2013-05-25T05:52:00-04:00 Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=deborah-smith Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Deborah Smith Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1585508 2012-06-11T01:52:57-04:00 2012-08-10T05:12:07-04:00

Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-smith/ "Life's not about making more money and accruing more material goods; it's about listening, giving, and having compassion."

I'd been in Kabul four weeks and still couldn't decide if I was completely mad. It was certainly a captivating environment to work in, so incredibly different, such an insight into a torn and troubled country. Part of me doubted my ability to make any difference at all, and I found myself thinking - if I felt I could do anything useful I'd feel a bit more legitimate in the country.


We would receive daily emailed security updates and regular text messages alerting us to any security concerns. Meanwhile Afghanistan's over worked and under paid national police force searched for and reported information they gathered. In my second week we'd been told by security there were 15 suicide bombers in Kabul and to be extra vigilant. We're all well aware the Taliban are around, and they cannot possibly be kept out of the city despite it's bravely signed "Ring of Steel". There's obviously clear and present danger, it's just a matter of when.

Every hour or so, as I either slept, worked on my book, or wrote in my diary in my room, I'd hear the Gurkhas climbing the metal ladder on the corner of my wall outside, to go onto the roof and do the usual hourly check. It was strange, there were heavily armed guards in sandbagged shelters all around, snipers on the corners of each wall, enormous concrete walls topped with barbed wire, heavy thick metal gates, and security to get through at the entrance, including sniffer dogs, and yet I was immune to them. It didn't bother me. I would see them, feel glad they were there, and go on my business.

I wondered if it was because I'd been living in such an emotionally destructive war zone that this, by comparison, seemed relatively straightforward. I knew exactly where I stood in this war zone; all the weapons used were out in the open. You knew exactly where you stood and if you didn't like it, you could leave.

You cannot drive along Jalalabad Road without feeling both humbled, and troubled - an incredibly busy road groaning with overcrowded mini buses; dilapidated, rusty Russian cars; intimidating war machinery; fancy 4WDs; bedraggled beggars; dusty, grim shops fashioned out of corroded old shipping containers selling vegetables, meat, or general wares.


At one stage a guy on a motorcycle tore up next to us and rode for some time at our side. I noticed our driver, without fuss, carefully steered us well away, just in case. Suicide bombers often use motor cycles. I was always grateful when we returned to the compound safely. Our Afghan drivers were excellent and very careful, forever looking after our welfare. Yes it's a bit scary, and yet in a way I wasn't scared, I don't know why but I felt quite at home in the crazy ragged streets that are Kabul.

I got to know the cleaners, cooks, and gardeners who worked in the compound. One woman told me she lived in Kabul during the time of the Taliban and the city became virtually empty, life seemed to stop; there was no music, no women in the streets, and no laughter. People fled into Afghanistan's regions, or to Pakistan and Iran. Many have returned, others continue returning, because the situation in Afghanistan has improved, and continues to improve.

I interviewed a butcher who, to my surprise, told me he hates the Taliban and Islam but pretends, and prays with his wife and children every day or his father would kill him. He once worked for a foreign aid organisation and can't return to his village because the Taliban sent his parents a letter saying they'll murder him if he returns, "These people are not human. The tanks brought peace to our country; we don't want them to leave."

There were many others during my twelve months, men and women, young and old, who expressed exactly the same sentiments. They don't want the Taliban back, ever, and they want the international forces to stay until Afghan military and security forces are fully trained and able to cope with a crisis, ie. the potential return of the Taliban.
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Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-smith/
Compound living was not a problem, initially. I was welcomed into the fold of internationals without question. The compound has a restaurant and café on site, and a juice bar making the best freshly squeezed juices I've ever tasted. Fresh food produce flows into Kabul regularly mostly via Pakistan, but Afghans are very proud of their home grown melons, strawberries and apples that flood the street stalls while in season.

Although the compound was small, and we were effectively under house arrest, I made the most of my time when not working, figuring this was an opportunity to get fit, and write that novel I'd been working on for the last ten years. Initially I went to the gym every second day, including the sauna and heated salt water pool. In an environment like this it was important to train the mind to stay focused and strong. I enjoyed both the physical and psychological discipline. And thank goodness for skype; if I didn't have this daily window into my family's life back in Australia, I couldn't have stayed.

I loved conversing with Afghan colleagues about their history, language, faith, ethnic and cultural diversity and sensitivities - a constantly fascinating insight into their world. These people are stoic, brave, not to mention deeply humbling, with a wicked, contagious sense of humour. I also loved Afghan food made primarily for Afghan colleagues. The kitchen served pizza, chips and burgers for international staff which I loathed and would always ask for the Afghan food. Perhaps I never gave myself time to notice the underlying worry about personal safety. The experience initially felt surprisingly good except you were in a war zone - a bizarre, incoherent sense of disjointedness.

Initially I was reluctant to leave the compound, having promised my partner and two children I would stay in the relative safety of its walls. However some trips were unavoidable and I found myself regularly taking the drive to another compound along Jalalabad Road. One international colleague described Kabul as "a shithole". I guess you could say that, but I found the streets of Kabul fascinating, an insight into another side of life most will never get.

I wanted to see what it's like on the other social and economic side before I die, to see if I can live my life better in some way. It didn't help my sense of piousness when we were all given an advance of US$3000 CASH in our first week to tide us over until our first pay cheque, and then hop into the armoured plated vehicle and see scrawny little children hopelessly begging, pleading desperately with their eyes. Yet I'm not allowed to open the window and give them any of my cash which I so wanted to do. The lords of poverty - it was frankly emotional torture being told to turn a blind eye. Such poverty, such desperation, such sadness, not the making of Afghans but of international players who opportunistically used, and continue to use, Afghanistan for their own political advantage. The CIA has a lot to answer for circa 1979.

I also felt shame for those who live in the west and shop and complain and indulge. What is wrong with our world that we can be so inherently selfish and turn a blind eye to those who have so little? I think of the obscenely glitzy and extravagant shopping malls in parts of the Middle East and wonder why one country can have so little, and the other an embarrassment of riches. Afghanistan, I fear, is a deliberately cultivated dumping ground for the Middle East's extremists.

The work was fascinating - assessing the media post-Taliban, its impact, size, effectiveness, and current needs. I loved this sense of contributing to Afghanistan's nascent media and most of my colleagues, both Afghan and international, were warmly supportive and inspiring to work with.

I'm always disappointed however, when I encounter women in the workplace who don't support other women. Perhaps I'm old fashioned but as a feminist, and a relatively compassionate person, it's in my nature to automatically support other women. With D however, despite what she claimed to others, this absolutely wasn't the case and in some ways the next 12 months were truly disconcerting in that regard. The compound milieu created an unforgiving girls' boarding school mentality, a dastardly "Big Brother in a War Zone" environment, what a pity I couldn't simply go on line and vote some residents out.

I was determined I wasn't going to let D's behaviour spoil my professional relationship with my colleagues, and my enjoyment of this unique working environment. I focused on the job at hand and the engaging Afghans I was working with. How do they survive, these amazingly resilient people? I felt incredibly lucky to be working with people who I hoped would appreciate my expertise, and contribute to the rebuilding of their country, even in a small way.

In Kabul I felt alive - life is on a knife's edge, an edge that makes you savour every moment, and be grateful for it. No time for harsh, craftily construed accusations back in Australia, or cringe-making, tiresome bragging, or whining. It was such a relief to leave it all behind and embark on something completely unknown, that I hoped would challenge me, help me develop an inner fortitude. I've always had this underlying sense of being a pushover, too soft for my own good. In an obstinate way I believed a year in Afghanistan was perhaps where I could finally eradicate that vulnerability.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1407435 2012-04-05T22:16:46-04:00 2012-06-05T05:12:01-04:00

Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-smith/ After all the build up, uncertainty, and fear, I finally arrive at my destination. I'm so relieved to be travelling with Matt, Teresa and Jakob. They chat and laugh, divulging stories about Afghanistan. "Don't worry, you're going to love it", Matt reassures me. "You'll go to the most amazing parties; you won't believe you're in Afghanistan." I find this difficult to believe, but he was absolutely right.

As we fly over Kabul city I'm surprised to find I'm filled with the thrill of a new adventure. All those years working with people from diverse cultures, and more recently for the BBC in post-conflict countries, have paid off. I'm very comfortable working in this environment, and incredibly relieved I'm not coming in completely green. Even more surprisingly, despite the clear and present danger, my unrelenting love for adventure cushions the landing.

We're picked up at the airport by an incredibly handsome (as many of them are), friendly, young Afghan guy. He's engaging, warm, and welcoming, and I immediately feel at home. We're driven at great speed through the streets of Kabul in a large armoured plated vehicle, which on occasions I was never sure was a help or hindrance.

I'm surprised how busy the streets of Kabul are, like a Bruegel painting buzzing with activity, movement and colour. There are many people walking with seemingly great purpose on the dusty unmade rutted roads, women in burqas, bearded men wearing traditional hats and long, flowing shalwar kameez, children playing, vendors selling vegetables from makeshift tables, large cuts of meat hanging outside run down butcher's shops, rickety carts pulled by scrawny donkeys, horses or humans, young boys selling anything from phone credit to smoke from a can to purify your car, all mingling with the occasional anxious looking goat herd.

Afghan police are on every corner with guns hitched over their shoulders standing at check points, often searching cars as they enter Kabul's porous protective boundary, or Ring of Steel as the meagre metal signs declare. The infamous Ring of Steel around the perimeter of central Kabul comprises 25 check points, each one overseen by Afghan National Police. And there are the ubiquitous sand bagged walls called hescoes, a word I'd never heard of until I arrived, offering limited protection to these brave men.




Also defining Kabul are the many cars tackling choking traffic jams; there are few traffic lights and no obvious road rules other than - "look out I'm coming through". There are bombed out buildings as seen on western TV, but what you also won't usually be shown are the bustling bazaar's, shopping arcades, roads under construction, and the many buildings, houses, and apartment blocks currently being rebuilt.

Kabul is a thriving city of over three million people and comfortingly captivating in its own, distinct way. It reminds me of Kazakhstan, the streets, the look of the people, the unmade roads, the dusty, dirty old cars, the run-down, utilitarian, Soviet style, dilapidated buildings; except in Kabul it's a war zone, which is palpable. I loved the sense of disorder, the unknown, and the anticipation of an adventure about to unfold.

The armoured vehicle swings around yet another corner and we're stopped at a metal boom gate. The car is turned off, the hood goes up and the entire vehicle is searched with a metal detector. We show our ID's and after five minutes are waived through. We drive in zig zag around long concrete blocks for 100 metres when the car is stopped again, this time we all have to leave the vehicle except for the driver. Once checked by a sniffer dog the car drives through while we enter the compound through a series of metal doors, x-ray machines and more id checks. And so my life for the next 12 months begins.

The compound is heavily guarded by numerous thick metal gates, high concrete walls topped by barbed wire, armed guards dotted strategically throughout, and snipers patrolling every corner - all legendary Ghurkhas from Nepal. The compound itself is small (approx. 200 metres square), for the 60 of us who will live, work and play here, and the thick concrete, bunker like buildings purely purposeful.

I was relieved however to see my room was well decked out with a double bed, two arm chairs, a TV with many international news networks that I would be thoroughly sick of after a month, tiny dining table and two chairs, and a small kitchen and bathroom. It's unfortunate it's all from Ikea and not uniquely Afghan, but it's comfortable, cosy, and all I need. My small but functional room felt like home quite quickly.



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Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-smith/ Safi Landmark hotel in Kabul, a hotel frequented by internationals

Am I anxious about taking the job now? Yes, a little. Am I anxious when I take the tube late at night? A little. Am I anxious when I hop in a car? A little. Am I anxious when I have to deal with complex wider family complications back in Australia? Yes, extremely. Kabul seems relatively calm, even sane, by comparison, because the weapons used are out in the open.

This might sound strange, but fleeing Australia for Kabul seems a more attractive option at this stage. So much damage from a bitter extended family feud, so much to run away from.

I steel myself for the tearful and heart wrenching farewell from my partner and two children in Australia. It was hard, extremely hard, but I won't go into that here, I'm sure you can imagine. I tell myself it's only six weeks, that's all. I'll be back every six weeks, for ten days; surely we can do this for twelve months. My adventurous spirit kicks in the moment I'm on the plane. I'm eager to see what awaits beyond the fear.

I'm flown to a destination in Europe for a six day induction program into the goals of the organisation and how to stay safe in a war zone. The content of the course is confronting, naturally. The people I meet are...what can I say...like none I've ever met before. The sort you don't generally meet at tedious, middle class dinner parties in the safe suburbs of South Kensington.

There were close to 30 of us. We were all going to various places around the globe - Iraq, Liberia, Haiti, Kosovo, Middle East, Syria, Lebanon, Pakistan, Sudan, East Timor, Congo, and others. I felt incredibly privileged to be part of this unusual clique of people. These are people who have a hunger to see, experience and know the world, to live life as if there were no tomorrow, to step outside themselves, and to help others. Yes, these people do exist. And yes, there are women there who have both older children and partners who support and encourage them to live life to the full. I feel I'm drinking an elixir of life.

There are five others also heading to Afghanistan - Matt, Teresa, Jakob, Irin and Dominique. This instantly makes me feel a little less anxious as they seem like good people, the adventurous types, different sorts of people, not motivated by money but by genuinely wanting to do good. Matt and Teresa have both previously lived and worked in Afghanistan for aid organisations for several years and loved it. They are so enthusiastic and encouraging, telling me I'll love it, that I instantly begin to relax and trust their judgement. Matt and Jakob are both lawyers and will be helping the government develop policies on Human Rights. Irin is a project officer who will be based in one of the regional offices, and Dominique is by far the most difficult of all and will be working in my unit.

She'll be working two levels above me and is keen to remind me to stay in my place, despite my obvious experience at a much higher level. From the first few days I find her prickly, so I'm careful what I say. From the first day she was boasting about working until 10pm most nights and that I'll be expected to do the same. I made a point of saying I would not be working ridiculous hours and it's hard enough working in a compound in Afghanistan let alone trying to break people by making them work dangerously long hours. It fell on deaf ears and I could tell she immediately labelled me as lazy.

On our final day of the induction course we did a mock convoy attack and hostage siege and it was truly frightening, and confronting with guns pointed at our heads, men in army fatigues, balaclavas and holding machine guns screaming in our faces. We were all taken to a paddock, lined up facing a wall, my hands were tied, women were separated from the men, we could hear gun shots and screaming. It was frightening but important to go through. I started to think what the f*** am I doing??

My partner in the exercise was the lovely Jakob who, when we were lined up against the wall, whispered kindly on several occasions, "Are you ok?" I was glad he was part of our "Afghan group", we'd already had a couple of lunches talking at some length about environmental awareness, corporate greed, and the worst excesses of American style capitalism. A man I could have a decent conversation with, and although he said he was keen to go to a region, I secretly hoped he would stay in Kabul.

With the induction course completed, various vaccinations received, the usual last minute complications regarding visas, the six of us finally fly to Dubai, get our visas, and the next day fly to Kabul. Dominique has arguments with several HR staff before we even reach Kabul, about the delays we've had. She hit the roof when told she had to pay excess baggage on one leg of the flight, a cost that the organisation will reimburse her for.

I have little respect for people who insist on making a drama over nothing. Get over it. I hoped and prayed I would not have to report to her, I could see she would be difficult and unreasonable. Sadly, my wishes were not answered, and my fear proved uncannily correct.
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Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-smith/ south of France and we drive through picturesque little villages, calm and contained with Christmas cheer, and I can't stop crying. My son puts on his favourite music, The Decemberists, The Shins, Coldplay, music that brings back memories of happy times travelling to various parts of Europe together as a family in the winter months.

My crying becomes inconsolable. I want to take on this adventure, and yet I'm not sure I can leave my family. I think of the article I read about guys serving in the military in Afghanistan and try and convince myself I'm not being a bad mother, but a good provider, as military blokes are portrayed. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I shouldn't take the job. I wonder if, (and hope) I'm being a good role model for my two teenage boys, and that I'm showing them that just because you're a girl/woman doesn't mean your only role should be in the home cleaning and baking.

A week before I'm due to leave to take up the position, there's a devastating suicide bombing in Kabul at a supermarket frequented by many foreigners. A prominent human rights lawyer, her husband and three little children were killed, along with a French film maker and two Afghan security guards. They were not the targets, simply unfortunate "collateral damage" as they would say in typical Orwellian military double speak. This is the first suicide bombing in Kabul after a nine month period of relative calm. I begin to feel afraid, extremely afraid. Was I being totally irresponsible, was it too late to pull out?

I talk with several women (child free) who have worked in Afghanistan, admittedly they worked there several years ago, but it helps demystify the "war zone" perception pervasive in western media. Interestingly they all say they loved it and would work there again in an instant given the chance, and most importantly, that Afghans are remarkable people. One of them makes a comment that stays with me - The media are very good at making it look scary.

It's as if all the work I've ever done as a journalist has been leading to this. My last contract job was training journalists in Kazakhstan which I loved; Afghanistan seemed like the next logical step. I try to stay strong and tell myself this will, if I survive, insh'allah, surely make me a stronger, better person and help me develop a tougher psychological backbone I've always felt I've been lacking. I'm hoping the experience might make me feel less afraid to be myself, less afraid to stand up for myself, to tell people who've treated me poorly where to get off. I want to take this job to toughen up.

Will I be judged as brave, or foolish? Time will tell I guess. If I am harmed in Afghanistan I'm therefore foolish, if I survive ok and with my immediate family dynamic intact, then brave. I keep reminding myself of a great quote I once read on the side of a railway station wall - I'd rather die on my legs than live on my knees. It worries me; this thought of being so afraid you render yourself incapable of making the most of life's opportunities. I don't want to live a life frozen by fear, of life itself.

Am I being totally selfish and unfair on my children, and my partner? Some would say loudly - YES. Was Aung San Su Chi heartless and selfish for choosing to stay in her compound in Yangon and stand up for her beliefs, her principles, to take control of her life? And she has children, now adults, and yet she wasn't harshly judged, she was/is seen as a brave hero.

I recognise I couldn't possibly take on this challenge, or opportunity, without the extraordinary support of my partner, who has always encouraged me, and my work, in a way that almost defies comprehension. A truly remarkable man.

The responses I find most telling are the messages that are ignored. Not even a -

Well done.
Congratulations, it's a great opportunity.
I think you're crazy but admire your courage.
Hope it goes well.
Stay safe.

Just silence. This makes me feel somehow wicked.

Basic politeness and consideration of others' feelings isn't fashionable anymore. It used to be called respect. Gordon Livingstone - Being ignored is the final insult to our humanity.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1103844 2011-12-15T11:51:02-05:00 2012-02-14T05:12:02-05:00

Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-smith/ Afghanistan was a fascinating business. Some said, don't go, you're mad. This is fair enough; I felt the same, initially. Others are more critical - I'm being foolish (it's dangerous), unfair (I have a partner and two teenage children), it's a lot of work (am I up for it), and even questioning how I got the job (was it advertised or handed to me by a mate?).

One good friend who worked as a journo for 30 years said, "What an opportunity! It's only for a year, your kids will be fine and well looked after by their father; you must go."

I've just finished reading an article about an English engineer who's spent most of this year working in Afghanistan with only one visit home in seven months. They interviewed his wife who's home with two kids. Absolutely no judgement was passed about him for his choice. In her words, "I feel exceptionally proud of him....because it's a big sacrifice to be there. When I think of the work he is doing in Afghanistan, I do feel the effort is incredibly worthwhile." She tells her younger son, "Daddy has a very important job and he needs to go away and help people." I suspect some people weren't quite so generous when my family and I made our decision, I know some thought I was a bad mother for "neglecting" my children. Surprisingly, some women with kids later told me how much I inspired them and saw me as a role model. Now that I'm here in Afghanistan, this honestly helps enormously.

What's also interesting is how few people asked the circumstances surrounding my decision - why, how, for how long, reaction of the boys, my partner, the difficulty in making the decision. Was I embarking on something so frowned upon, or misunderstood, they couldn't at least ask about the current situation in Afghanistan out of simple curiosity, if nothing else?

My sons' reactions were cool. My younger boy (13) was upset, he thought I'd be away for a year, but when I explained I'd be back every six weeks for two weeks he thought for a while and replied, "Does that mean we can afford to buy a flat screen TV?"

My older boy, 17, was amazed. "Wow Mum, that's fantastic, what an honour, well done." Me - "But M, it's dangerous in Afghanistan." He - "Yes, but so long as you promise never to leave your work area. If we hear you've been leaving the compound.......we'll kill you!" He laughs, "Besides, how many other kids can tell their friends their mum works in Afghanistan? I promise to cook and clean and help Dad with the lil'un. I'm cool with it."

By this stage I suspect I'm more impressed with him than vice versa. My incredible tribe, I knew I'd miss them.

The response that will stay with me forever however, was my father's. I was hesitant to tell him as I knew he was going to miss me, and me him. He's 87; we get on well and enjoy each other's company. I started off by giving him the background: it's a full-time, permanent position with a respected international organisation, I've been applying for jobs with them for several years without luck, had three interviews for this position and finally been offered it, the work is interesting and rewarding, every six weeks I'll be home for ten days. He sounds delighted for me. Then I tell him where it is.

After some delay he started to cry.

"Are you crying because I'm going away Dad?"

"No dear, I'm weeping because I'm so proud of you."

Merci bien papa.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1065952 2011-11-04T16:16:35-04:00 2012-01-04T05:12:01-05:00

Deborah Smith http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-smith/ Afghanistan, based in Kabul with some travel to the regions, with a humanitarian organization I've always admired? I've been working for 20 years in broadcast journalism, including more recently as an international consultant training journalists and journalism educators in the Middle East and in several former Soviet bloc countries. This is undoubtedly agonizing-decision-making-time, as I have two teenage boys to consider, but they will be well looked after back home with their father.

I know the reaction of some is going to be hostile, but this is to be expected given my long-standing designated place within the wider family dynamic. I'm also well aware that I'm breaking the conservatively assigned "acceptable" roles of mothers as perceived by most in our society. All of this I have to deal with when we, as a family, make our decision.

I'm relying on professional contacts to link me with people who have recently lived and worked in Kabul. Some people are extremely kind with their time and advice. To these people I am extremely grateful, particularly professional women in their 40s who are child-free and unafraid to face life's challenges, and unflinchingly give back where they can.

Although I'm currently living in Bordeaux, France for a month undertaking a French language course, I'm spending hours on the Internet at night (when I should be doing French homework) researching Afghanistan. Since January there's been a marked increase in the number of Taliban related attacks in Kabul. This year it's definitely become harder for internationals to work in the country's capital. I keep waking at 4 a.m. mulling over the decision and then falling asleep at 6, then waking again at 7:45 a.m. to go to my French class. I'm tired and distracted while trying hard to learn the language.

Bordeaux is beautiful at this time -- xmas lights and decorated trees to cheer the mood, the ubiquitous xmas market, not to mention my favorite European winter delight -- warm mulled wine laced with citrus fruits and spices. I'm looking forward to ice skating on the soon-to-be laid rink in the square next to the formidable Cathedrale St. Andre.

Amazing to think Eleanor of Aquitaine was only 15 years old when she married Louis VII in 1137, a few months before becoming Queen. ]]>