As I begrudgingly tread back to my cube in my soon to be old
office through the heat and dust, the only thing on my mind is how quickly I
can get back over to the Embassy pool for a swim. Tomorrow is the big move to
our new digs, into a real building and away from the egg carton bomb shelter
that I have been spending my waking hours for the last two years. Our “offices”
will be torn down shortly after the move and with them, the plastic walls that
have kept so many secrets and sheltered so many lives. I desperately started flinging
drawers open and disposing of half-eaten cliff bars and Easter candy sent by my
mom two years ago. Surprised at how quickly I am proceeding, I half-heartedly
tear open the last drawer in the last cabinet, only to find dozens of green
hanging folders stuffed to the brim with old dusty documents dating back to
when the first hallways were hammered into place.
The last thing I want to do is spend the afternoon in front
of the shredder, which is already smoking from all the attention it has been
getting over the last few days. I saw my dream of the cool water wash away
as I sift through document after document. Files dating back to the beginning
of time, or at least our recent time in Afghanistan. Contracts, briefings,
agreements between partners, old deals that that paved the way for recent
accomplishments, testaments to atrocities and acts of bravery, promises that
led to losses and victories - all headed for the shredder.
The first thing that caught my eye was an old 2006 memo to Condoleezza
Rice explaining a proposed project to receive funding. Over the incessant grid
of documents, I pause to read it, at he horror of my colleagues that are pacing
the hallways impatiently. I wonder if Condoleezza was ever annoyed by the
gurgling sound the shredder makes as it spits documents in reverse is there was one
page to many. My mind started to wander to the time when the former Secretary
of State actually walked around these very same halls. How different things were
and how much they had not changed at all, it would probably seem nostalgic to her.
I find an article
titled “Lusting after Riches” from 2005 about parents selling their
20-day old baby daughter to a 25-year old man in exchange for a few carpets. Religious
leaders were trying to convince the parents that this was not the way and they
should trade the carpets back for their daughter. For people who haven’t worked
and lived in Afghanistan, stories like this might seem the norm. These are the
kinds of things people Stateside like to ponder over during happy hour drinks
in swanky sterile bars or in the kitchens of their seven bedroom homes. After skimming over the first few lines, the usual exhausted remark is – “I just don’t know why we are still over there…”
However, the simple facts are that these are anomalies picked
up by mainstream media primarily because they tell the story that people want to hear – one of
horror, sadness and lack of humanity. For those of us who have spent enough
time here, we know better. We know the changes in attitudes, perceptions,
beliefs and mindsets, and yes, to quote the military - “hearts and minds." This is what has changed Afghanistan forever.
Most Afghans can even fathom an understanding of
what would make parents sell their baby, just like most Americans will never
understand what makes a teenager walk into an African American church and start
shooting people. Yes, atrocities still happen in Afghanistan, and still happen
all over the world. But if American’s progress and might was judged by the
number of negative news stories fostered and repeated daily, we would realize
that our glass ship was close to sinking.
What the average America, and to be honest, the rest of the
world hears about is the statistics - number of Taliban
attacks, percentage of national GDP increase, increase in exports/imports. And they read the first few lines of recent stories about acid thrown in the faces of three school
girls. But the statistics and sensationalized stories don't tell the highlight the everyday people who make up Afghanistan today. Nadia, a 21-year-old Afghan woman, posts pictures on Facebook of herself and fellow teammates from the Afghan Women’s
National Cycling team riding through the streets of Kabul practicing for international competitions. And Nasir, a 23-year-old
Afghan American, whose family has enough money to send him to university in the US but decided to return to Afghanistan to get a PHD in psychology. And by Zhala,
the 30-year-old female entrepreneur, who recently opened her own version of
Pinkberry frozen yogurt and tweets about the new Ramadan flavors.
The changes in Afghan popular culture over the past 10-15 years are so dramatic.
Half the population has grown up only knowing this Afghanistan. They could
never imagine going back because the past only exists as shredded memories now as blurry as the Russian invasion. When I’m back in America, people ask me my
opinion about the future of Afghanistan. Maybe I am more hopeful than most of
my American colleagues, but like Nadia and Nasir and Zhala, I have only know
the new Afghanistan and it is moving in one direction – forward – like the rest
of the world. Another frequent question is - So what do the “Afghans” think about the future of the country. Finding one united voice amongst a country with faces, histories and opinions as diverse the whole of New York city would be an interesting feat. Americans - what do we think about slavery? Obama care? Gay marriage?
My shredding has slowed down dramatically. Should
I actually be destroying these documents? They are only copies of course but
are testaments to our small piece of history in Afghanistan. To the drama, the sweat, the tears
and even blood that American civilians have poured into this country. But shredding may be the best thing we
can do with the past. By destroying it physically, it only exists in our
memories and the possibility of it coming back seems even less tangible. Can
the past actually be shredded away to reveal the future?
So as I shred the past away, I acknowledge that this is my
past as well. After 3 ½ years in Afghanistan, I have made my contributions and helped
to change lives. Thinking about the Condoleezza strolling down
our hallways, past my incredibly messy desk, on the way to the Mission Director's office to hash out solutions to the endless list of imitate crises, I resolve to make two changes. Number 1 –
make a point to keep my desk in a somewhat organized fashion by throwing out old
editions of Victoria Secrets catalogs and half-eaten candy bars. And Number 2 - acknowledge and appreciate how important my contributions are and will continue to be.
Even though my days of being able to sit down and drink tea with
my Afghan bee farmer friends are long gone. And I'm no longer able to attend a weaving class and sit side-by-side Afghan women perfecting their craft or drive out to the pistachio forests and apricot farms, I am still doing my part to ensure that Afghans are able to enjoy their beautiful country and look forward to a different future which none of us can predict.
With the last remaining documents in hands, the shredder
grinds on and I smile because I am fortunate
enough to be in Afghanistan at a time when it is safe for me to complain
about little things like paper shredding and the bathrooms at Kabul Airport, instead of worrying about my personal security.
