By Jean MacKenzie in Kabul
Perhaps Afghanistan is best appreciated from afar, where the daily danger and discomfort are magically transformed into romance and adventure. This, at least, is the explanation I have devised for my increasingly contradictory relationship with this fascinating and maddening country.
One short month ago, I was longing for release. I had spent way too much time jumping hurdles in Helmand, where the resurgent Taleban were the least of our problems. The turbaned crowd cannot compete in threat level with scorpions, dysentery, and temperatures that range from scorching hot to freezing cold, sometimes within the same 24-hour period. Not to mention the local government, which had arrested several reporters, and even tried to throw us out of our hotel.
Kabul was little better—I was heartily sick of the weather, the dust, my dysfunctional office and my disintegrating house. My fragile psyche was battered and scarred, leaving me with a hair-trigger temper and zero tolerance for difficulty. I squabbled with colleagues, tiffed with friends, and in general would have been better off slinking, Grendel-like, into my cave.
Post-Afghanistan Stress Syndrome
I did not realise just how brittle I had become until I found myself in Dubai, less than 24 hours out of Kabul, sobbing in a spa because my cosmetologist was 20 minutes late for the facial I had booked to repair my weatherbeaten skin. Luckily, the personnel there had experience with Post-Afghanistan Stress Syndrome, and calmed me down with a hug and a few free beauty products.
As I boarded the plane for London, I was convinced I would never, ever want to see the barren streets of Kabul again.
Since then, I have traveled thousands of kilometres and crossed several continents. I have swum in balmy waters and strolled through snowy mountains, partied in London and glimpsed the Eiffel Tower drenched in a light shower of diamonds at midnight on New Year’s Eve.
I’ve wined and dined with good friends, and shopped until my conscience and my credit card screamed for mercy.
Through it all, I talked non-stop about Afghanistan.
“So, what is it really like over there?”
“But isn’t it dangerous?” everyone asked, incredulous or admiring, depending on their disposition.
“Well, it can be,” I say modestly, a hint of devil-may-care bravado peeking through. “But I’m a journalist. That’s my business.”
The truth is, I spend most of my time behind a computer, itching for a little more action. I am very rarely in any kind of risky situation, unless you count Thursday evenings at L’Atmosphere.
But I dined out on my adventures until I thought I would scream if one more person asked me, “So, what is it really like over there?”
By the end of week two, sated and broke, I was more than ready to come back. A strange sort of nostalgia had set in, and I was longing for the very things I had been so eager to abandon just a little while back.
I spent a day in a Leicester Square movie theatre watching “Kite Runner” and “Charlie Wilson’s War” in rapid succession, just to see some familiar faces and hear the sounds of Dari and Pashto. I stocked up on reference works about Afghanistan, and even bought, God help me, a Frederick Forsyth novel in an airport, just because it was called “The Afghan.”
I spent hours of valuable vacation on instant messenger, chatting with friends and colleagues in Kabul, counting the days until I would be “home” again.
Longing to Return
In due course I landed in Dubai, heavily laden with all of my seemingly indispensable purchases. I was to spend just a quick overnight, then on to Kabul. I had no patience with the Emirate on the homeward leg, dismissing it as “Disneyland for adults,” with its weirdly contorted hotels, swept and sterile beaches and endless malls equipped with skating rinks and ski slopes. I was not swayed even by the “Ruby Suite” to which I was, for some reason, assigned at my favourite hotel.
But the next morning, at dismal old Terminal 2, we were told that our flight had been cancelled due to bad weather in Kabul. Disaster! How could I spend yet another day in Dubai? I returned to my Ruby Suite, glum, almost frantic. The city that a month ago had seemed the embodiment of everything I desired now became a prison.
The next morning there was a small opening: One flight was due to take off, although there were four days’ worth of passengers trying to squeeze onto the plane.
Three nights in the Ruby Suite! Horror! My desperation must have been palpable, because somehow I made it onto the flight. I’m sure the dozens of people I bowled over or stepped on in my haste to get to the ticket counter have forgiven me. Worst of all, there were empty seats on the plane, but we could not take more passengers because were we overweight. I squirmed a little, thinking of my three suitcases full of books, cosmetics, and assorted supplies.
So now here I am, back in Kabul. The temperatures are well below freezing, and the house never gets warm. Electricity is sporadic, my colleagues are grumpy, and the sidewalks are caked with frozen mud. My hair has turned to straw and my skin is covered with scales, or at least it feels like it. My toes may be frostbitten; I wouldn’t know because I haven’t been able to feel them for days.
So far I have managed not to kill anybody, or even to scream too much. But in my mind there is just one burning question—how many weeks before I can go back to Dubai?
About Jean:
Jean MacKenzie is Country Director for IWPR (Institute for War and Peace Reporting) in Afghanistan. Prior to moving to Afghanistan, Jean spent most of her career in the former Soviet Union, first as a journalist in Moscow, then as a media trainer and development specialist in Belarus and Central Asia. Check out her blog at www.iwpr.net/afghanblog
