Quotes:
“Your country dirtied up my pants!” – Me, being peeved about how fast my nice suit pants got dirty today.
“Our country dirtied up the world!” – The almost instant reply by Qazi Mustaffa, who looked like he was asleep when I made my complaint. He is an old judge who, due to the pressure of successive torture under the Communists, Mujahedin, and Taliban, lost his ability to hold a regular job and now works for us as a day guard.
“Wolves. Judges. Wolves. Politicians. Wolves. Foreigners. Wolves. Soldiers and Taliban. Wolves. My face in the toilet. All that blood. Just blood and wolves.” – Another one from Qazi Mustaffa.
“I don’t understand, and I have been thinking about it a lot. Thinking a lot is a sin, so you should just find someone else.” – Leather craftsman commenting on my slightly idiosyncratic bag design. I’m going to have to make a cardboard model.
“When I first moved to Germany, my pants were pitched for two weeks.” – My database manager explaining his time in Germany and how long it took for him to get used to how women dress there. His physical illustration included what appeared to be the ol’ Heil Hitler but terminating in a fist.
Zanzir’s fender bender:
Let me cut to the chase. It was Zanzir’s fault, and the other car’s headlight was broken. A crowd gathered and Zanzir offered to fix the car for the other gentleman. “No,” he said, “I want revenge.” As if by magic, a hammer appeared from among the crowd and the gentleman proceeded to take his revenge. The crowd approved, and Zanzir’s headlight was broken. Zanzir noticed that the hammer stroke had scratched his chrome and demanded justice, since no such injury was suffered by the other gentleman. The crowd agreed. The hammer was passed. Our admin guy got out and told Zanzir to leave it. The crowd disagreed. “Justice!” they screamed, but Zanzir relented.
More Justice:
A woman was sold by her father. She was sold again by her “husband” for a two thousand dollar profit. She was put on the street for some time, ran away, and sought shelter at her aunt's. Her aunt’s husband raped her and threatened her life to keep her silent. She told her aunt and ran away again for fear of him. She was pregnant when she made it to the provincial capital. There, she was arrested by the police for “escape from home.” A legitimate crime under the penal code. Her aunt’s husband still threatened to kill her. One of our lawyers took the case and realized that simply getting her released from prison would not due. After negotiations with the judge, police, and the rapist. Everyone, including her, agreed that the rapist should marry her, and she should become his second wife. The matter was thus settled.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
All in a day's work
Since its Norooz, and due to the serious nature of the news these days, the following is not a rant on the situation in Afghanistan.
To start off, here is an email exchange I had with a professor from Texas A&M doing agricultural consulting in Kabul. I have never met the man, but his invitation ended up at our offices by mistake, and after a little search, I found his email address and contacted him. He sent someone to fetch it and then, I sent him this:
Dear Michael,
I sent the invitation along earlier today. Since I figured I may have a little credit:
I'm curious as to whether I can eat the lamb meat here medium-rare, so long as I know the meat is fresh (get it butchered)? Or do these animals have diseases I have never heard of and therefore shouldn't be consumed without properly destroying all the flavor?
I realize this question may not be your primary expertise and is certainly below your pay grade, but I'm tired of gray meat and figured I'll never get this chance again.
thanks,
sia
I sent the invitation along earlier today. Since I figured I may have a little credit:
I'm curious as to whether I can eat the lamb meat here medium-rare, so long as I know the meat is fresh (get it butchered)? Or do these animals have diseases I have never heard of and therefore shouldn't be consumed without properly destroying all the flavor?
I realize this question may not be your primary expertise and is certainly below your pay grade, but I'm tired of gray meat and figured I'll never get this chance again.
thanks,
sia
This was what he wrote:
Dear Siavash,
You are correct, it is not my primary expertise but I have been eating medium rare kabobs in Afghanistan for about 4 years now and no problems. I agree that over-cooked meat is terrible! You will enjoy some of the best sheep meat here in Afghanistan!!! Happy New Year!!
Michael
You are correct, it is not my primary expertise but I have been eating medium rare kabobs in Afghanistan for about 4 years now and no problems. I agree that over-cooked meat is terrible! You will enjoy some of the best sheep meat here in Afghanistan!!! Happy New Year!!
Michael
I love Texans.
The Office and the meaning of life:
There was a kerfuffle at the office with one of the lawyers and one of the drivers getting into a serious enough argument that it caused me to waste a day of work on mediation between the two clans. My tendency in these situations is to berate both sides for their shortcomings. It’s a style that really suites my personality.
The drivers are—with the exception of Zanzir—barely literate. For most, Dari is a second-language they are uncomfortable with, yet they are the least likely to be chauvinistic about tribal differences. The lawyers may feel superior and outnumber them by a four to one ratio, but I would cast my lot with the drivers if the situation ever came to a head.
Anyway, while in the middle of telling the drivers that they ought to be much more polite to the lawyers they drive around, Najibullah, a hard-working guy with giant hands and a beautifully worn face, asked me in all seriousness and a work-weary voice: “Siavash, is it the case all over the world that less powerful people have to simply take some amount of abuse from those they work for, or is it just the situation in Afghanistan?” I was flabbergasted to find that this was not a rhetorical question. All of the drivers and guards stared at me with genuine curiosity. Thus, I spent half an hour describing the puzzles of socio-economic progress, diverted into globalism, refocused on the nature of justice, and when they still seemed confused (I have no idea why), I put it this way: “A week ago, my boss told me to ‘stop thinking ass-backwards’, and I just nodded my head in agreement.” A room full of raised, furry eyebrows told me that I got the message across.
After a day of shuttle diplomacy, I ended the afternoon by entering the drivers’ room, a place about 2.5 square meters that defies the usual comparison to a locker-room, because these men smell like earth and leather, rather than a jockstrap. They were all glum, since I was making their cohort apologize to the lawyers in the car.
His name is Bashir, a tall Tajik with a head so large and so precariously placed on his tiny neck that I have an irrational fear it’ll fall on me one day and crush the life out of me. Initially, he had refused to apologize, saying he had done nothing wrong and that he’d rather lose his job. Zanzir had warned me he would: “Afghans don’t apologize in the face of injustice.” After scoffing inside at the high-minded rhetoric, I tried to be ‘culturally sensitive’ (less of an a-hole). So, I asked Bashir to do it for me, and when he agreed, I could tell he was genuinely doing me a favor.
Anyway, the drivers’ hole is usually a jovial place where we smoke cigarettes and comment on the size of women’s shoulders, and I felt responsible for the oppressive mood. As a result, I challenged one of the guards to a wrestling match.
Amin Shah is about a foot taller than me, has the ugliest goatee I have ever seen, and a week ago, the 19-year-old proudly recounted how his body building coach had given him a compliment in front of the whole gym. Yay! Naturally, after about five minutes, the mood of the place had much improved, and all it cost me were two carpet burns: one giant one on my shoulder and a smaller one on my cheek. When Amin Shah found himself in an arm lock after literally wiping the floor with my face, he smiled broadly, lifted me into the air with his captured arm, and calmly noted that my style was fundamentally very sound.
The Office and the meaning of life:
There was a kerfuffle at the office with one of the lawyers and one of the drivers getting into a serious enough argument that it caused me to waste a day of work on mediation between the two clans. My tendency in these situations is to berate both sides for their shortcomings. It’s a style that really suites my personality.
The drivers are—with the exception of Zanzir—barely literate. For most, Dari is a second-language they are uncomfortable with, yet they are the least likely to be chauvinistic about tribal differences. The lawyers may feel superior and outnumber them by a four to one ratio, but I would cast my lot with the drivers if the situation ever came to a head.
Anyway, while in the middle of telling the drivers that they ought to be much more polite to the lawyers they drive around, Najibullah, a hard-working guy with giant hands and a beautifully worn face, asked me in all seriousness and a work-weary voice: “Siavash, is it the case all over the world that less powerful people have to simply take some amount of abuse from those they work for, or is it just the situation in Afghanistan?” I was flabbergasted to find that this was not a rhetorical question. All of the drivers and guards stared at me with genuine curiosity. Thus, I spent half an hour describing the puzzles of socio-economic progress, diverted into globalism, refocused on the nature of justice, and when they still seemed confused (I have no idea why), I put it this way: “A week ago, my boss told me to ‘stop thinking ass-backwards’, and I just nodded my head in agreement.” A room full of raised, furry eyebrows told me that I got the message across.
After a day of shuttle diplomacy, I ended the afternoon by entering the drivers’ room, a place about 2.5 square meters that defies the usual comparison to a locker-room, because these men smell like earth and leather, rather than a jockstrap. They were all glum, since I was making their cohort apologize to the lawyers in the car.
His name is Bashir, a tall Tajik with a head so large and so precariously placed on his tiny neck that I have an irrational fear it’ll fall on me one day and crush the life out of me. Initially, he had refused to apologize, saying he had done nothing wrong and that he’d rather lose his job. Zanzir had warned me he would: “Afghans don’t apologize in the face of injustice.” After scoffing inside at the high-minded rhetoric, I tried to be ‘culturally sensitive’ (less of an a-hole). So, I asked Bashir to do it for me, and when he agreed, I could tell he was genuinely doing me a favor.
Anyway, the drivers’ hole is usually a jovial place where we smoke cigarettes and comment on the size of women’s shoulders, and I felt responsible for the oppressive mood. As a result, I challenged one of the guards to a wrestling match.
Amin Shah is about a foot taller than me, has the ugliest goatee I have ever seen, and a week ago, the 19-year-old proudly recounted how his body building coach had given him a compliment in front of the whole gym. Yay! Naturally, after about five minutes, the mood of the place had much improved, and all it cost me were two carpet burns: one giant one on my shoulder and a smaller one on my cheek. When Amin Shah found himself in an arm lock after literally wiping the floor with my face, he smiled broadly, lifted me into the air with his captured arm, and calmly noted that my style was fundamentally very sound.
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