in time in this culture, I'm living in a man's world. That's a hard thing for this independent woman to say. But every day that I survive and even thrive here is a day where I win the battle. So I survived my restaurant experience. I got my food and it was good. And when I started to back out with my car and couldn't get any cars to stop long enough for me to reverse onto the street, one of the restaurant workers ran out into the street to stop traffic so I could leave. I guess it's not always bad being the center of attention. It's uncomfortable, and I don't really like it, but I'm a woman living in a man's world and learning to be independent and strong even in a culture that is as different from mine as night from day. But like all things, it's an experience...a small window into a world that is filled with women who have done this much longer than me. So I guess that my final thought for today is this...there are so many women who are braver and stronger than me...who have lived and survived in a man's world for their entire lives. They are the courageous ones. I might have a few uncomfortable restaurant experiences, but they get my standing ovation.