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Silas Marner in Afghanistan

Henrietta in Kabul refugee camp
Henrietta in Kabul refugee camp

by Henrietta Cullinan

From London to Kabul to Raveloe, we cling to our ‘way of life’ even though it makes us sick, obsessive and lonely. Governments cling to policies that cause harm to ordinary people. In this article, begun while staying in Kabul, Henrietta Cullinan asks what George Elliott’s Silas Marner has to tell us about our own ‘pile of gold’.

I recently travelled to Kabul, where I teamed up with the Afghan Peace Volunteers and Kathy Kelly of Voices for Creative Nonviolence. I took with me, to read under the covers when I couldn’t sleep, Silas Marner by George Elliott. Marner, estranged from his home town, sets up as a weaver in the small village of Raveloe. Through weaving he accumulates a pile of gold coins which he counts obsessively every night, until one day it is stolen. The plot turns when he adopts a small girl, the daughter of a drug addict, who wanders into his house. He mistakes her gold curls for his gold coins, miraculously returned to him. As he determines to look after the child he has to ask others in the community for help and so his life is transformed.

As a group of women in one Kabul refugee camp recounted their experiences of war, their injuries, the indignities they have suffered since being forced to leave their homes, Kathy Kelly asked at one point, ‘Did you know that the US has just committed 617 billion US dollars to military spending?’ The women implied by their gestures, ‘What do we care?’ One woman said, ‘I wouldn’t know the difference between one side of a dollar and the other, whether a dollar is black or white.’ It was at this moment the image of Silas Marner counting out his pile of gold coins, popped into my head. As well as a literal analogy with the ‘pile of gold coins’ devoted to military spending, there are lessons for us on western governments’ migration policies, that cause suffering amongst refugees.

Afghan restaurant in Calais refugee camp
Afghan restaurant in Calais refugee camp

In Europe, chances for Afghan refugees to claim asylum have grown slim, since the EU now considers Afghanistan to be a safe country, even though there were 5,600 casualties of armed conflict in the first half of 2016 alone. The EU plans to deport 80,000 Afghan asylum seekers. At the time of writing Germany and Sweden have already started the deportations. This is at a time when Pakistan and Iran are also pressurising Afghan refugees to return.

Kabul refugee camp
Kabul refugee camp

The refugees face homelessness and destitution when they return to Kabul, where there is not the infrastructure to support them. ‘A man-made humanitarian catastrophe could be the end result of these governmental policies’ writes Ahmed Rashid, a journalist in Lahore. 

Abdul Ghafoor in his office
Abdul Ghafoor in his office

At the Borderfree Centre in Kabul, Kathy Kelly and I spoke to Abdul Gafoor, of Afghanistan Migrants Advice and Support Organisation. He says everyday twelve deportees arrive from Norway, as a result of its cruel deportation policy. Young boys call him, not knowing where to go. Very often, as soon as they have the opportunity, they will leave again, for Pakistan or Iran. They are given $1200 from the Norwegian government, so they use this money to move on as it is too difficult for them to reintegrate. There is nothing they can do in Kabul; there is no work.

Taken from a Kabul taxi
Taken from a Kabul taxi

Kathy Kelly, Nematullah Ahangosh, who is an Afghan Peace Volunteer, and I visited the ‘Police Camp’ an unofficial camp for IDPs and refugees. We took a long taxi ride, through heavy morning traffic, into an area of new development, where private hospitals with tinted curtain walling and new apartment buildings, some already clad, others just slabs and columns, lined the broad, unsurfaced road. Opposite a petrol station, where gaily painted lorries were filling up, we were let out onto the edge of an open sewer, the size of a small river, its grey white waters swirling with scraps of rubbish. Salim, from the Jesuit Refugee Service, soon fetched us and led us down a narrow path between mud shacks, to a place where we took off our shoes, stepped inside a small room, with red carpet, whitewashed walls, a stove in the middle, a plastic sheet for a window. Soon the elected camp leader, Raz Mohammed, came to tell us about the camp.

Of the 700 families resident in the camp, one third have come because of recent conflicts, such as in Kunduz in the north east of the country and one third are refugees who have been forced to return from Pakistan and Iran. Sometimes educated people, this latter group already sold all their property when they left Afghanistan, so now they are homeless and destitute. Refugees can only earn three dollars a day. Men work as porters in the market. Other jobs include washing cars, and selling boloni, pastries stuffed with potato and spinach. Others, despite the danger, send their children out to work in the street, cleaning shoes and windscreens or selling windscreen wipers, tissues and sweets.

Afghan shop keeper
Afghan shop keeper

Those who work in the market can bring home potatoes or turnips but not enough for regular meals. The rest of the time they have only bread and tea. Some don’t even have tea. For fuel they burn plastic bottles, shoes and old clothes. Every winter twenty-five people die of cold. Water has to be bought at 10 Afs (10p) for 20 litres. On the way in we saw a single pump. Raz tells us that a woman who runs a beauty parlour noticed the women walking to buy water so she donated the pump but the water is not ‘sweet’.

After speaking to Raz Mohammed we went to visit a group of women who were finishing a class. They sat round the edges of the cold classroom. A teenage daughter ran in to drop off a baby to be fed. The women told us that all ethnicities are represented at the camp. Tajiks, Uzbeks and Baluchis living together. They said they felt safe in the camp, but conditions are dangerous to health, especially in cold weather, and there is no access to health care, despite the private hospitals next door.

‘If only we had had an education we wouldn’t be in this situation,’ they said. One woman, feeding her toddler under her black scarf, says she used to have a job in Kunduz. She made boloni and her husband sold them.

Another woman told us how she had fled from Kunduz, almost leaving her child behind. Another, from Laghman province, showed us the injuries to her upper arm she had sustained when she escaped. She said that she had no food for lunch. After the class she would cover her face and go and beg at the bakery.

The leader said he gathered people together and went to the government for help. The government only provides food. He thinks they should provide education, buildings. He said the UN had been to visit the camp, even the US ambassador. But nothing has changed. Eighteen months ago, during Ramadam, the authorities attempted to clear the camp, with armed police, but the refugee inhabitants responded with stones.

Afghan refugee camp
Afghan refugee camp

Without sufficient food, fuel, education or health care, the women concluded, ‘No one cares about us. The government doesn’t care.’

Another group of women I spoke to were seamstresses at the Borderfree Centre. They embroider scarves which are sold in the US and the UK to raise funds for the centre. All having between five and seven children each, their main concern is to feed their families. Despite their husband’s disapproval, they have to go out to work outside the home. Even so the wages are not enough to pay the rent, to buy clothes for their children, food and books for school.

‘The government doesn’t care about us,’ they said, echoing the words of the the women in the refugee camp. They said, ‘If you want to help, you must give money to us poor people’. The seamstresses said they saw all the huge construction projects, and concluded the government was spending money on these projects and not on alleviating the problems of the poor.

Government ministers just use aid to buy each other ‘a cow or a hen’. I asked if they had any means of making their voices heard, which was translated literally I realised. They said their husbands wouldn’t like it if their voices were heard outside the home. Not able to read or write, their only option would be to join a protest. They didn’t dare go on a demonstration, they said, because the government might come after them, or there might be a bomb.

Back in London this week, I did my regular shift in the local winter night shelter. Many of the homeless I encounter at the shelter suffer from poor physical and mental health, and even have mobility problems, which should be reason enough for the authorities to house them without delay. Many were caught between losing their job and waiting for benefits to come through; a gap of six weeks is enough time to lose your flat. Surprisingly some guests are actually working. Holding down a job while sleeping in a shelter must be almost impossible but one man I spoke to was doing just that. His car was parked outside, he wore the uniform of a building servicing company and over breakfast he was giving his mobile phones a last minute boost, checking the location of the first job of the day.

The residents of the refugee camp in Kabul and the guests at the London night shelter are all at the mercy of government policies. Worse than that, our government is unwilling to correct the very policies that made people homeless. As John Berger wrote,
‘The poverty of our century is unlike that of any other. It is not, as poverty was before, the result of natural scarcity, but of a set of priorities imposed upon the rest of the world by the rich. Consequently, the modern poor are not pitied … but written off as trash. The twentieth-century consumer economy has produced the first culture for which a beggar is a reminder of nothing.’

Collectively, whether in the UK or Afghanistan, we must turn to the poorest, most helpless members of our society and learn, just as Silas Marner did, from experiencing community again.

Silas Marner, once he accepts his loss and turns to another, a helpless child, builds relationships with the other members of his village community. It is when he turns to another helpless being, and becomes helpless himself, that healing begins. Our governments, and therefore we, are addicted to unsustainable policies that keep many displaced and homeless. When we accept our own weakness, our own loss and turn to look after the poorest there is hope.

George Elliott also asks us to reflect on the nature of work. Silas Marner sits at his loom day in day out, even on Sundays, weaving linen for the well to do of the neighbourhood and collecting gold coins to no end other than to be counted and hidden. US taxpayers are paying nearly $700 million a week for the military in Afghanistan, money which the US government spends without attempting to avoid corruption.

Reading this you might ask what do all these things have to do with each other. Visiting Kabul, not somewhere people normally visit for a holiday, gives a heady ride into geo politics, but mainly the opportunity to see the effect of government policymakers on the lives of the poor. You might think it odd I would use Silas Marner as a way to reflect on lessons from Afghanistan. George Elliott chose novel writing as a medium to comment on social conditions in her time and the novel has a lot to tell us now. 

To Touch A Colourful Afghanistan

Visually impaired student, Sonia, read her article about peace: “Everyone wishes for peace to come to all of Afghanistan.”

Last year, on the 21st of September, the International Day of Peace, the Afghan Peace Volunteers and Borderfree Street Kids reached out to 100 Afghan labourers, cooking and serving them a meal. To follow-up, microloans were given to five of the labourers to start their own small street businesses.

This year, the Afghan Peace Volunteers and Borderfree Street Kids reached out to the visually impaired and blind students at Rayaab (Rehabilitation Services for the Blind Afghanistan ). They brought MP3 players as gifts to 50 visually impaired students. The students will use the MP3 players to listen to recorded school lessons and educational programs. Rayaab is an Afghan non-governmental organization run by Mr Mahdi Salami and his wife Banafsha, who are themselves visually impaired.

The Afghan Peace Volunteers and Rayaab began their friendship in 2012:  Visually impaired Afghans for a better world : “And also, my message to the world is to get integrated to each other, in peace, in love and in kindness, and to throw away any hatred. And try to live in a very peaceful and very honourable and very kind environment in order to make a better world. Thank you. Love you all!” Mahdi Salami, Deputy Director of Rayaab, Rehabilitation Services for the Blind Afghanistan.

Below is a photo essay of this year’s renewal of friendship among Borderfree Afghan Street Kids, visually impaired students of Rayaab, and teachers from both groups. 

Spending International Peace Day, 21st September 2016, together

 

 

To Touch A Colourful Afghanistan

by Dr Hakim

With regards to human hope in Afghanistan,

most of the world is blind.

We don’t see Sonia’s daily effort to live meaningfully,

as mainstream media have replaced our eyes

and is just as obsessed with war as politicians are,

as if war is attractive.

We overlook the resilience Nature demonstrates

despite what international militarists are doing to her and to people,

plain people, Afghans, Syrians, Yemenis,

or ‘the others’ on different killing lists.

We don’t even hear what’s obvious,

“We are human beings.”

Not objects, not targets.

Banafsha (right), the Director of Rayaab, is also pursuing a Master’s degree in International Relations

For Banafsha, a sound is a colour,

touch is colour,

understanding is colour.

A bullet isn’t a colour….

“Bombs frighten me,”

Hadisa, a volunteer teacher, said at our meeting.

The watchman of another school for the visually impaired was killed

by extremists who entered via the yard of the blind,

into the American University Hadisa studies at,

to wreck havoc,

drowning in a failed tit-for-tat war,

shoot, anger, shoot, revenge.

All that was achieved

was a bloody red.

Mehdi Salami played the keyboard while the visually impaired students sang

We’ve even forgotten that Afghans sing,

that music can be heard everywhere,

the bees, the wind, the transformed caterpillars,

and leaves turning their faces towards the sun.

Mursal cried when she heard the blind students sing together

While they create tunes, they serve the Earth too,

pollinating, producing sweet seeds of future life.

“The blind use their hands to touch, to make out the shape of a flower,”

Mursal said, closing her eyes momentarily to imagine that world.

When Mursal heard the keen voices of the students

singing verses which lyricized the Dari alphabet,

she felt that “my heart had become very full”,

and she cried. 

Maryam (left) came despite being sick, with an IV cannula still attached to her hand

“If we can embrace our differences through respect,

we naturally become one,

the blind and the sighted,”

Mehdi Salami, Rayaab’s Deputy Director encouraged.

It made inspiring sense that

if we can bridge ‘darkness and light’,

we can merge all other diversities.

Maryam was sick, and still had an IV cannula on her hand,

but she so very much wanted to come,

Sonia, with soya biscuits which Rayaab served us with refreshments

and to share that, “I needed 3 or 4 persons to bring me here.

Today, I can manage on my own with a white stick.”

She overcame by the sense of touch, and some human support.

Trees provided her a walking aid,

to free her from our doubts.

As we said goodbye in the dim corridor space,

we remembered Tina Ahmadi’s request

that this not be the only time of our friendship,

that we should meet again and again.

Tina Ahmadi, in saying thanks and goodbye, asked to meet us again

We understood then that the blind ‘see’ more than we do,

that meaning, love and calm may pass us by,

but are grappled with in intense pursuit

by them, those we often ignore.

It is hoped that we’ll always invite ourselves to

behold the everyday struggles of Afghan folk from all walks,

and to recognize the effort of Mother Earth to nurture humanity,

not to rush past with our usual fleeting glances,

 but to pause with a ‘full heart’,

to wonder,

and to touch.

The Afghan Peace Volunteers and Street Kids saying goodbye to the students of Rayaab

 

 

 

Afghan Street Kid Habib Says: “Food comes from the land.”

by Dr Hakim in Kabul

Habib ( left ) having a conversation with the Food Bank Coordinator, Ghulam Hussein,
while sitting on a wheelbarrow of his monthly food gifts

I asked 15 year old Habib what he thought

basic human needs were,

and he replied without hesitation,

“First water, then food!”

Habib working in the streets

Habib’s sensible and thoughtful nature was forged

in the streets.

His voice was pre-pubertal then, baby-like, not innocent, but pure,

resounding along Pul-e-Surkh road,

with a half-smile and full-tedium,

“Hey, take your weight, take your weight!”

In front of him was his family’s livelihood tool,

a weighing scale.

His eyes were level with the skinny legs of passers-by,

and when he got hungry while ‘at work’,

he would “buy half a piece of bread”

and munch away.

If his younger brother, Sami or Abdullah, was with him,

he would first say, “Bukhurid! Eat!”

Habib with his mother

 I did not know his story,

like the many pedestrians who walked by,

till his mother came with a shrapnel chest wound still unhealed

from the “wind of a bomb”, she said, that killed her husband,

Habib’s late father, breadwinner, Uzbek, Afghan, laborer, pillar.

His father was selling oranges

from a wooden cart which he pushed and pushed daily,

calling out for customers like his sons did,

not expecting charity, or death.

She said sincerely but with invisible distress,

“Thank you for bringing him here to study.

I hope, someday, he’ll become something…”

 

 

Habib in his tent home, with a pressure cooker, a gas cylinder, and two pots.

“Hunger is difficult,” Habib said, and to solve it?

“I want to go to school, and when I grow up,

I want to be a doctor…

and get out of this poverty.”

He was seated in his tarpaulin tent ‘home’

which had cooking utensils and a squeaking parakeet in the corner.

His grandma was the anchor,

 a washerwoman, resourceful, a survivor.

When Habib left, she was shaking her head

and complaining about how a ‘foster’ uncle

had stormed into their hardly livable space,

and ‘snatched’ Habib and one of his three younger brothers away,

from their panicky and depressed mother,

to Faryab Province in the north, “far away in the mountains” the mother bemoaned.

Habib and his younger brother bringing their monthly food gifts home. Habib was holding on to his weighing scale.

The doctor prescribed IV saline infusions plus ‘medicines’ for a month,

to tide Habib’s mother through

Ismael, another street kids, loads a sack of rice on Habib’s back on another occasion

maternal sorrow,

not caring that love’s anxiety is not assuaged by salt or drugs.

“What could we have done?” the mothers asked.

I could imagine Habib’s unwilling falsetto

remotely resisting from a ‘madrassah’ ( religious school ),

missing his mother and grandmother,

Habib attends class

enveloping the squabbling and fighting

waged by those who are hungry not for food,

but for power and territory and dollars.

I saw his childhood slipping out of the physician’s coat

into the robes of a ‘mullah’,

Habib expressing ideas in class

his heart receding from change and ambition

into fate.

Fate? “We’ll still deliver Habib’s portion of food

to his ‘tent’ family,” the street kids teachers decided,

tempering destiny,

signifying solidarity with Habib,

“You are not here, but we are with you.”

In war zones, it may be

lighter on our sentiments

not to expect ‘return’, for life to sort of ‘move on’.

But, Habib turned up again,

and I tried to look beyond his older features and voice,

to understand the intervening emotions.

 

“The daily lessons were too routine…

and there was unrest and violence,

so I called my mom,

and said I wanted to come back,

please.”

Habib in the Borderfree Library

 He was a fraction more distracted,

but I could sense that the affections of home

were renewing his energies.

“My mother is grateful for your support,”

Habib said, “I’ll be coming to classes from now on.”

His reading and writing improved,

he found friends from other ethnic groups,

Habib, outside his tent home

and occasionally,

the street kids would have their momentary fun,

releasing their feelings

Inside Habib’s home

through their young bodies,

without plans,

searching for happiness.

When recently Habib didn’t turn up to collect his food rations,

Habib with his ration of rice & oil

Ghulam and I got on our bikes to his ‘tent’ house.

“We’re vacating our space

as the landlord wants to refurbish his yard.”

The ‘tent’ which housed six persons was emptied.

The next day, Habib collected his food gifts from Ghulam,

“Food comes from the land.

Allah ( God ) owns the land.”

But Habib has no land,

because the ‘strongmen’ confiscate or claim the land,

leaving none to the farmers,

that is, leaving the people food-less,

and more than half of all Afghan children stunted.

“I’ve found some temp work

with a telephone company…

of course I’ll go to school.

I was third in class last year!”

Habib said with a jaded spark drawn across his eyebrows.

As if petitioning the world for throwing away 33% of all its meals,

he added, “We shouldn’t waste food.”