Tuesday, August 24, 2021
I won’t pretend to know the intricacies and nuances as to what is going on in Afghanistan and how the past decades contribute to the reality on the ground right now. I can’t possibly begin to know the complexities of the religious, political, and tribal influences at play in a place I am not a part of, in a culture I know nothing of firsthand.
Already, but not surprisingly, American Twitter has all of the sudden become full of loud and certain geopolitical experts. I’m reminded of these words from Charles Bukowski: “The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.” Already, some have found a way to make this about immigration rather than holding space and grief and compassion for the Afghan people. The President, and by extension the US government, has taken little to no responsibility for the mess and suffering that we were apart of creating. It is shameful.
I don’t have answers, but I do see suffering. What I can see, from my limited viewpoint on the outside looking in, is that the situation in Afghanistan increasingly looks untethered, desperate, terrifying, devastating, and chaotic--most of all for Afghan women and girls. I can see that, as usual, it’s the women and children and mothers who bear the weight of the pain and suffering, who are pushed to the margins to make room for the egos of men in the name of religion and God. Schools for girls have been closed. Though the Taliban are claiming that they have evolved and are no longer interested in partaking in the victimization of women, many are skeptical. They claim they will guarantee women’s rights, but within the “limits of Islam,” which—similar to my own evangelical upbringing, but swap scripture/the Bible for Islam—is most likely code for: whatever the men in charge deem is God’s will. Their agenda will be masked as God’s plan for women. What’s more, history tells us differently. It tells us that stonings, amputations, and public executions of those who do not fall in line with their ideology may very well resume. It tells us that Sharia law may very well be reinstated, which means women cannot work or even go outside without a man. She must completely cover herself, she must erase herself.
A CNN clip from Clarissa Ward--a fearless journalist who was on the ground in Kabul--showed her in front of a shop that is selling a large number of burkas as husbands and fathers buy them out of fear for their daughters, mothers, sisters, and wives. She reported that she saw one woman in a full burka in the distance, otherwise the foot traffic was exclusively men. It is too dangerous for women to be outside.
Mother Mary weeps. My heart breaks.
There is so much I don’t understand. I don’t understand suffering. I don’t understand the reality of what’s actually going on. It seems too surreal to be true because here I am, sitting at my kitchen table, my face and my hands and my feet uncovered. My children are a couple of miles down the road at their schools. My girls got on the bus this morning wearing shorts. I will take a hot shower and publish this piece with my real name attached without fear of death. How is this real when there are reports of women in Afghanistan burning their degrees and diplomas so the Taliban do not find them? How is this real when Afghan women are afraid to leave their houses? How is it possible that in one place children run out of fear of bombs and guns and in others they run after the soccer ball? I don’t understand.
On Monday, August 16, while at work I watched a video from the Kabul airport of thousands of people swarming the tarmac as a plane taxied to leave. I watched this in disbelief and horror, and then I put my phone away so I could process the beautiful cheeses and French baguettes and Mediterranean olives. I met my husband outside for lunch and the cars stayed to the right side of the road and there was no fear of the ground rolling beneath my feet, literally or figuratively.
I don’t understand how I was born a white child in suburban America in the year 1986. Throughout all of history, my point on the timeline began at that precise moment in time and space. What are the odds? I am grateful for my bodily safety, that my basic needs have always been met—and aware that while my existence is privileged, it is also lacking in other cultural, experiential ways—but I am bewildered in the same way that I am bewildered by the vastness of space and the weirdness of time.
My brain is furiously telling me to find a silver lining, to produce an ending that makes us all feel better. But suffering cannot be wrapped up with a tidy bow and gently laid to the side. And besides, this is not about us. We are not supposed to feel better. We are not supposed to go into someone else’s space, wreak havoc, leave a trail of dead bodies, and then hope to feel better.
We are talking a lot right now about getting as many people out of Afghanistan as possible, which is necessary. It’s clear it is not a stable or safe environment, and the US contributed to that. Thus we are responsible to help the tide of people whose lives we have disrupted. I imagine, though, that it’s complicated for those who call Afghanistan home. Imagine being forced out of and off of your motherland due to events completely beyond your control. Imagine leaving behind that couch that came from your mother, the set of spoons handed down by your paternal grandmother. Imagine the abandoned photographs of your now grown children when they were cheeky and red cheeked and bare footed on a hot summer day. Remember that porch in the early morning sunlight, and the memory it evokes? How it brings you back to when your father had a mustache and was the age that you are now, reading to you as a child on that porch; that porch which was apart of the house you grew up in which was placed on the fat U shaped street in the neighborhood that you and your sister used to roam on your banana seat bikes. The tree smack dab in the middle of the front yard that bloomed pink petals in the Spring. The orange daylilies surrounding the mailbox. The Willis family across the street. Those yappy miniature poodles at Lillian’s house. Your books, your blankets, your children’s baby clothes that you are saving for when they have babies. Places and things can hold our memories, our legacies, our sense of belonging. Imagine leaving it all behind, broken and lost.
I hope this time around is different. I hope these men have changed. But I don’t have much confidence in them. If anything, it is the girls. They are the hope. The generation of women and girls who, from 2001 to 2021, did not exist under the rule of the Taliban. They know freedom. And yet, what a weight to put on them. What a burden to carry. What an unfair task to ask of them. But isn’t this how the same tired story usually goes? Isn’t this the predictable way of the world, the way of history? A mess is made, and the women are expected to clean it up--to be the heroes, the healers, the peacemakers, and the fixers--all done silently but with an ever present and pleasant smile on her face. And if she deviates, she is deemed emotional, hysterical, opinionated, and too much. If she deviates, she could be ridiculed or harassed or beaten or raped or killed.
I wrestle with the idea that sharing and writing about something so painful is not constructive or helpful. Why focus on the negative, some might say? It feels true at times. The harsh reality is that there is not much I can do. I am here, and so many are there, and this situation is so much bigger than any one individual. Yet this situation affects individual people on a cellular level. And so saying nothing does not feel right. As the people of Afghanistan are facing the erasure of their lives and voices and faces and identities, their culture and their homes, saying nothing feels like an extension of that erasure. It feels like a way to pretend that all is well, to conveniently forget so that we can feel better. So I will do the only thing I know to do right in this moment: I bear witness.
