Afghanistan, My Turn - Shaida Bhayani

Sallam

This, my 26^th trip to Afghanistan was mighty tough, as you will learn from Shaida’s narration below but as usual, very gratifying; the primary aim was ensuring donor and huqooq funds are spent in responsible manner. I am humbled at the projects CAI donors have supported, bringing much relief and hope to the utmost downtrodden of Allah’s creations in the most remote parts of His realm. Abbas Jaffer and Shaida’s company made the difficult trek a little more bearable and I thank them for their gritty determination to endure it. Shaida’s narration has been edited for structure and size, of course; his core observation and narration remain intact. Enjoy. You can also view wonderful photos of the trip here.

Key players in this narration:

Yusuf Yusufali (aka Ali Yusufali, Kisukaali, Prince Ali, etc…)(YY) – CEO, CAI.

Abbas Jaffer (AJ) – CEO, Architectural Sign Group, New York.

Shaida Hussein Bhayani (I) - CFO, Shokura Inc., Houston.

Wasi Mohammediyan (WM) - lead engineer and head of CAI Afghanistan.

Basheer Razaee (BR) -  lead engineer for CAI Afghanistan.

Dr. Aaseef Husseini (DAH) - medical coordinator for three CAI medical clinics in Afghanistan.

All praise belongs to Allah (S) who gives me the opportunity to share this experience and peace upon the Holy Prophet (S) and his Progeny (A) who have been my guiding force.

The trip has been long time coming, going back and forth with YY. After two days well spent with family in Dubai, YY, AJ and I set off for our trip to Kabul, a city surrounded by mountains, on Friday August 30.

The journey starts well with YY and me going back at each other with puns and AJ as bait, but he breaks his silence as soon as we land in Kabul and the fun begins.

Kabul airport is surprisingly good, considering I am in Afghanistan. Our hosts WM and BR meet us and we drive 30 minutes to WM's warm and humble home in a ‘secure’ neighborhood. Afghan food is one of the best foods to have, which BR's wife prepares with a lot of love. We relax the day to prepare for our fun journey ahead.

Funny fact: YY uses a prescription medicine bottle for loose coins and toothpicks; stores cigarettes in a sunglass pouch.

Day two starts early at an unholy time; immediately after Fajr, which is a little before 4AM. We stay up, enjoy cream and gharm naan for breakfast and are off. Saturdays are Mondays here, streets are packed and the city is alive with people and cars after yesterdays subdued holiday traffic. After formalities at a local bank, we proceed to CAI built Imam Hussein (A) School and Masjid. It's a bumpy, gritty ride of thirty minutes to Dasht-e-barchi, an untidy, grimy sprawling neighborhood where internally displaced Shia Muslims refugees call home. The school is massive, current student count mind-boggling 4,154 in three shifts. Our third stop is the new CAI office, now required by Afghan law for all registered NGOs. I witness a local Afghan donating his huqooq funds to CAI. We also meet DAH, Director for three remote medical clinics CAI has built and operates. After lunch and a nap, we visit twenty-six girl orphans at CAI’s Sakeena Girls Home. It’s a humbling feeling, meeting these kids, realizing how blessed I am. I get so engrossed in my everyday life and routine, ignoring Allah’s repeated command towards care of orphans. The girls greet us in English and have a few presentations in English and Daree. A meeting with teachers and staff ensues; YY addresses their concerns and questions. Our last stop for today is searching land for a new orphanage, which will hold sixty girls still on waiting list. We look at two great spots that are situated in a ‘secure’ area but prices are out of CAI reach. Insha’Allah...

Day three commences before 3AM since we have to be at the airport by five; multiple, mundane security checks can create havoc with time. It’s a tiny six-seat Kodiac plane and I get the co-pilot’s position because I am the biggest in the group. The one-hour flight to Nili has some amazing views (‘amazing’ is AJ’s constant refrain throughout our trip). I see villages in valleys between the mountains in remote areas. I wonder how people survive from up here, only to find myself outside a CAI funded school right in the middle of a mountain; the place is called Hijdi. The ride here is not easy, a workout really, through rough mountain terrain; our driver Sher Hussein is adept on these treacherous roads. Upon arrival, we receive a very warm welcome from almost the entire village and students of school chanting Khush-Amadeed. The seven-classroom school, exceptionally made, is inspected; YY advises the village head of their responsibilities of maintaining the school.

We take off from Hijdi towards Dareoos; the two hour ride is an adventure and very rough. The sight of CAI medical clinic up in the mountains is a welcome sight. Words of shukaar are on my tongue by default. The basic necessity I take for granted and often waste is luxury here. Clinic staff greets and feed us lunch. After an eleven hour journey a nap is wajib. YY goes thru three months of medicine stock and other accounting reports.

This clinic has an OPD with an ultra sound, vaccination room with freezer, pharmacy, delivery room and a MCH room. There were eleven night deliveries last month. YY meets with staff and addresses their concerns.

Day four starts at 3AM; we set off towards Kejran to inspect a school construction. This is our toughest day; a fifteen hour drive through very rough and sometimes precarious terrain. No photos or words can describe the actual journey, but a brief idea for your imagination: Distance between the two villages is 110miles. There is no road as such, a cut through mountains. The car lurches along at peaks and valleys, through rivers, Sher Hussein having to switch to overdrive every so often. We avoid boulders and deep cliffs with much effort. The ride takes a physical and mental toll, both sleep and talk is virtually impossible. Although the mornings are chilly, the afternoon temperature under a cloudless sky heats up the car mercilessly. If I open the windows, I breathe and eat fine dust; this settles in my nose, tongue and throat. Our security escort, with five heavily armed policemen, tries to keep enough distance between cars so the chocking dust does not overwhelm them. We get a machinegun mounted security car with armed policemen throughout our trip, courtesy of local Provincial Governors.

The school, when we reach it bone exhausted and weary, is well under way and will be ready to open doors for over 300 plus students of both gender in two shifts. The implementation process and formalities with the local education ministry is arduous. It's good to see dedication and hard work of CAI team members come to fruition. The inspection and suggested improvements is completed quickly and although I am fatigued, I sit at the school site and rewind through our drive here and contemplate. Children as young as 5/6 grazing sheep and working in family fields make me realize the benefits of my education. How it helps us define our lifestyle, our present and future, how much emphasis and resources my parents put towards it. Since this is the first NGO project here ever, the logistics of getting the construction material is nightmare. Materials are transported in parts, disguised for Taliban bands are known to attack and destroy all school related projects. We are ready to retire soon afterwards since we have the same long drive back tomorrow. Today’s meal was simple; inevitable naan and tea for breakfast; canned tuna, naan and tea afterwards.

Some quotes I capture from AJ:

‘This drive is not for the weak hearted.’

‘Does YY put everybody through this torture?’

‘I need to be carried, I can't do it anymore.’

‘Every time I see a four runner I think Taliban.’

I can't imagine YY doing this routine with very project no matter the distance or weather, at least I have the comfort of knowing I won't be doing this again in three months.

Day five is a classic memorial. We literally climb up a rickety ladder to sleep on rooftop of a mud house under the open sky. Living in the wild does have advantages, falling asleep gazing at the stars with a clear Milky Way is one beautiful experience but the night doesn't go as well. My immune system surrenders; I awake with sharp pains at 1:30AM. I dread going to the restroom in pitch-dark, down the steps, through uneven pathway to a stinking hole without a door in the outer courtyard. Gathering up courage and coming down the tricky ladder, to sounds of howling dogs and cows, no lights, imagining a Taliban attack, I manage to get through this. We are up at 4AM and head back to our 13-hour dreadful drive from Kejran to Nili; no fun with all liquid out of my body. We make it to Nili by 5PM and head straight to a seedy hammam; a good hot bath nevertheless! After prayers at a mosque in utter darkness, we head towards our clinic in Oozmuk; this clinic has excellent space and structure. We retire to sleep after dinner.

Day six starts at 3:30AM. Routine accounting checks and audits follow salaat and breakfast. We are on schedule for our 30 minutes flight to Panjab, yup Panjab, Afghanistan. Before we land, the pilot makes a horizontal fly past close to the airstrip before returning to land. ‘Runway might have turned into a soccer field with goal posts,’ explains the pilot. We drive out to Waaras, Bamiyan District, which is a 1 1/2 drive (if you pay attention to our commute times, you will perhaps appreciate what a trashing my body takes) through horrible roads; no fun even if the route is scenic. We make it to a local hotel - 5 star, no less. One large room with a common toilet outside; my, what luxury. Our lunch is french-fries, boiled potatoes and the king naan, no eggs or rice available. We are so tired everybody groans when WM informs us the drive to Takhavi, possible 15th CAI school site is two hours away; even YY. Once we get to the village, our hearts immediately melt to the sight we see; three torn tents, about 120 plus pitiful, scurfy kids and hopeful village elders stand waiting quietly. The kids probably have not showered for days, their skin blistered due to the weather; the feeling I describe, will not do justice. It simply leaves me humbled, full of humility. It’s a no brainer for YY who immediately OKs the project. We check out the proposed land and agree to initiate ASAP. The drive back literally brings tears to my eyes with prayers of shukr and taufeeq to help make this project, a reality with pure intentions. A good observation by YY: ‘How interesting these remote and improvised areas are mostly populated Shia Muslims, Kargill, Pakistan, UP...’

Day seven is privileged; why, we start at 8AM! Distribution of one month of food supplies, using Fidya and Kaffara funds, to fifty poor families, some coming from great distances. We proceed toward our 2nd stop of the day, mass marriage of 75 couples. We reach before schedule and wait for the couples to arrive. YY shares his initial experience in Afghanistan; I can now appreciate the challenges after experiencing the better piece of the pie myself. Throughout our visits we are constantly bombarded with requests and help for different needs. These are most difficult moments; people with expectant faces and humility in their requests. CAI cannot help them all, obviously, but YY promises to try, if they will participate in joint funding, CAI will try getting donors. Ya Allah! The connection I feel with these people, simply because of my shared love of Ahlebeyt (A) is definitely a feeling I cannot pen, especially when many of them are children of Fatema(A).

Grooms and brides show up, Quraan is recited, speeches follow. I ask WM if I can expect a wedding cake, especially since dessert has become a fantasy during this trip. WM smiles; alas the waleema is simple but delicious naan, rice and lamb.

We set out for Yakowlang on schedule after Dhor prayers for yet another 4-½ hour journey. After a visit to a local hammam, we are guests at Jamsheds (a local businessman and great logistical supporter for CAI) lovely house, a royal treat, nothing less than a 5 star hotel; clean room, comfortable floor beds, great food...truly a great host.

Day eight begins with two-hour drive to Sachek. I feel my body giving way and pass out throughout the drive but wake up to a beautiful sight of the new clinic. This was the first clinic by CAI. The new building stands besides the old one and it has the best facility out of the three, a much needed one specially in an area where people travel for hours to come see a doctor on foot or donkeys. After a through inspection and minor suggestions, we proceed with the opening.

Being a Friday the clinic is closed, but the sick still try their luck. While we are checking inventory and accounting, two critical cases arrive. A six year old girl, constantly moaning in pain with each breath.  The doctor suspects acute hepatitis, suggests she be taken to Bamiyan city. CAI donates the $100 expense she needs for her travel and treatment. The second patient is a 16-year-old boy with a cracked spine; it’s a wonder he can walk! He needs to be sent to Kabul for surgery; again CAI comes through. There are many such regular cases and Alhamd’Allah CAI donors have always come through. We head back to Jamsheds house, as we will fly out of Yekawlang tomorrow; our chartered flight arrives at 7:20 am. (You must see a pictures of this airport).

This trip was surely not easy, but made bearable by the great company of YY, AJ, WM, BR and DAH. The local CAI team truly goes through great lengths to implement an excellent and successful logistics and operations. Though I met them for the first time our bonding and connection was no less then that between brothers. Insha’Allah, until next time...

Shaida Hussein Bhayani – Houston, TX

Letter FROM President Barak Obama

I write an impassioned letter to president Barak Hussein Obama regarding the oppressed Palestinians on March 24, 2013. Being a pragmatist, I am not expecting a response.

To my pleasant surprise, the President does write back. It is somewhat of a standard, expected response really, but a comeback nevertheless, for which I give the man much credit. Worldwide heads of states are not terribly inclined to respond to their constituents, many may not even bother to read the document. Why, some of them, with mean, inflated egos, will take offence, I reckon; I can think of many ‘leaders’ in Africa, Asia and the Middle East who would love to made mincemeat kachoomber out of holy me.

Thank you Mr. President, this nice touch is one more reason I make the USA my home.

Here is the President’s response:

Basi Mimi Msheenzi!!

Mullah Mchungu, my elderly occasional comrade and frequent nemesis is visiting Sanford, Florida once more. I feel his arresting hand grip my shoulder after Thursday program at Sanford Husseini Islamic Center.

Kisukaali, says his quivering voice, surely you can say sallam to an old man, where are your manners?

Sallam Mullah! I exclaim happily, I did not see you. How are you?

Old, achy and unwanted. When will you offer me tea and a sympathetic ear?

The Mullah makes it a point to visit me home whenever in Sanford and we have animated chats over variety of subjects, almost all most controversial. He makes me squirm with colorful opinions, many valid, lots I would not want to voice even to the walls for fear of life and liberty. But the Mullah, now in his late seventies cares perhaps not, so he can afford to be tongue-loose.  

So I pick him up from son Ali’s house and bring him home. We sit in the porch; it is hot, humid and the sun merciless. We could sit in the cool living room but the Mullah has some nasty habits, of lighting up stinking Indian beedis and hawking up deep, stubborn nicotine residue from the depth of his aging lungs then spewing. No, we are fine out here; I’ll bear the heat and insects for a while. I serve him tea and snacks, equip him with an ashtray and a discarded can for whatever he might unearth from his lungs.

The Mullah has things in his mind; I know he wants to lighten his burden. As usual, he takes his time, finishes tea, light up a bedee, clouds up the porch and hawks. He is now set.

Aree Kisukaali, you eat brown bread? The Mullah has asked me bizarre questions ago; this, I think, tops the list; all I can do is simply, cautiously nod assent. He smiles. You know Kisukaali, there was a time when brown bread was relegated to the poor and servants. The affluent ate then fashionable, white, bleached bread and considered consuming the coarse stuff as beneath their dignity. Now, of course, white bread is poison, so they say, and you can bankrupt yourself buying the varied brown stuff. Ghee, you see, was taboo once upon a time, now; it is a lifesaver. They say. My Mum, may Allah bless her soul, consumed ghee right off the can, dipping piping hot rotees in it, savoring the taste with eyes shut in blissful delight.

Okay, this is interesting information; again, I nod warily.

You think I am a bit loose up here, yes? The Mullah attacks suddenly, circulating a nicotine-coated finger around a temple. You think I am a bit odd, senile and eccentric, nai?

Startled, I want to say yes but shake my head no, of course, eyeing his resting legendary walking cane carefully. A false protest, denial, forms on my lips but the Mullah airily waves a leathery hand in dismissal.

Humph, he says dismissively, of course you do, everybody does. But I am saner than you think and sharper than most men half my age. Listen, I tell you this because you are well travelled and have seen the world, so perhaps will understand me. Travelling, I know, levels thinking and sobers up fools real fast. Believe me, there are many fools I unfortunately have to associate with.

I shift in my chair uncomfortably, not sure where this conversation is leading. The Mullah asks for more tea, which I make and bring. He drinks it, smokes, hacks the porch down and settles in comfortably.

Allah, Kisukaali, it’s hot and sweaty out here; if you find a stain on this chair afterwards, it’s not my overactive bladder, just sweat.  Mullah Mchungu smiles at the look of astonishment on my face and continues before I have time to react. What was fact once is now fiction, truth is lies, falsehood is the new fact, it’s all ghool, ghool, like a jaleebi, only this jaleebi is bitter, you know?

I have no idea what the old man is on about, so keep quiet, wait for him to continue. I look at our world now and wonder how your generations will cope, the realities scare me, really scare me. I grew up in Tanzania to struggling parents yet did not know a single day of insecurity. We had no refrigerator, no phone, no TV, no toaster, no microwave; yet I ate food, fresh and wholesome you won’t find anywhere today. There was a purpose and a goal in that struggle. My father smoked like a bloody chimney and my mother ate so much paan, you’d think she painted her lips, tongue and fingers red; both lived healthy into their nineties. They bred like rabbits and we were a large family; nobody starved. Look around your HIC community now; tell me honestly, can anyone match that lifestyle? I shake my head no. You know why? I wobble my head again.

Mulla Mchungu’s face unfolds from a furrowed scowl into a conspiring smile. Greed, he almost whispers, all greed. You guys want more, and more and more! The more you get, the more you want. Eh? Why is he telling me this? What ‘more’ have I asked for? What has my ‘wants’ to do with bread and ghee and jalebi and cigarettes and paan?

It’s you, your corporate America that is responsible; and your kowtowing government. They will start a trend to make money, but that is not enough. They will change the trend to make more money. Tell us what to eat, how to behave, how to make love...’ I laugh out aloud, finding this last bit amusing. You laugh, Kisukaali? You think I am being funny? You wait. If you live for another ten years, I guarantee you corporate America will make most of HIC community accept gay and lesbian behavior as normal. As a matter of fact, laws will mandate HIC accommodate them in the services provided. Its a matter of time, its coming. Thank Allah, Ill be long dead and dust.

I sober up, digest Mullah’s prophesy. Don’t you see Kisukaali, that falsehood is the new truth? Let me prove it to you. Do you follow the war in Syria? Man, this man certainly knows how to throw curveballs; I nod affirmative. This conflict is a perfect example of fiction changed into fact. Agreed, Syria has less than ideal rulers but corporate America, lusty with greed and bankrolled by the oil money, is arming the wrong side. You guys have not learned from the mess in Afghanistan when you bankrolled and armed nuts that still create mayhem in Afghanistan, Pakistan and across the world. No, no! Ignorant nincompoops, some politicians, old farts, who know absolutely nothing about world geopolitics, want more innocent blood shed and call for open-ended war. These men should be given some extra strength mouthwash and put into an asylum, you know? I can smell the rot from their mouths through the TV! They talk in such riddles all naive American think Al Nusra are bloody angels! The Mullah pauses, shakes his head, chuckles and continues. But then, it is no different from our communities, eh? We have same opinionated chamchas amongst us as well, who jump to conclusions about everything and everybody, shooting their tushies; you can easily identify them by distinguished facial marks.

Boy, these are heavy words; I anxiously look around to make sure both bordering neighborhood swimming pools are free of prying ears. The Mullah is so animated and angry, I decide not to confront him, but speak words of empathy.

I hear you, Mullah, I say. We live in a world much changed. We cannot go back to good old days we had, except for memories. My generation will rue my childhood and my children theirs. It’s a cycle of life we can’t change. As for the US government, my only option for change is through the ballot box, the rest I leave in the mercy of Allah. I cannot and don’t agree with everything this country does, but she has given me much; my family and I have much to thank her for. Corporate entities are the same everywhere, no? They look out for their own interests, never completely fair to the common man; they are not the only culprits, are they? Greed is same anywhere; US, UK, Russia, Tanzania? The same applies to people of different communities.

The Mullah becomes exceptionally quiet, eyes closed, guiling sleep. But he is awake all right, I know. So I wait for a rebuttal; he disappoints me not.

Unaseema? Just because you live in this country, you don’t have to be so protective of her. Hear you talk, you’d think the streets here are paved with gold. Bcheee. I have done my ranting and raving for today; take me home. If this is all I get for my efforts, basi mimi msheenzi!

Basi mimi msheenzi – So I am a fool.

Bcheee – An offensive, dismissal sound, made from the mouth, peculiar to E. Africans.

Unaseema? You are saying?