“Where are you from?”

That’s the first question that Afghans ask me once they have dispensed with the customary pleasantries. Most Afghans initially assume that I am a local. The question of my origins is often initiated by an awkward moment during which my new acquaintance tries to greet me in Dari and I have to grin apologetically, my ignorance of their language exposed. I put my ability to masquerade as an Afghan down to my swarthy skin tone and my ‘impressive’ beard, but unfortunately once I have deployed my finest version of ‘As salaam al aykuum’, I am rumbled as just another enthusiastic foreigner annoyingly trying to help them. This in itself is uninteresting, but it is the conversation that follows that provides a tiny but intriguing insight into Afghanistan. Once I have availed myself of my entire life story - where I was born, brought up, educated, and my ancestral origins – the next question that arrives without fail: “Are you Muslim?”. Once I have confirmed that I am ‘one of them’, almost without fail my interrogator’s face will crease into a warm smile and they will say, “Al hamd’Allah, al hamd’Allah”. I personally find this intriguing because it demonstrates the enduring centrality of Islam to people’s personal lives here and the ongoing affinity Afghans feel towards other Muslims. Now I am not claiming that I have some kind of comparative advantage here because I am Muslim – everyday I am more and more bewildered by Afghanistan and feel I understand it less and less – only that the small and personal metaphorical wall that I sense is torn down in the wake of my confession of faith may be instructive. The Government of Afghanistan is flooded with American and European advisers many of whom are capable and committed. But I wonder whether the gargantuan challenge of state-building in a country like Afghanistan can ever be successfully instituted by westerners. I accept that this may appear to be an incredibly simplistic observation – that an understanding of the cultural context is an essential pre-requisite for any form of successful assistance. But I suppose the frequency with which I have had this conversation in the last two weeks, coupled with the consistency of the response has served to highlight to me just how paramount this component of the enterprise is. And if this is so blindingly obvious, why are there not more advisers from Muslim states walking the corridors of Afghan Ministries? Why have we failed to involve regional partners sufficiently in this terrifyingly enormous challenge? A NATO, World Bank and UN dominated by the US and the Euros are surely not the only answer? Where are the Iranians? Where are the Saudis and other Gulf Arabs? What about Indonesia? Can we encourage the Turks to do more? Admittedly, these are not necessarily paragons of good governance (especially the first two) at home. But if we are realistic, in the medium-term, is Afghanistan more likely to look like one of these aforementioned countries or like Washington and Westminster? This brings one back to the slippery question of what actually constitutes ‘success’ in Afghanistan. Once we have answered that definitively, maybe we can be a bit more canny about how to get there. On a slightly more frivilous note – a liitle something for those Y-beard fans out there (I know there are a few) – its coming along well. It got its first real trim a few days ago. Its slightly scraggly, lacking the symmetry of the groomed gentleman. But I judge that its unruliness gives it its distinctive character, makes me look a little ‘wild’ and helps me blend in. Watch this space for more from the gripping series that is ‘Y’s adventures in facial fuzz….’ --Y

Afghanistan Arrival

A strange irony of the journey into Kabul is that one of the most popular transit points is Dubai. The contrast between these two places could not be more stark. Dubai is perhaps one of the most vulgar places I have visited. The tiny emirate seems to celebrate conspicious consumption in its most brash and unadulterated form. Anything that your most base instincts desire or imagine is attainable here, as the boundaries of excessive materialism are constantly being redefined – 7* hotels, the tallest skyscraper in the world, ski slopes in the desert. This tiny corner of the world is simply a giant temple to worship Mammon.

It is the first time that I have visited Dubai since the onset of the financial crisis, and its decadence seems almost anachronistic now. At a time when the prevailing narrative in Europe and the US seems to be based on sacrifice and thriftness and disdainful of greed, Dubai’s opulence appears entirely out of step. There is no doubt that Dubai’s economy is in deep trouble, but it seems that this message has been slow to reach the Emirate’s populace, a rigidly segmented community of entitled native Arabs, hedonistic western expats, and a south asian mamluk-like working class. It will be interesting to watch what becomes of it in the future, if the global financial system genuinely does change.

Fortunately my stay in Dubai was short. My flight into Kabul was severely delayed and then when it eventually took off was re-routed back to Dubai, as Iran had closed its airspace in response to the post-election political turmoil. After an hour of sitting on the tarmac in Dubai, we learned that the Iranians had now decided to re-open their airspace and we were allowed to begin our journey.

I would love to provide a detailed insight into life in Kabul but my existence here is too restricted to allow that. I reside with other expats in a large house that stands behind high walls and barbed wire, surrounded by armed guards. I have a room with an ensuite bathroom and a team of domestic staff that cook me three meals a day and do my laundry. I travel to work everyday in an armoured vehicle with my Afghan driver, gazing out of the SUVs window trying to soak up as much about life in the city as one can glean from behind bullet-proof glass. I am based in a small office in the Ministry which I travel to daily, which allows me some opportunity to interact with Afghans, although I recognise that these are hardly representative of the populace at large. In short, my life here is incredibly sheltered.

My main opportunity to learn something about Afghanistan comes through my work. I am working as a consultant in the Government’s Ministry of Rural Rehabilitation and Development (MRRD). This is a giant, cross-sectoral Ministry, used as a vehicle by many donors to channel large sums of money to the provinces to invest in rural infrastructure, such as roads and bridges. The Ministry’s work also stretches to the rehabilitation of schools, hospitals and power installations. From this sprawling mass of objectives, organisational chaos has been born. Poor co-ordination between donors, coupled with their desire to stick national flags on projects that they are funding means that the Ministry has become balkanized, with various fiefdoms within the beauracracy emerging and weak control from the centre over the delivery of flagship programmes.

The Ministry’s senior leadership are cognizant of the chaos within their organisation, and are also aware that the shift in the US’s strategy in Afghanistan will potentially bring them even greater resources in the coming months. They feel that unless they can get a grip on their Ministry, understand where the gaps in capacity are and make an assessment of real needs, their voice will not be heard when the American deluge – or ‘civ-surge’ as it is called – strikes.

The task before me is quite daunting. I have only a month to prepare a short, action-oriented report diagnosing problems within the Ministry and suggesting practical solutions that can be developed into a change management strategy. I feel that the amount of ‘unknown unknowns’ in this endeavour are considerable and it is not entirely clear to me how, or through whom, information can be acquired. I feel like the proverbial blind man feeling an elephant, as my eventual conclusions will be inevitably hamstrung by my lack of understanding of the whole beast. How I deal with this challenge is what I am spending most of my day thinking about.

The rest of my day I spend thinking about the beard that I am cultivating while I am here, stroking it like a sage while I do so. My hope is that my advances in facial fashion will give me the gravitas I need to at least fool my Afghan colleagues into thinking that I know what I am doing here. Any grooming tips would be gratefully received.

--Y

Impressions from Damascus

Impressions from Damascus

The old city is lovely. The narrow streets wind through souqs and are peppered with old crumbling Ottoman houses. Many have not been renovated because it is difficult to get permission from the government. In the middle of the night you can wander around the old city, eerily lit by the green neon of mosques’ minarets, never completely alone because Damascus never sleeps – street cleaners, mothers in black abayas with their young children, men walking hand in hand, workmen sitting around a pot of tea, all can be found between the hours of 2 and 6 AM.

Conversations about the government are rare. Most Syrians will not bring up the subject although many seem to be in favor of the new president, Bashar, whose picture adorns many cafes, stores, and late-night falafel stands. Syrians are curious about America and ask questions that are difficult to answer – What is like to live in a country with democracy and freedom? – for which I often have no answer. When they speak about the future and their hopes for peace they include Palestinians, Lebanese, Iranians, and Afghanis, as if their fate is bound up in the fate of all Muslims.

The grounds of Damascus University are in desperate need of a makeover. Crumbling fountains without water and broken cobblestones abound. Women in fashionable headscarves and tight jeans sit on benches studying or chatting with their friends. The occasional couple can be found, heads slightly tilted together, in the quieter parts of the courtyard.

Syrian men are generally respectful and keep their distance. Sometimes when I walk by I can catch whispered words – beautiful, girl – but so soft it sounds like someone murmuring sweet nothings in your ear.

Almost all of the foreigners in the city are students studying Arabic. The odd NGO employee or diplomat can also be found. Prices in the souq seem to drop quickly if you can speak a few words of Arabic and tell the proprietor that you are a student. Most students study at the university or with a private tutor. Some also study at the Abu Noor mosque, where women wear headscarves in class. A few Western women study at Abu Noor, but most of the students come from the rest of the Muslim world. There is an hour of religious instruction after the language lesson that includes Quranic readings. The instruction at Abu Noor is considered much more hard-core than at the University, and for a fraction of the cost.

The other day I took a nap in the church of a monastery built fifteen hundred years ago in the desolate countryside an hour outside Damascus. We crammed six people in the car and drove to Mar Musa monastery under a reddish hazy sky that looked like L.A.-style pollution to me but which I was informed was simply a normal Syrian sandstorm. We arrived in the morning and I climbed what seemed like a thousand stairs to the old monastery and ducked into a small doorway four feet tall and walked hunched over through a winding passageway to a large veranda with a view of red hills and not much else. You can sit in the church of the monastery, undisturbed for hours, and read and sleep. Eventually a monk will come by and tell you its time for lunch. Lunch is a lovely affair of rice with lamb and chicken, yogurt, and fruit. The only money taken at the monastery is donations. If you happen to go to Mar Musa, be sure to meet Father Paulo, who embodies the spirit of the place. He’s been there for ages, has a great booming laugh, and will immediately put you at ease. You can spend the night at the monastery, but you may want to wait a few months, since they are getting electricity in the dormitory soon.

Some Kurdish friends organized a picnic for us a few days ago. We rented a small mini-van and drove an hour outside the city to a small stream next to abandoned rail tracks. The Kurds in Damascus, like everywhere, are not well regarded by the Syrians. Despite being born in Syria, they have no identity papers and cannot obtain passports. They’re ghosts in the Syrian system. One of them, who is an artist who paints scenes from the old city, told me he simply says “I am Kurdish” if the police ask him for his papers, and he’s on his way. His parents paid thousands of dollars for a fake passport to escape to France but he can’t earn enough money as an artist to leave. We sat by the stream and played traditional Kurdish songs, smoked nargile, and drank beer while the Kurdish boys danced dabka round and round in circles.

The young Kurds I have met in Damascus seem somewhat disdainful of the Kurds in Turkey and the Kurds from the Syrian countryside. They recognize the problems in their society – girls being married off as early 13 in order to make sure they don’t lose their reputations before a suitable husband can be found, parents having seven to twelve children and not educating or, in some cases, feeding them properly, a conservative society that does not value education or social liberties. My Kurdish friend who teaches Arabic as a private tutor, gets angry when he goes back to his village and some of the parents of the children seem satisfied to let their children grow like weeds in the wild. He lectures them on their responsibilities and they respond, “Allah will provide.” He thinks its shameful that some of the men think it is sufficient to work for two months out of the year. When they have saved a small amount of money, it goes toward finding a second or third wife. But the Kurds I have met in Damascus are modern and hopefully will change the next generation.

Abu George is the smallest bar in Damascus. It fits about 5 tables and everyone is crammed on top of one another. The barkeep is an engaging older man who pours Scotch, arak, and wine with an easy manner. The walls are decorated in bizarre old record albums from the 70s, a photo from the early 80s of a topless woman with leopard skin boots that match the trim of her cowboy hat, and adverts for Arabic tutors. It’s impossible to not become involved in the conversations of the tables around you and when one group cheers, the whole bar chimes in. Wet met some Danish sailors and a mad old Irishman in the first ten minutes. Eventually the conversation conflates into one and then dissembles again after a while. You can while away hours at Abu George.

--Ümlaut

Part III - J's 2nd week: Social Stratification and Sheesha

The rest of the week consisted of a variety of get-togethers and meeting people through people I've already met. On Monday, the journalist Noor introduced me to a group of artist-types: a theater director who recently directed "Art" (a play that won the Tony award back in 1998 that starred Alan Alda, Victor Garber and Alfred Molina); an actor who went to Stanford undergrad; an "up-and-coming" Pakistani pop singer whose single is getting a lot of radio play; and a handful of others that worked in a more traditional careers. They arrived at the guesthouse to take me over to an Uzbek restaurant that is located in a house on a main thoroughfare. The security, like everywhere else in Islamabad, is ostensibly "tight," which means poorly trained guards with guns that may or may not work, high walls and magnetometer wands that they won't use on women and ignore when they use them on guys. Basically the front yard is empty of people and functions now as a blast buffer, although it may have been primarily a zoo beforehand. Because while it's empty of people, it contained a few flamingo-like birds and a couple of docile lop-eared rabbits. I wasn't sure if they were decorative, coincidental or simply menu items. The inside of the house serves as an art gallery and the guests mainly dine or smoke sheehsa out back. But before we ordered, someone made the decision that we should leave and drive to another friend's house on the outskirts of town. I'm still puzzled as to why that decision was made, but seeing as how I was the random new guy, I had pretty much zero decision-making authority. While the drive took a bit of time, it was actually quite fun since everyone in the car was singing along to a mix of popular American music on the pop-singer's iPod. There was, however, one exception to the American music, which was the pop-singer's recent Urdu hit. Evidently, it is some sort of rock ballad. Not quite the high-powered vocals of Steve Perry and less hip-hop oriented than J T. Maybe Nick Lachey? Point is, while I couldn't understand any of what he was singing, the tune was decently catchy. Unsurprisingly, he sang along.

On Tuesday, after finishing a few additional items for the IDP report prior to its publication, I got a call from Asim who wanted to hang out at Gloria Jean's. He arrived to pick me up in his upscale Honda. While some of the elites still purchase the usual BMW/Mercedes/Range Rovers, most typically drive the top of the line Hondas and Toyotas, some of which aren't available in the States. Evidently, it's hard to get maintenance or car parts for German cars, whereas Japanese cars are often times assembled in Pakistan. That and when driving around Pakistan, a low profile is often the better choice. So I got in and we headed back to Khosar to grab a couple of macchiatos. When we arrived, Asim saw a friend of his from ISoI, who we sat with. His friend then introduced me to the other two people at the table, both of whom were also ISoIers, of course. And It turns out that all three were all recently in an indie film entitled "Slackistan." I think it's a "Reality Bites" for Pakistan, but classier. Or so they tell me. We chatted about film, photography and theater for awhile before a few of us eventually decided to go to dinner.

We settled on dinner at the Serena Hotel -- the only real uspcale hotel in Isloo that isn't the Marriott. The security to get in was breathtakingly robust. We pulled into the hotel's driveway, where the car was checked for bombs. They lowered the metal barrier to allow us into the parking lot entrance, where the car was again checked. 20 heavily armed security guards dotted the parking area under the watchful eye of rooftop snipers. After exiting the car, we left the parking lot through a metal detector and walked another 50 yards before reaching a small room with a hotel staff and a few more security guards at the final metal detector. Having passed the formal security, we climbed the long flight of stairs to reach the hotel, which is perched upon a hill-like foundation. This height provides the hotel's guests the added 'luxury' of limiting both street noise and bomb blasts. Every need and desire accounted for.... Obviously, having security to deter terrorists from attacking the hotel is needed. But it really creates a feeling of being under siege, which is a bit unnerving. I can only imagine the cognitive damage that having a constant state of security throughout the city has caused people. Once inside, the restaurant had an ambiance of an upscale US restaurant that was trying to be "authentic" Pakistani food. My chicken biryani was decent, but definitely overpriced. The bill included a surcharge for what I assume was the opportunity to be surrounded by expats with cash to burn, because it certainly could not have been for the service. The evening ended when I decided to skip out on Hotspot, the ice-cream shop that is frequently an evening stop on the F7 social circuit.

Thursday evening was spent hanging out at Gloria Jean's for several hours with Shaheryar and Asim. Shaheryar and I then met Noor for dinner at Rendezvous. Rendezvous is a "chic" restaurant that offers overpriced entrees and sheesha. I experienced both. The restaurant is part of a recently built promenade in F7 along a park that offers outdoor seating for several sheesha places, restaurants and an ice cream shop, catering to the elite and their expat friends. Noor's actor and pop-singer friends joined us, as did another journalist, a Brit, who worked for the Guardian and now works for Globe and Mail. He later told me that he was driving up to Swat the next day to survey the damage from the military operations. Only half-kidding, I offered to take pictures for him. Luckily, the end of newspapers means that they don't have funding for a photographer. That and I'm not completely stupid. Asim joined us later for sheesha, as did another gentleman who works in the defense industry trade -- all on the up and up, I assume. We spent the evening puffing on sheesha and chatting until we adjourned around 1am.

On Friday, I received an invitation from a friend of a friend to stop by for drinks and dinner. He attended school in the States and is back to work for his family business. His house was, unsurprisingly, gorgeous. Filled with paintings and other works of art, its decor isa blend of clean, contemporary lines, but with classical and traditional elements, making it inviting. Of chief importance is the wet bar, which is the best stocked home-bar that I have seen. Not just in Pakistan, but anywhere. Also of note was the gorgeous pool out back. When the temperature reaches 40 degrees Celsius, I think I'll know where to go. For drinks, we were accompanied by a couple of others. One was a Chinese guy who is receiving his MA in Islamabad. While he is ostensibly in graduate school, he is apparently high up in the "Party" and everyone thinks he works for Chinese intelligence. The other guy works for a strategic think tank that is funded by the Pakistani Government and the ISI (the one that isn't the International School of Islamabad), and is deceptively known as the ISSI. Who would make that connection, right? You could say that the conversation over drinks was interesting. The discussion continued over dinner, which was regional food from around Pakistan and prepared and served to us by several members of the house staff.

After dinner, I went to Noor's friend's place that is near my guesthouse. We played Jenga (yes, the ridiculous woodblock game) while smoking sheesha and drinking bootlegged wine. It was fun, but the highlight of the evening was the comment about the benefit of window curtains and how upset the "Baby Taliban" would be if they knew about the 'debauchery' that was occurring so close to their madrassah. Yes, Jenga+2 bottles of wine shared amongst 8 people=debauchery. Oh right, we also played charades.

After two weeks, the notion that I'm simply living a life with the elites gets to me. It still surprises me that someone has an entire waitstaff that consists of cooks, butlers, guards, maids, drivers, etc. And although I keep trying to get used to it, I nevertheless feel awkward being served in such an obsequious manner. Despite my abstract desire to learn about a more normal Pakistani existence, I'm not certain I really can. First is a communication issue. My Urdu, while I've learned a few phrases and words, is not enough to actually communicate; and outside the elite, there are very few English speakers. Second is the issue of security, as one can never be too careful about who one trusts. And even if someone and their friends are trustworthy, there is an uncertainty about whom they may tell or who may simply overhear them mention some random American that they are meeting or who is visiting them at home. I was surprised to learn that a poll showed that many within the ranks of the common man are sympathetic to the Taliban. While this is less about the program of Sharia law and extremism and more about the Taliban's recent quasi-socialist policy of taking over an emerald mine in Swat and giving much higher wages to the laborers, it nevertheless makes me hesitant to put myself in a potentially hostile situation. And lastly, it’s simply more fun to hang out with the elite.

Of course, I interact with the staff at the office and guesthouse. In the first couple of weeks, I have tried speak with them as much as possible about their lives. During meals, I am sometimes joined by Farhan the cook. It turns out that he is Christian and that being a Christian in Pakistan is very difficult. His last name gives him away, as it’s simply an English name (like John or Harris). In his mid 20s, he has had plenty of vocational training – training two years to be a hair stylist and more recently six years to become a cook. Early into my time at the guesthouse he opened up to me about how his girlfriend’s family doesn’t accept him. I thought it was because he was Christian, but that wasn’t it. The reason is that her family wants her to marry someone with a college degree, not a chef.

Ismail, a 27 year old Pashtun that looks nearly 40 from Malakand District is the late-evening and early-morning front desk attendant. He often sits with me in the morning and teaches me a phrase or two in Urdu. While his English is the best compared to the rest of the guesthouse staff, he is frequently unintelligible. But some things that I have been able to understand are about his family. Evidently, he has eight siblings, most of who have left or are leaving Malakand because of the current crisis and military operations. He is very much against the problems that the Taliban are causing generally, and how they reject traditional Pashtun culture, as well as undermine the development of his people. Despite living in Islamabad, he remains culturally connected to his culture. At night, he’ll chat in Pashto and drink a cup of tea with the guards. And he often spends the very late night hours at the front desk wearing large headphones while watching traditional Pashtun dances on YouTube.

The daytime front desk guy, Brian (I don’t actually remember his name, but Brian fits him), is 18 or 19 and always stands when I approach the desk. I tell him not to, but he says it’s part of the job. He studies Islamic history at school and is often reading his text book at the front desk. And once he gets off work at 6 pm, he works for 6 more hours at a tailor where he apprentices. His tailoring skills have come in handy. He offered to hem a couple of Shalwer Kameez outfits for me and suggested several good stores to find quality clothing. He is always smiling at me, but I think he just thinks I’m a bit silly. They all do. But Brian did tell me that I looked “Beautiful” in the Shalwer Kameez. I mean, I know it looks good, but beautiful seems like a stretch. When I wore the outfit to the office, the staff used the same phrase. It must just be that the connotation is lost without some degree of fluency. When I recently used a literal translation into Urdu of an English phrase, I said something that was uproariously inappropriate. I still have no idea what. But at least there were no real negative consequences, since I was just laughed at. Point is, linguistic nuance is not easy.

Ismail said to me a few days ago: “We enjoy you very much.” I awkwardly smiled. Seeing my confusion, he explained that he likes that I am “sometimes serious and sometimes silly.” Not really sure how to take that the silly comment. I guess being nice to the staff and smiling often counts as silly, because it’s not like I’m doing a slapstick routine in the dining room. In the days since, he has told me that I’m the first American he has ever met, and that unlike the other guests, most of whom are German it turns out, I am the only one that talks with him, Farhan and Brian about their lives. Just last night Ismail opened up to me about his first and only love. Evidently, after he had fallen madly in love with her, she deceived him. His love was, and I quote, “pure and true.” And he was crushed by her betrayal. So much so that he declared that he’ll never love again. Not sure how long that will last since he already has a crush on a German woman that once stayed at the guesthouse.

A couple other characters that add color to my experience are the cleaning guy at the office and a couple guards outside the guesthouse. Bassid, the cleaning guy, arrives to work on his 1976 Vespa far before everyone else to “clean” the office. But as I noticed during the mornings when I arrived before most of the ICG staff, he does very little cleaning. I wandered into my office one morning and he decided to come upstairs to dust the small and somewhat dehydrated fern plant next to my desk. This was clearly an excuse to chat, because as he began his story, he dropped all pretense of cleaning. Evidently, this polio-stricken 21 year old, has had a tremendously troubled life. He managed to tell me that: he’s discriminated against for being a Christian; his mother died last year; his baby died a few weeks after being born; his wife has now gone crazy since the baby died; and his father has had three heart bypasses and has a weak heart. And after each one he would just shake his head, murmuring about being unlucky and having many problems. Admittedly, his life is terrible. But when I would ask follow up questions, such as how long ago did this happen or that happen, he would simply nod and look sad, as if I had not just asked a question. It was like the Family Guy episode when Stewie and Brian get into a truck with an immigrant who sounds fluent in English while describing some specific situation. But when asked a follow-up question, he has a small speech explaining that his only knowledge of English is the previous speech and this one explaining that. They ask him another question and he simply responds– No hablo ingles. It feels like that when chatting with this guy, who has now regaled me with the same story several times.

Also of note are the two evening guards (the day guards are nice too, but they’re a bit more proper, and thus, less funny). One guard is a younger Punjabi guy, who is quite possibly the frailest guard I’ve ever seen. Yes, he carries a gun, but it seems like he can’t lift it with one arm. He always gives me a salute and then a handshake that turns into a partial hug, as I walk up the driveway. His smile is a bit crooked and his coordination is not the best, but he is always eager to help. Of course, eagerness won’t be a suitable replacement for strength and dexterity if real help is needed, but I imagine that skill-set won’t be called for. And I much prefer this slightly awkward, very kind and somewhat emaciated guard anyway.

The other guard is the one who works at the house next door. He is a very old Pashtun man from Swat, who dyes his long, gray beard with henna, giving it that unique orange color. Every time that he sees me he throws up his hands in the air, broadly smiling, and shouts “Hello, sir!” Often, he comes down from his guard station to shake my hand. Once he even hugged me. He said to me that I was the first Westerner that ever smiled or talked to him. He once said that I am very kind and told me that he wishes me a long and happy life, which is tremendously sweet. Of course, the other guards think he’s a bit loopy, which he is, but he’s just a sweet old man who happens to carry a large shotgun. A little bit like Texas, I suppose.

It seems to me that the lives of the help staff and guards are mostly unpleasant. They commute an hour or more to work each way, every day. And they do so, so they can stand in the heat all day with only a gun for company, or so that they can pointlessly clean and ponder their own misery. But they are remarkably kind. And they deeply appreciate the smallest show of gratitude and friendship, for which they seem starved.

-J

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My next posting will be on my Saturday in Pindi and my experience learning and watching Pakistan's Cricket team.

Ümlaut's first post from Syria - Hamam

Al-Hamam

For the men reading this, I am sorry. Sorry that while you may go to a public bath in the Middle East you will never experience the enclave of female comfort that I experienced. For those of you visiting Istanbul, many of the male public baths are gay pick-up joints (if that’s the kind of thing you’re into). I have heard that there are similar gay baths in Syria although I wouldn’t know where to ask or where to go. For the women, if you have the chance, do not miss a uniquely female experience like ladies’ day at the hamam.

The entrance to the hamam I went to a few days ago is a large circular room with a 30-meter high ceiling finishing in a beautiful cupola punctuated by small stained glass windows. Low divans surround a central fountain where women sit smoking nargile and cigarettes, drinking coffee and chatting among themselves. Once you’ve divested yourself of your belongings and your clothes (in a carefully orchestrated changing process as to not reveal too much) you are given a thin cloth to wrap around yourself and sent into a hot sauna with a small bowl containing a scrubber, a small bottle of shampoo, and a bizarre sponge made of plastic wires.

We sat, sweltering, and chatting, when a lovely buxom British women came in and sat with us. Other than the three of us, everyone was local. Old women with large breasts that hung down to their bellies and tall, nubile young Syrian women splashing around sitting on the hot stones around small fountains. A young mother brought her two daughters, one who was likely around 18 months old and clearly not pleased by the hot room or the constant deluge of water her mother poured over her head. We sat until we had sweated enough and then moved in front of a fat woman dressed in drenched black clothes. I laid down on the hot floor, basically naked, with my cloth draped between my legs, and she scrubbed my arms, my legs, and my face and then motioned over to a table jutting out from the wall – “massage” – I imagine one of 3 words she spoke in English. The table is dangerously slippery and I almost slid off several times, saved only by the bulk of the frizzy red-headed masseuse. The massage was nothing like I have experienced in the States, involving all my parts, including those that even the most adventurous masseuse in San Francisco would likely avoid. When she wanted me to move closer to her she grabbed the two ends of my cloth and pulled me towards her and I slid like a winter sled down the long table smack into her generous bosom. You may think that there are too many mentions of breasts in this short description but if you should find yourself in this situation, I guarantee, breasts are all that you see – they are unavoidable and ever present. Shy women should steer clear.

After the massage and hot shower during which I fashioned my wrap into a shower curtain of sorts, we retreated into the first stone room, an entryway of sorts, where women offered us small, sour green plums and escaped the heat. At this point, I felt clean, slightly light-headed, but altogether relaxed. We exchanged our dripping wraps for dry ones and went into the first room again to sit on the divan, smoke nargile, and drink peach iced tea. Just as I was thinking a bit of music would be nice, loud belly dancing tunes began emanating from ancient speakers, echoing loudly in the chamber. I shook my shoulders a bit to the tune and the next thing I knew, I was dancing with the proprietress, switching my hips to the beat with women clapping in the background. We started a dance party as other women began to dance, either in their seats or in front of their divans, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Two young Syrian girls, beautiful, tall, with amazing figures, began a dance that was mesmerizing. Their wraps were tied around their waists in knots and their midriffs were bare – they had changed into colorful bras that accentuated their full breasts and thin shoulders. I’ve never seen girls dance so well, carefree in front of their mothers, aunts, grandmothers. It was lovely. Everyone, young and old, was swaying to the music and laughing and clapping. What I would have given for a video camera at that moment. We sat for an hour listening to the music, chatting, trying to answer questions in our broken Arabic, and feeling entirely at ease. One of the older women got up and made a space to pray in the corner. My friend whispered to me, “There is a time to dance and a time to pray.” Apparently, at the hamam, these can happen at the same time. After an hour, reluctantly, the dance party broke up and we got dressed. The young nubile Syrian girls drew dark kohl lines around their eyes and put on their trendy clothes. The older women donned their headscarves and lost a bit of their charm. We left the building through a curtained old doorway. The harsh reality of the Syrian afternoon light was a bit surreal after that time of sweet female companionship.
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For those of you who know me, please do not use my name in the comment section of the blog. Thanks a million!

Part II -J's 1st Weekend: Checkpoints and Chicken

On my first Friday evening in Isloo a fellow named Shaheryar, another Kevin Bacon-esque connection, called and invited me to join him for coffee. I didn't know what to expect from this aspiring journalist, but thought that getting coffee was a good way to go. If it was terrible, I could just head home and write a funny blog entry about it. He swung by my place around 7 with his friend Asim. Both went to ISoI and attended college in the States. After the basic introductions, he drove us over to F6's Khosar Market. Khosar is a smaller and slightly more upscale market area that is chiefly important because it contains Gloria Jean's coffee, one of the only cafes in Isloo and few places that serves real coffee. This makes it a sort of social life mecca in Isloo for the elites and a handful of expats. While such patronage makes it a potential target for the militants, it is also very close to a mosque, which militates against its likelihood of being targeted. As do the security guards that wander around with semi-automatic weapons. Just beyond Gloria Jean's patio is a fountain that shuts off randomly. On the other side of the fountain is a large, dilapidated cage for peacocks. Why, I have no idea. The rest of Khosar has a typical mix of stores -- shoe, rug, fabric, and grocery stores, as well as a small produce area and the random street food vendors that come around 8 pm.

Once we arrived, we grabbed some macchiatos and decided to sit outside since the interior has a sharp, paint-like smell that is probably toxic. We encircled a small table on the edge of the patio and chatted about my work for Crisis Group, Asim's life and former job in Dubai, Shaheryar's pursuit of journalism, the current situation in Pakistan, and life in general. After a brief time, a friend from Harvard, Nadia, joined us. She was in Isloo for the night in order to travel to the IDP camps in Mardan the following morning. Soon after, her friend Noor, a columnist and blogger for Dawn (the best English newspaper in Pakistan) joined us. She quickly apologized for wearing a sleeveless shirt, and explained that she was going out to a party later that evening and hadn't expected being out in public. While considered scandalous in many circles in Pakistan, her sartorial choice would have been considered conservative in the West. I, of course, told her I was deeply offended. She thankfully realized that this was simply my poor attempt at humor.

After lingering over our empty cups of espresso for three hours, we decided it was time to grab dinner. So we left Gloria Jean's and decided upon Tiramisu. Tiramisu is Islamabad's somewhat feeble attempt at Italian fine-dining and is located off the main commercial thoroughfare, known as the Blue Area. The Blue Area is lined with businesses, shops and restaurants that range from hole-in-the-wall to upscale, or Isloo's approximation of upscale. Everyone was excited for some soup that they serve, but it seemed that they no longer served it. My penne arabiata with chicken was spicy, but somehow not particularly tasty, and clearly overpriced at 6 USD an entree. Pleasantly, my entree was paired with a great wine that really brought out the flavors of Tuscan cooking. Wait. That doesn't sound right. They don't serve wine in Pakistan. Oh right. I was drinking watermelon juice. Tasty on its own, Watermelon juice offers some conflicting tastes when paired with picante pasta. The dessert, however, was great and worth every rupee.

As the evening wound down, we offered to drive Nadia back to her evening's lodging. Since she was only there for the night, she didn't quite remember where it was. All she could recall was that it was on the way to the airport, there was a ramp nearby, and it was a "farm." Evidently, there are a number of "farms" outside Isloo, which are simply sprawling mansions with a substantial plot of land. While finding her place was difficult, the hour that we spent looking for her place offered me a bunch of new sights as we drove past the Islamabad Club, the country club in Isloo, and the Diplomatic Enclave, the highly guarded sector that houses many embassies, including the French, British, American and Canadian, and their expat-popular "clubs." In fact, we drove so far in attempting to find Nadia's place that we ended up in Rawalpindi. Rawalpindi, or Pindi for short, would be part of the Isloo metropolitan area if Isloo had a metropolitan area. While our entry into Pindi was brief, it was enough to get a sense that it's a lot grittier and much more like what one would expect a city in a developing country to look like. Its population is 4-5 times that of Isloo and is only about a 25 minute drive, or 30 minutes including the police checkpoint traffic. That evening's accidental journey to Pindi wouldn't be my last; in fact, I would end up there the following night.

Saturday is not a day off for most in Pakistan. The proles usually only get Sunday off and possibly time for prayers on Friday afternoons. The menial laborers don't even get Sunday off. The UN takes off Friday afternoon and the rest of the weekend, which is just one more area for possible UN reform. Crisis Group is a bit more rational and gives us the normal weekend, so we don't get Friday afternoons off. But that's probably a good thing, since one wants to avoid running into impassioned service-goers as they emerge from the mosque after an inflammatory sermon. So, my first weekend arrived. But instead of spending the day in the markets or out in the sun, I ended up working since we were trying to finish the IDP report (see the link from Part I below). The only thing that entertained me throughout the day were the two geckos that I discovered were my roommates. At least they eat some of the mosquitoes. Not enough of them, but at least it's something.

As evening rolled around, Shaheryar had gone over to another ISoI-er friend that lived near him in Pindi. I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go out to Pindi and I had nothing else to do, so I was just going to call it a night and avoid wandering around alone at night on foot. But it turned out that Shaheryar's friend had sent his driver to pick me up. So, I hopped into the waiting SUV and we began the 25 minute drive to Pindi. As the buildings shifted into farmland, we came upon a police checkpoint. They stopped us, had me get out, searched the car and patted me down. I thought nothing of it at the time. That would change later. (Cue music for ominous foreshadowing). We got back into the car and drove into Pindi, passing partially built buildings, furniture stores, peeling advertisements, textile mills, shuttered store fronts and run-down dwellings. While traffic laws are not completely followed in Isloo, the term "law" can't properly be used to apply to Pindi traffic -- they're simply suggestions. So I was pleased when we pulled off the road and arrived in front of a large wall with a metal gate.

Out came several guards to open the gate and wave us through. As we drove towards the house, I didn't realize its true size until the driver drove along the front, past the stone arch entryway, around the side, past the guesthouse and stopped at the 6 car garage that apparently abuts an Olympic sized pool. It's one of the oldest homes in Pindi and clearly one of the largest. I walked to the side entrance and Shaheryar had to come get me since I would undoubtedly not found the room he was actually in. After a seemingly endless walk down a couple corridors that were lined with impressive artwork, we reached the our destination, consisting of a suite of rooms. One was a room dedicated to an amazing sound system and had a bar hidden within what appeared to be some sort of artsy furniture. The other was a cavernous room that houses the snooker billiard table. For those unfamiliar with Snooker (I know I was): it's an old British game that is played on a larger table, with smaller cues and takes substantially longer time to play than 8 or 9 ball. The third was the bathroom that was twice the size of my bedroom in Cambridge. It also had vaulted ceilings, a fireplace, two sitting chairs, and a coffee table. It was far too spacious to feel comfortable to use.

The three of us sat on the "modern" furniture that was impossibly comfortable, drank scotch, listened to jazz and chatted for a couple hours. It was a summer goal of mine to drink scotch with a Pakistani general, but I'm happy to settle for a titan of industry. It turns out that this family owns a large number of corporations, including a textile business that Shaheryar's friend runs at age 25. A couple other friends arrived later into the evening. One had been playing Polo earlier that day and invited me to a match later in the summer. The other was a Brit whose family was from Pakistan and he was in town visiting them in between trips to the US, where he owns gas stations and convenience stores throughout the South and Midwest, as well as a joint venture in Florida. Hilariously, the joint venture is with an old Jew in Florida with whom he owns a chain of Greek diners, where the cooks are Mexican. "Only in America," he tells me. After some more drinking and chatting, someone smartly suggested a game of snooker. It wasn't pretty. I chalk it up to my "inexperience" with snooker, but it was more likely the scotch.

We called it a night after several hours, but our adventures weren't over. The group of us left with the driver in the SUV. We again came to the checkpoint. The police stopped us again, but I wasn't forced out of the car this time. But I was the only one who was asked in Urdu for their National Identity Card. It was then that I remembered Samina's warning that I looked like a Pashtun and that I should have a copy of my passport. So, I pulled it out to show the officer. He responded by asking me for the real one. At that point the other guys in the car said, he's American and not stupid enough to carry his actual passport around. They luckily let us go. I jokingly apologized to the guys for looking like a Pashtun due to my Taliban-esque beard.

So why would I be the only one asked for my NIC? Basically, racial profiling. The recent bombings throughout Lahore, Islamabad and elsewhere have been carried out by militants who are overwhelmingly Pashtun in origin. The others in the car were of Punjabi and Mohajir origin (Mohajir means emigrant in Arabic and refers to the muslims in northern India that came over after Partition.) So, the police view the Pashtuns with suspicion, but not the Punjabis and Mohajirs. It is this ethnic tension that is bubbling up throughout Pakistan, exacerbated by the 2.5 million mostly Pashtun refugees that are fleeing the NWFP. But this tension goes beyond the Pashtun, as the different ethnic groups view each other with disdain and is the basis for many of the internal problems of Pakistan including the secessionist movement in Baluchistan and the rise of MQM in Karachi.

The following day I took it easy and wandered around my neighborhood to take pictures. I found my way up a nearby street and saw a family of monkeys that were living in some trees above a creek. Of course, as an easily impressed foreigner, I started taking pictures of them. Then an older man came up to me. After the normal greeting, he asked me what I was taking picture of. I told him "monkeys" and proceeded to point them out. He asked where I was from. "Canada," I answered. He asked for my passport. "I left it at home, so I wouldn't lose it, sir." He said this was a restricted zone and illegal to take pictures. "Oh. I didn't realize that. I just wanted a few pictures of the monkeys, since we don't have them in Canada." He said he should call the police. "That isn't necessary -- I'm just a Canadian tourist who likes taking pictures of monkeys." And I just kept walking. He didn't call the police, or if he did, they didn't care. As I found out later that week, the reason for the restricted zone is because it's the back of A.Q. Khan's house. Yes, that A.Q. Khan. Talk about having a crazy neighbor. A.Q. Khan is the father of the Pakistani nuclear bomb and the chief exporter of nuclear technology to N. Korea, Iran, Syria, and Libya. He is a national hero of sorts, despite the unsavory dealings and subsequent house arrest. Over a week later, I am still a bit amazed by the fact that AQ Khan has a house up the street from me.

Later that day, I met up with my father's co-worker's brother in-law, who is from Isloo. He and his friend, both of whom are "entrepreneurs," meaning they are inheriting their father's company, picked me up. They decided to take me to the top of the Margala Hills (they'd be considered mountains in Massachusetts or Virginia). We decided to stop for dinner at Monal, a restaurant that overlooks Isloo. But the pollution was mixing with clouds and the view, while nice, was obscured a bit. On a clear day you can see the mountains within the NWFP, the real foothills of the Himalayas. The hills themselves are gorgeous - with lush green ravines and abundant wildlife, including monkeys (with the standard beware of monkey signs.) The road that snakes up the hills isn't the most dangerous road in the world (that's in Bolivia), but the hairpin turns and complete lack of proper lanes or driving technique certainly increase the risk factor. Arriving to the restaurant was interesting. The guards checked the car for bombs, and glared at me, but let us through. But before we got to the restaurant, we had to go through a metal-detector. I, looking like an Afghan Taliban, got patted down. We descended the stairs to the dining area, where we were watched over by several snipers. Luckily, we sat facing the valley and could nearly forget the barbed wire fence and heavily armed protection behind us. We shared different Pakistani chicken dishes over a couple orders of Nan, while discussing Pakistan and politics. Both the food and conversation were enjoyable.

After dinner we went to the park built onto the side of the mountain that has a few fair-like activities and is largely a place for families to picnic. It offers views of Isloo from different angles and is lovely at dusk, as the heat of the day fades. The guys pointed out landmarks in Isloo and we laughed about the warning signs about keeping your children away from the monkeys, as well as the monkeys who were being forced to perform tricks for money. But before I became too irate at the inhumane treatment, the clouds that had impeded our city-scape had turned into storm clouds, so we headed back to the car. As we drove back down to the city to get some ice cream, they played Indian music videos on the car's small screen with the windows rolled down. Nothing like Hindi pop music to get the party started. We arrived at the ice cream shop, which is basically a Cold Stone and was called Marble Stone. As one can imagine, it had the same flavors and toppings that one would find in Missouri or Massachusetts. Inside it felt like a decent approximation of American suburbia. Even the music was American. But when you stepped outside to sit on their patio you could the unfinished pavement, the diesel generators, buildings in disrepair and armed guards. That and the ice cream tasted just slightly off. I imagine it has to do with the milk they use, which tastes a little different. Not sure how, just not quite right. But it was still ice cream, and therefore tasty. So we finished our cones and I got dropped off. And thus ended my first week in Isloo.

--J

Part I - J's Life in Isloo: Thank you, Kevin Bacon

I have now been in Pakistan for a little bit over a week and the only thing limiting my dining choices have been bomb scares. That and the questionable safety risk of walking alone at night is also (now) a limit. Of course, there are a plethora of small, pale yellow cars that serve as the city's taxis. They frequently see me, the random business-casual clad Westerner, and honk, which is the universal code for "do you need a taxi?" But everyone I speak with informs me that taking a taxi is a good idea only if I am interested in coming down with a case of the Stockholm Syndrome. And as lovely as Stockholm is, I'd rather not get any syndromes.

So how do I get out of my guesthouse and see the town you ask? Answer: People I know (or their drivers) that can pick me up with their car. And to answer your follow up, I know people through a Kevin Bacon-esque game of Pakistanis. Basically, a classmate of mine, Nadia, put me in touch with a friend of hers. He then put me in touch with a couple people, one of whom connected me with several of her friends who are basically the 20-something elites in Islamabad. Like most developing countries, the wealth in Pakistan is heavily concentrated in the hands of notable families and their business conglomerates. And while this may pose a severe constraint on Pakistan's economic development, and cause stratification and massive inequality, it has certainly benefited my social life.

To be fair, the people I've met are not all children of the uber-wealthy. And of those that are, they are incredibly down to earth. So much so that the only way to know that they are scions of a patrician family is if you happen to see their mansion or if another person mentions someone's notable relatives. Actual quote from someone to me: "Oh yeah, he is General Zia ul-Haq's grandson." Me: "It must be weird to have a former dictator as a grandfather." But generally the elites are simply a mix of upper and upper-middle class individuals that are well-educated, cosmopolitan, and typically speak and write better in English than Urdu. Many attended the International School of Islamabad (ISI), which is not to be confused with the other ISI -- the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI). To avoid confusion and my arrest, we'll use ISoI for the school and never speak again of the ISI. Better safe than sorry. Regardless of whether or not they attended ISoI for high school, nearly all of them went abroad for college and have now returned to Isloo at least part time. Many have done so to run a family company, or at least a portion of it. Others are pursuing a more standard professional path or a life in the arts. Hanging out with this crowd feels not too different than hanging out with friends back in the States. Of course there are some noticeable differences. Drinking at home is not a pre-party option; it is the party option. Deciding where to eat dinner is not dependent upon a Sietsema review or the Washingtonian list, but the high-alert terrorism target list. And when invited over to someone's place, rather than having a hard time fitting everyone in a room, you have a hard time finding the right room.

During my first week, sitting in the office all day and taking solitary trips to Jinnah Super was quickly fading in excitement. Sure, I could make it more exciting by walking at night. But there had to be something better than simply making myself a potential AMBER Alert, or the Pakistani equivalent. (Query: Do they have an equivalent? Considering the number of abductions, it seems like a good idea.) But luckily my stir-craziness was ameliorated. I received an email from a fellow who explained that our mutual friend (see the Kevin Bacon explanation above) told him that I was in Isloo for a while and was looking to hang out with folks. He invited me over for drinks after dinner and I quickly agreed. When I offered to take a cab over, he laughed and explained that was a poor idea. Instead, he and his driver came to pick me up. When I entered his home, I was floored by its magnificence (including the floors). The first level seemed to contain two spacious living rooms, with a few seating areas in each. Proceeding to the second floor, we passed a modern, angled, wall-length skylight. Evidently, when the Marriott was bombed, that was the only window in the house that didn't get shattered. Even his front door was blown in. At the end of a long hall, we entered a large room. And by large, I mean colossal. It had floor to ceiling windows, which is normally impressive. But this ceiling was two stories high. He introduced me to his wife, who offered me some tasty bruschetta. We sat in the quarter of the room which functions as the entertainment area -- a Wii, TV, etc. His sister stopped in, as did a friend of his. Both had received the now infamous email from the same mutual (read: fourth degree) friend to get in touch and show me around town. We chatted about Pakistani politics, movies and drank bootlegged wine for several hours while listening to an ecletic mix of music ranging from the Gypsy Kings to electronica. It was remarkable how much it felt like I was simply hanging out at a friend's place in Cambridge or DC, albeit a very nice friend's place.

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Also, International Crisis Group just released its policy briefing on Pakistan's IDP Crisis. You can check it out by clicking here.

Part II will be out in several days.

It's not just about the food.

Despite my several skirmishes with sanitation-challenged street food, all is well. But as shocking as it may seem, I actually came to Pakistan this summer to do more than eat spicy kebabs and chicken tikka. The real impetus was that I was offered the opportunity to work for International Crisis Group's South Asia office, which is based in Islamabad. For those of you that are less familiar with ICG, let me offer you the following introduction excerpted from ICG's 'about' page:

The International Crisis Group is now generally recognised as the world’s leading independent, non-partisan, source of analysis and advice to governments, and intergovernmental bodies like the United Nations, European Union and World Bank, on the prevention and resolution of deadly conflict.

Crisis Group was founded in 1995 as an international non-governmental organisation on the initiative of a group of well known transatlantic figures who despaired at the international community’s failure to anticipate and respond effectively to the tragedies in the early 1990s of Somalia, Rwanda and Bosnia.

What distinguishes Crisis Group from other organisations working on conflict analysis, prevention or resolution is a unique combination of field-based analysis, sharp-edged policy prescription and high-level advocacy, with key roles being played – very unusually for an NGO – by a senior management team highly experienced in government and by a highly active Board of Trustees containing many senior statesmen and women used to making things happen.

Crisis Group’s reports, and the advocacy associated with them, have had a very significant direct impact on conflict prevention and resolution in regions across the world, as policymakers wrestle with how to handle Islamist terrorism, nuclear proliferation, local conflict and the multiple problems associated with failed, failing and fragile states worldwide.

And as good of an explanation that this is, it really tells you nothing about what I'm doing for ICG this summer. If it did, then this would be a much shorter post. But before delving into that, I'll have to give you a sense of my office and its cast of characters.

So, after arriving on Sunday, I sent an email to Zaib, the office manager, informing her of my arrival. She was my contact person during the planning stage of my summer and to whom I had to send the various liability and assumption of risk releases, security protocols agreement, the non-disclosure agreement, and proof of health and evacuation insurance. She simply wrote back that I would be picked up by car the next morning. This seemed odd, as I had checked Google Maps (is the best) and had already walked by the office earlier in the day to familiarize myself with the area. Regardless, I wasn't about to tell her no. For all I knew, maybe the office had changed locations.

Monday morning arrived early -- 2 am early. And that was after popping a benadryl. Granted, I probably wouldn't have been able to operate heavy machinery; but being somewhat drowsy was not enough to fully overcome the jet lag. Luckily, my excitement over starting at ICG successfully circumvented my fatigue -- at least until 5 or 6 pm. At 9:30 that morning, a black Toyota (which is quite rare for Isloo, as you may recall from my last post) arrived for me. While Zaib wasn't in it, an older gentleman was. As he emerged from the car, he asked me in broken English if I was J. I assured him that I was. With a grandfatherly smile, he introduced himself as Sharif and began to open the back door of the car for me. But being chauffeured about felt and still feels unnatural, so I quickly opened the door to the front passenger seat. Once he got in, he told me the street number of the office, which hadn't changed (nearly all the streets in Isloo are numbered -- e.g. Street 14). As he started to drive, he was gesturing the path we were taking so I would remember how to get from my guesthouse to the office. I tried to explain that I had already walked there, but that didn't really break through the language barrier. We arrived outside the front of the office three minutes later.

But that wasn't my only car ride with Sharif, although after the first one he opens the front door. In the past week, he has driven me to lunch a couple times, the only bank where my ATM card will work, and the Mobilink customer service office where he spoke on my behalf to get my SIM chip working while I just sat there looking bemused. Whenever we are in the car, he likes teaching me the name of the roads and landmarks. While I have already figured out the names of the nearby roads (remember, with the exception of 5 or so streets, the streets are simply numbers) and the landmarks are remarkably few, I just don't have the heart to interrupt him. He is just too sweet and eager to teach. He speaks slowly and loudly, not unlike an American dealing with someone who doesn't speak English well. But it's all very well meaning. In fact, he is also trying to teach me various nouns and short phrases in Urdu. It's not going well. So far, I've learned coffee (kafe) and tea (chai) and that's about it. He also enjoys telling me about the good restaurants. For lunch today, he suggested "one potato, two potato" - a fast food chain where I had Masala flavored fries and the Pakistani interpretation of a grilled chicken sandwich. It's was a bit pricey by Pakistani standards - roughly $3.50, which is nearly triple what a chicken paratha cost. As we drove back to the office, he handed me a flier for a new restaurant that offers Burgers, Shwarma, and Chinese. Not sure how well those go together. It did remind me of a restaurant in a 'transitional' DC neighborhood that offers some equally puzzling combination that includes Chinese, Fried Fish, possibly BBQ and Pizza. I haven't experienced that one either.

The office is housed in a large, two-story house, with a few rooms on each floor, a couple meeting/sitting rooms, a kitchen and 3 bathrooms. Like all the homes in the neighborhood, it's surrounded by a large wall and a gated driveway. The first floor windows have metal bars, as do the windows of the safe-room (more on that later). The armed security guard out front, another neighborhood common feature, opened the gate and waved us in. After exiting the car, I introduced myself to the guard. The guard carries a little extra weight, seems to dye his hair some odd orange-ish color and has a cheery persona. Whenever someone arrives by car, he shoots up from his fan-cooled plastic lawn chair, and jogs over to open the gate. While our interactions are limited to my entering or exiting the gate, he never fails to offer me a casual salute in the British Military style. I wonder if he thinks I'm British. If only he heard my Betty Boothroyd impression.

Upon entering the house/office, I finally met Zaib in person. A mother of two and with a world of experience, she is the ideal office-manager. She has a dry and somewhat sarcastic sense of humor (as I learned over the first several days), is well-organized, and incredibly sweet. Within the first two days, she managed to get me a ICG paid for cell number, a transportation and meal per diem and set me up with a new office computer. She is the office's (and my) go-to person for travel logistics throughout Pakistan and Isloo. She is, fundamentally, the glue that keeps the office together.

Zaib then introduced me to Samina, the South Asia Director for Crisis Group. If you've read the recent TIME magazine article on Pakistan, the NYT Magazine Article on Pakistan from April, or anything by the Economist on Pakistan, you've probably come across a quote by Samina. She's the real deal. And people in government recognize her as such. When a certain US Senator was visiting Pakistan, he met with Samina. She gave him an earful due to some irresponsible comments he had recently made. After returning stateside, his rhetoric changed quite a bit. One would think that with her knowledge, sharp intellect and powerful connections, she would be intimidating, haughty or dismissive. But she is quite the opposite. Her office door is always open and she is always happy to answer questions, discuss an issue or offer advice.

When I entered Samina's office, she was in the middle of a meeting with one of the two analysts in the office, Shehryar, over a report. Instead of deferring our meeting until later, she had me pull up a chair and listen their back and forth conversation about the timing and content of the new report. After they finished, she gave me a more extensive welcome, as well as a safety and security run-down. She said that the security situation has gotten much worse, necessitating an alarm system and modifications on the house to create a safe-room, which has a reinforced steel door, steel bars on the window, its own bathroom and a windowless interior room that contains water and rations. Conveniently for me, it's also doubles as my office. She also mentioned several safety pointers: change my route and time to work every day; avoid government/military/police buildings, political demonstrations, large crowds generally, iconic locations (think Marriott Hotel and the US Embassy), locations where foreigners gather in public; don't take taxis or travel to many places throughout Pakistan; and don't walk near mosques and madrassa on Fridays when the mullahs are potentially fomenting unrest. Just today she mentioned that the madrassa in our neighborhood is has a large degree of notoriety and was the site last week of several arrests. Thankfully, it's on the far side of the neighborhood and the security guard out front has an automatic weapon.

After the security briefing, she said that I would spend the majority of my summer working with Sophie, the other analyst, on researching and writing the upcoming Kashmir report. She added that Sophie and I would likely get to travel to Kashmir to get a sense of the situation on the ground and interview people. I have been desperately wanting to go to Kashmir, so this possibility made my day. It's an incredibly complex issue that has important ramifications for the Kashmiri people, as well as global security. Kashmir is the world's most militarized place, with over 500,000 Indian troops stationed there. This disputed territory has brought India and Pakistan to war several times since 1947 and the brink of war several others. The Pakistani Taliban was largely created by the Pakistani military to fight an asymmetric insurgency against the conventionally stronger Indian military, strategically tying up and bleeding the Indian army. India's hands are also dirty, by undermining democracy in Kashmir, and perpetrating human rights abuses against its people. This long-running conflict is the one in which most commentators believe nuclear weapons are the most likely to be used. So, the stakes of this conflict could not be higher. A peaceful resolution would demilitarize the Pakistani-Indian relations, allow Pakistan to shift its resources and troops to the border with Afghanistan and properly focus on its efforts to root out its militant insurgency and better provide for its people. Also, I hear the food is quite good.

Samina then brought me upstairs where we ran into Rizwan, the office butler of sorts. He is a cheerful fellow, with a kind face. He, like Sharif, wears the traditional garb with a proper looking vest over it. His role is basically to bring us drinks, snacks, or whatever other edible items that we may desire. Within a minute of meeting me, he had me write down his inter-office number (the only one I have, actually), so that I don't have to walk down to the kitchen. Even when we don't order beverages, he comes by with coffee or tea several times throughout the day, and ensures a constant supply of bottled water. Rizwan recently told me that he travels nearly two hours to come to work everyday on public transportation. The secretaries who drive nearly two hours at my old law firm impressed me. But Rizwan puts them to shame, since the transportation he takes consists of the small, lavishly decorated flat-bed trucks or mini-buses that are overcrowded and are neither safe nor reliable. Despite this hardship, he is perpetually in good spirits and always happy to offer a cup of tea, which he did ad nauseum until he realized that I'm not British and therefore cannot drink black tea with milk continuously throughout the day.

I then met my office-mate Sophie, with whom I'm working on the Kashmir project. Sophie recently graduated from the Universite de Provence, which is located in the picturesque, must-have-been-built-for-a-movie-set Aix-en-Provence, where L and I lived last summer. As you may guess, she is French and therefore smokes. Pleasantly, she doesn't do so in our office. The office is spartan in decor, with the only color coming from of a small plant and several regional maps of Pakistan. Like the rest of Islamabad, our power shuts off periodically throughout the day and usually in the hot afternoon. And sadly, unlike my guesthouse, the ICG generator doesn't have the power to keep the AC running. Coincidentally, it is usually at this time that the local ice cream truck comes around. Yes, a local ice-cream truck. Seriously. And it plays Fur Elise by Beethoven. While I've been tempted to try it during the afternoon heat when the AC shuts off, I have not because 1) the refrigeration on that truck is definitely questionable, and 2) the power usually comes back on within an hour, so I'm not too desperate. If I don't have AC for 2 hours one afternoon, my resolve may very well break.

When I arrived and settled into the office, Sophie handed me a stack of books and previous reports for background on our Kashmir project. But due to the Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) project's deadline, she took me up on my offer to help her and Shehryar on the IDP policy briefing.

For those of you that haven't seen the news, there are between 2 to 2.5 million IDPs resulting from Pakistan's military operations in the NWFP. These operations, unlike a population-centered counter-insurgency that goes to great lengths to protect a civilian populace, are simply leveling towns and shelling villages through the use of heavy artillery, helicopter gunships and jet fighters, which inevitably result in civilian casualties. This does not endear the military or the Pakistani federal government to its people. Of course, this isn't to say that the government shouldn't be doing something against the Taliban -- they just need to do it better and actually follow through this time in providing security for people who voted for secular democracy in 2008. Villagers have lost their homes, farms, livestock and businesses and are forced to flee. Most IDPs can reach camps, but those stuck within the conflict zone are without electricity and functioning hospitals and their supplies of food and water are dwindling. Those that end up staying in camps, like those in Peshawar or Mardan, face terrible conditions. Food, clean water, and health care is also in short supply, while they must bear stiflingly hot conditions and disease runs rampant. Nearly 50% of the IDPs are children, none of whom are receiving an education, making them more susceptible to recruitment by the Taliban, some of whom are present in the camps. Beyond the camps, over 80% of the displaced persons are living in host communities or in make-shift camps, which creates a large financial burden on those commnunities. Also troubling is the bubbling ethnic tension caused by the internal migration. This issue is coming to a head as the Sindh provincial government tries to limit Pashtun from entering Sindh province. As one might expect, such a complex emergency requires extensive help from the government, the international community and NGOs. The Pakistani government is sorely lacking in both resources and capacity. And while the UN and NGOs are working overtime, financial commitments made to them have gone unfulfilled. Filling this void are Islamist organizations with ties to the Taliban and other militant groups and terrorist organizations. In addition to dealing with the current crisis, there must be a plan for Pakistan to resettle the IDPs and compensate them for their losses. Infrastructure, schools, hospitals and homes must be rebuilt and an economy revived. The sooner this happens, the faster people will resist extremist overtures and faith in their government restored.

Obviously, there are hundreds of interesting issues to research. Specifically, I researched how to strengthen a community's capacity to deal with a crisis and effectively communicate their needs to the government. I also examined policies to provide financial assistance in one form or another to IDP families, economic incentives for host family support, as well as ways to provide education and vocational training to the IDPs and incentives for families to send their children to school. Lastly, I looked into the current humanitarian activities of several Islamist charities with links to the Taliban and terrorist organizations. Of course, with only a few days to work, this research was necessarily limited in depth. But it was sufficient for our purposes, as our policy recommendations aren't intended to get into the weeds of domestic policy. The policy brief is being edited this weekend and will be sent up the ICG publishing ladder to come out as soon as possible.

In addition, I attended a conference of IDPs who discussed their situation and what they wanted the government and NGOs to provide going forward. The program was held in the Hotel Margala, a tightly secured hotel with a dilapidated exterior off-set from a major thoroughfare and near the government sports complex. I imagine the hotel is typically just used for elaborate weddings, since they had a wedding videographer make-shift office in the front lobby. The hotel's tag line is "Where dreams whisper and time sleeps." What does that mean? Regardless, the place was empty with the exception of two conferences, neither of which involved whispering dreams. The other conference was some pointless management workshop on developing one's inner-fire and true north. Okay, that wasn't it exactly, but it seemed equally pointless when compared to the gravity of the IDP conference next door. While biding my time before the conference, I had a bag of Masala flavored chips for lunch from the lobby's convenience store. They expired in 2003, I think, but weren't too bad. The conference itself was in Urdu, but they provided a translator for me and the other goras (Urdu for white folks). There were 14 Pashtun IDPs from all over Malakand District (Buner, Swat, and Dir) of differing economic background. The seven men wore traditional salwar kameez and their former jobs ranged from farm hand to school principle. The seven women were dressed with chadors or niqab (I still can't figure out the sartorial differences), some of which were quite decorative. None worked, but several discussed their recent hardships and those of their husbands. Their stories were all sobering, despite the translation. The discussion that followed was interesting, with a recurring theme of dissatisfaction with current military campaign, as well as concern over current conditions in camps and what the government should do after hostilities end. On a lighter note, the videographers that have their office in the lobby were in full force. Three of them flitted about, filming the IDPs from different angles, the NGO reps and the discussion. It was as if they were at a wedding celebration and trying to capture every sentimental moment, which was incongruous considering the situation. But I guess they come with the banquet hall. I wonder if they also filmed the management training seminar. After the conference ended, they provided a high-tea banquet of crust-less mini-sandwiches, biscuits and chocolates. I, however, didn't stay to eat. I had to get back to the office to debrief Sophie, because it's not just about the food.
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Please consider donating to help UNHCR provide emergency support for the IDPs in Pakistan.

(My next posting will be an update on my recent goings on in Islamabad. And I will keep it shorter.)

As Salaam Alaikum -- J's First Impressions

The following are my initial impressions, anecdotes and experiences of the first few days in Islamabad (Isloo).

After a two day trip that took me from DC to NY to Frankfurt to Istanbul, I finally reached Pakistan. With the end to my two days of travel in sight, I was elated. But this recognition also contained a convoluted mixture of feelings -- excitement, fear and anticipation. But these emotions were somewhat dampened by the fact that I had yet another flight 4 hours later to Islmabad, which left me feeling fairly sleepy. Karachi International may not have the elegant lounge setting or impressive upper end boutiques that Ataturk International offers, but it does have a great 1978 retro look. After passing through the Swine Flu check, which consisted of me giving them a statement stating that I did not have the Swine Flu, I headed over to passport/visa control. The woman at the desk asked me why I am visiting Pakistan. I responded: Tourism. She gave me a quizzical look, so I followed up with: It seems like an interesting place. She smirked. But other than the abundance of armed guards with automatic weapons, there was nothing to suggest that there was anything out of the ordinary going on in Pakistan.

After collecting my bag, I asked a PIA employee how to transfer to my next flight. Rather than telling/pointing me where to go, he decided to help. Maybe it was because I look bedraggled and he could see that I had traveled far, or maybe it was 3am and he had nothing better to do. Regardless, he grabbed my bag. took me to the transfer counter, went to get an official itinerary printout for me, brought my bag and led me to the actual ticket counter, and then walked me through security and to the gate. Talk about service. I waited for (read: attempted to nap before) my next flight, while morning prayers were going on at the gate next to mine. No need for the airport chaplain, I guess.

The flight to Islamabad, on a plane roughly my age, was relatively uneventful. It was a full plane. On the upside, they did serve breakfast on an hour and a half flight, so it had that and the 1970s color scheme going for it. I also had a brief chat with the software engineer that was seated to my right. He spoke about his views on Germany's aging population due to women not wanting to have children, the inappropriateness of people making out publicly in Rome near the Vatican, and how I should already be married when he found out my age (he first thought I looked 22 and that is with the beard). We did manage to chat a bit about Kashmir, the Siachen Glacier conflict, and that he liked Musharraf because the economy was better under him.

Upon arriving and after grabbing my bag, I headed out to meet my ride from the guest house. Problematically, there wasn't one. So, I hopped into a cab and directed them to my district (E7 for all you Islamabadians.) The cabbie was nice, although his English was sparse, not unlike the vegetation. The ride, other than getting used to driving on the left side of the road, was marginally less scary than in other developing countries. It helps that there is pavement and ostensible lanes. Don't get me wrong, I still felt like we were going to get into an accident. But despite the driving, I still noticed that on the surface, things seemed to be marching along normally, as if there wasn't a large military operation going on in the NWFP and 2.3 million internally displaced persons. Of course, the driver mentioned matter-of-factly that the Taliban were going to be gone in 2 or 3 months, which may be why no one seemed too concerned. Good to hear, no? But he also said that Pakistanis love the US, which based on some recent polls is a questionable assertion, undermining his credibility a bit. Then again, optimism isn't a bad thing.

From the drive into Islamabad, Pakistan seems like any other developing country. It has large amounts of architecturally hideous buildings on the outskirts of town, clothing styles from 15 years ago, laborers cleaning the streets with makeshift brooms, and the unemployed resting in the shade. But it has some eccentricities as well, particularly the elaborately painted and decorated trucks, mini-vans and buses. And, as a Muslim country, there were very few women out. Those that were, were dressed in traditional dress and some in burkas. Isloo itself also seemed a bit out of the ordinary. We pulled off the highway that seemed like it was in the middle of a park, made a turn or two and we were clearly in a city- simply one with lush greenery. And as I found out a turn later, this is my neighborhood.

E7, as I learned over the next couple days, is basically filled with Pakistani elites, high-level expats, a few embassies and large homes doubling as offices or guest houses. For example, my guest house is a couple blocks from the Crisis Group office, which sits in between some UN official's house and the embassy of a small Eastern European country. The neighborhood is quite nice, although the small ubiquitous white cars give it away as a nice neighborhood in a developing country. That and the armed security guards in front of every home, the lack of regular sidewalks and the frequent occurrence of high walls topped with sharp spikes, barbed wire or or the time-honored developing country favorite -- shards of broken glass. The security guards seem nice and typically smile back, which is somewhat surprising. I doubt I would be all smiles after standing in 100 degree weather all day long.

The guesthouse is great. In addition to the kindly guards, it has a lush front lawn that also contains the diesel generator. The generator is key, since the main power shuts off in Isloo for 3-5 hours a day. The guesthouse also offers several extras that have varying degrees of utility. The AC is very useful, as is the 24-hour inter-web access. The satellite TV, of which the 600 stations are mostly in languages other than English and consiste of mainly just phone sex ads, is less so. In addition, there are some things I just don't understand. For example, why do I have a shower curtain that is too short to block the water from escaping the shower? And what is the purpose of a mini-bar if it isn't stocked with alcohol? And why do I have an incredibly small desk, but two large sitting chairs? But more than the room or its amenities, the people that run the guesthouse are quite kind.

Yesterday, the manager came to me and said that he didn't introduce himself to me properly on Sunday since he knew that I had flown a great distance and was tired. But he wanted me to know that beyond the normal expected service, I should think of him and the rest of the staff as brothers. They know that I am staying for a while and they want me to feel at home. We then spoke about his 7 brothers and 1 sister that have been displaced due to the fighting in the Northwest Frontier Province. Another character at the guest house is the cook, who looks like a real Gen Xer circa 1986 (jeans, rock t-shirt, longish hair parted down the middle -- think brat pack.) A genuinely friendly guy who prepares breakfast made to order as long as it involves toast, Nescafe and eggs. He can also whip up some dinner on request. I took advantage of this the first couple nights, as the notion of not being within 20 feet of my bed seemed like a dangerous choice. For dinner, I can order whatever I want from the menu, but he ends up making whatever is available in the kitchen. Regardless, it tastes pretty good and it usually consists of chicken, I think. It does makes me wonder, however, why they placed a menu in the room. Anyway, that's not important right now. Point here is simply that the folks at the guesthouse are great. But other than catching up on sleep, working and eating, I've been exploring my neighborhood the past few days.

The first day here, I wandered down to the major market (Jinna) in the area, down in the F7 sector. Rather than a large supermarket, like a Wal-Mart or Carrefour, it is simply a disorganized amalgam of shops in different sizes in various buildings with separate levels that extends for several long blocks. It has fashion shops, restaurants, electronics, dry goods, bakeries, a bookstore, wedding shops, guys selling individual balloons, banks -- it's basically an outdoor mall for the upper crust and expats in Islamabad. But as it was Sunday and most of the shops were closed, I returned home. Unlike other Muslim nations, Pakistan's colonial history still dominates and they have a Western-style weekend. This history also results in an unnatural love of cricket, polo, squash and badminton. And also tea, which is forced upon me every hour by the tea guy at work. But I digress. F7 is a similarly nice neighborhood, although busier, noisier, and more crowded, as it's closer to the heart of the city's main thoroughfare (Jennah Ave) and because it doesn't have as many dead-end streets to limit traffic.

The crowd on the street on the way to and from Jinnah Market consisted entirely of men. These men wore the kameez shalwar, the traditional Pakistani clothing, like those I saw on the drive in from the airport. Many more had beards and wore skull caps than I had anticipated. But upon reflection, it makes sense, as it seems true that often times those without economic opportunity turn to religion with greater fervor. Not that any of these people were Salafist-style Talib. They were simply religious. Most were friendly, returning smiles or greetings. I returned to Jinnah Market again on Tuesday for lunch to grab some street food from a food stall -- less than a dollar for some delicious chicken paratha roll. It wasn't sanitary, but it was absolutely fantastic. We'll see if my view stays that way tomorrow.

On Tuesday afternoon, the sky was a pure blue for the first time since I arrived and so I headed over to the Faisal Mosque after work. Allegedly, it can hold over a hundred thousand worshipers at once and is one of the largest mosques in Asia It is white and architecturally modern (the minarets look like rockets), with traditional Pakistani architectural themes. It nestles into the bottom of Margala Hills, the dividing line between Punjab and NWFP and is only a 10 minute walk from my guesthouse. After stopping by, I headed home to drop off my bag and let it cool off (it was 39 degrees Celsius today).

In my attempt to continue exploring, I decided to try Kabul Restaurant -- one of the restaurants in Jinnah Market that Crisis Group's driver, Sharif, recommended. Inside and upstairs, (in the A/C cooled dining room) the walls held several large landscape paintings from Afghanistan, including one featuring the Bamiyan Buddhas, which the Taliban lamentably destroyed in 2001. Inside the restaurant were some well-to-do couples, including an Ugyhur couple, and small groups of well-off Pakistani men. None were dressed in the kameez shalwar, or even wearing long sleeves or trousers. In fact, one even wore board shorts. While my sensibilities weren't shocked, it was a bit surprising after seeing the traditional types heading off for evening prayer just moments before. I ordered blindly from the menu and ended up with Afghani Naan and some stew-like lamb dish, I think. It was tasty, but I couldn't finish it and offered my naan to the table next to me. They happily accepted and exchanged it for a skewer of barbecued meat. A fair trade, I think. One of the four guys next to me, the one with the board shorts, suggested I try a dumpling dish next time -- evidently, it contains beef, but is listed under the vegetable category on the menu for some unknown reason. I wonder how they are defining vegetable. Regardless, this meal upholds my hypothesis that when a country has an ethnic restaurant from a nearby country, it is usually pretty good. (And just to clarify, only US States on the border with Mexico count as nearby Mexico -- the Mexican Food Hypothesis Corollary.) After dinner, I meandered a bit around the still bustling Jinnah Market. It turns out that back in April, there was a terrorist attack against a Frontier Corps (the internal security units being sent to NWFP) station near the market, but it doesn't appear to have dimmed anyone's enthusaism for the place. In my wanderings I discovered a trendy clothing shop where the shirts are about 10 dollars piece, an espresso bar and a shisha lounge, but figured I can save those adventures for another day.

(I'll add pictures here after I download them to my computer.)

My next post will discuss Crisis Group, my office, coworkers and Samina, the projects I'm working on, and the IDP situation.