Five Years On

As I climbed the four flights to N’s apartment, I wondered what was on the dinner menu. She had mentioned a surprise when she invited me earlier in the week. By the time I reached her door, the pungent aromas of cardamom and cumin seemed to promise something special. N ushered me into her kitchen, where I discovered L. Two surprises, actually: first, I hadn’t known N’s Afghan friend L had been invited; second, I hadn’t known L was a cook. And what a cook. What a meal. He must have spent several hours preparing the lamb kabuli pulao and creamy cucumber-yogurt salad we were about to enjoy al fresco.

While we exclaimed over the deliciousness of the meal, L told us where he had sourced the ingredients  in Heraklion and explained the importance of using whole, long-grain Basmati rice. The Basmati he  had found didn't measure up to his standards so we were eating a Pakistani strain. Kabuli pulao, he said, is a wedding dish in Afghanistan, prepared in massive quantities to feed the whole village. I wondered why he wasn’t cooking professionally, but like many refugees in Europe, he is caught in a rut. In Afghanistan he had been in the military until it was no longer safe to stay. Now he has steady employment here in the local construction industry, but little opportunity for any kind of career advancement.

We lightened the mood. 

“With a festive meal of this quality,” N declared, “we need something to celebrate.”

“Well,” I volunteered, “tomorrow, August 15th, is the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary.” I had seen several notices posted in shop windows earlier in the day, letting customers know that the businesses would be closed for the holiday over the weekend and for a few days afterwards. We raised our glasses of N’s thirst-quenching mint-infused lemonade and continued feasting.

L told us about his family in Afghanistan, and how his mother and siblings depend on the money he sends back to them. No surprises there. A piece in this morning’s Guardian confirms as much: 

 “the world’s worst women’s rights crisis, 

one of the worst human rights crises

 and one of the worst humanitarian crises,” 

according to Fereshta Abbasi of Human Rights Watch.

Strains of unfamiliar Persian-sounding music have been playing in the background throughout our dinner conversation. I ask about it.

“Dari,” L replied. “This is wedding music.” He rose and positioned himself to demonstrate some of the steps men would perform in a circle dance. His eyes were closed. “And what about the women?” N wondered. L turned in circles, imitating full skirts twirling. We all clapped.

We finished our meal with Afghan green tea and a selection of local baklava. Afghanistan has its own version of the pastry, but this evening we were having the Greek one. L told us that the Afghan sweet uses different spices, a rosewater-based syrup, and pistachios.

This morning, like every morning, I began the day by scanning the headlines:

Taliban mark 5 years since return to power in Afghanistan

“Afghanistan is hell for women”: Marking 5 years of Taliban rule

“Suffocating restrictions” shadow five years of Taliban rule in Afghanistan

Taliban Celebrate Five Years in Power Amid Rights and Recognition Concerns

I think about yesterday evening and how we wondered what, exactly, we were celebrating. Our mostly festive mood now stands in poignant contrast to the grim realities of contemporary Afghanistan over the past 5 years, particularly, the plight of girls and women. 

Last Wednesday during my online class with the Afghan girls, we were discussing improbable  “what if” scenarios as part of a speaking exercise. The final slide asked “Would you rather be able to fly or become invisible?” The students discussed the pros and cons and each explained what she would do if she suddenly developed one of these abilities. Then came the  response that silenced every voice on the call:

If I could become invisible I would go to the airport and get on a plane out of here.

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