13th April
I landed in Kabul on Friday 13th sitting in row 13 of the plane, counting myself fortunate not to be overly superstitious. As I
landed, I thought back to other arrivals over the years.
In 2001 I flew into Pakistan and managed to get a visa from
the Taliban in Peshawar and fly from there with the UN into Faizabad, a
beautiful city in northern Afghanistan. In the years that followed, I would fly
in to Peshawar and then go by vehicle through the Spin Ghar mountains,
following the wild and formidable Khyber Pass that links the valley of Peshawar
at Jamrud with the town of Landi Khotal, Afghanistan. It is part of the ancient
Silk Route and an important trade route between Central Asia and the Indian
Subcontinent. Throughout the centuries, Pashtun tribes have regarded this area
as their own and levied tariffs off travelers for safe conduct.
 |
| My guards on the Khyber Pass |
The road was rough and bald of tarmac but the sense of
adventure and the value of the journey were sweet reward for the discomfort.
This road is steeped in history and the blood of foreigners who had believed
they could rule Afghanistan. Genghis Khan led the Mongols through this
inhospitable pass. Monuments and forts left by British army units litter the hillside.
I remember reading the names and ages on the grave stones when travelling as a
medical student in the Eighties and being struck by the young lives lost and
left in this inhospitable soil.
Then Kabul airport opened up and I would fly from Sharjah Airport,
Dubai, in great rusty Russian Ariana planes. There was no ticketing for the
flight and I had to search for a Mr Green at the airport in the hope that he
would miraculously appear and give me a ticket…and the bizarre reality was that
somehow this worked. I would then join great lines of Afghan men in proud
turbans returning from Mecca and they would always invite me to the front of
the queue. Steps led straight up the rear of the plane into gaping doorways
marked with Russian script and streaked with rust. Seat belts rarely worked and
there was an unspoken entrustment from one and all to the hands of God. We
would land on the war-ravaged runway and step out into Kabul’s pure
altitudinous air and look up at that wondrous light on the mountains which nowadays
is lost to a haze of pollution. We would scrabble through the hole in the
arrivals wall to retrieve our luggage which at times failed to appear at all.
And then came the era of the ex-pat and the troops. The
planes grew more sophisticated, the terminal became modern and soulless and the
passengers were a mix of aid workers, consultants and journalists alongside
thick-necked tattooed tight- tee -shirted security guys.
And these are my reflections as I land in Kabul, on a plane
whose passengers resemble those of the early days and reflect the era of a more
forgotten Afghanistan. Very few women, very few foreigners and lots of proud
turbans and the return to the past etiquette where women are put to the front
of the queue and instantly given a seat.
The sun was shining and Ollie, a film maker travelling with
me, had arrived just before via Istanbul. It is strange to arrive at a place so
far from home and be greeted by a friend and then as we made our way through
the crowds, to hear my name called out and look up to see our loyal drivers
grinning through the sea of faces.
Kabul has not changed so much since my visit in July 17, but
the walls seem higher and the concrete protection barriers seem to have
encroached on more roads. Barbed wire glints in the sun and helicopters whir
overhead. This is a city where fear is tangible and exacerbates the insecurity.
Now, many Embassies use helicopters to avoid using the airport road. The skies
are a symbol of war and peace. Brightly coloured kites soar and dive jauntily,
symbolic of peace and joy whilst apaches guarding the passenger helicopters,
fire off flares to ward off missiles.
14th April
The wind howled, and the rain fell all night and I lay awake
thinking we would never take off in the tiny UNHAS planes this morning. I was
happy to be wrong and to be on our way. From the skies you see the pockets of
“progress” in Kabul, apartment blocks and shiny new buildings standing out from
the patchwork of flat mud rooves and walls of traditional houses.The Hindu Kush spreads its great spine just beneath us, so
close we almost skim its snow-covered peaks. The approach to Faizabad airport
is not for the fainthearted with a sharp turn through the gap in the mountains
and then a precipitous drop to the runway and the clear mountainous air of my
favourite Afghan city. As the propeller fades to a halt, the silence and the
brightness of the light overwhelm. We are greeted by our drivers, Haji and
Qodoos, who have met us here so many times before and head off for Worsaj.
The road from Faizabad to Keshim was once a rough track
passing through the mountains. Now it is smoother than any western motorway, a
beautiful highway made by the Chinese. The countryside is spectacular with
mountains giving way to soft green hills and all along the river animals graze.
Children cross the clear waters on home-made boats. At Kishem the market is in
full swing. Stalls are bursting with vibrantly coloured cloth, spring produce
and huge sacks of grain. Women are shrouded in deep blue burkhas, children run
around and men on donkeys jostle with rickshaws.
We turn off the road soon after Kishem and head into the
mountains and to Worsaj. At Farkhar, we stop for a picnic in a beautiful garden
which offers a haven of peace and tranquillity. We meet up with Najiba who
heads the Northern Regional Office for SCA and several other SCA employees we
have known for years. We eat trout fresh from the river before heading off to
Worsaj.
As we approach our school we can see the gate open
and the lines of children waiting patiently for our arrival. This is one of the
first schools we built in this district, back in 2008 and it remains close to
my heart. The headmaster is there waiting to greet us and the familiar guard
and staff, all delighted to see us. The smart iron roof which we recently put
up with FCO funding, gleams in the evening sun beneath the mighty mountains
which lead to the Panjshir Valley beyond.
I am covered in garlands and glitter and the welcome, as
ever overwhelms. Like a homecoming. These people and their valleys have become
part of the fabric of my life.
I am exhausted after days with little sleep and try
desperately to keep alert and friendly as we sit with all the female teachers
until night falls. These poor teachers have brought food from their villages.
They feed the men in another room, about 20 of them in all. Then they come to
us and we have mounds of rice and chicken, hosh, a soup made of spaghetti,
beans, milk and vegetables, flat bread, mutton and big plates of rice soaked in
oil and yoghurt.
Then we sit in the dark night, talking to the teachers. The
men have gone on to the headmaster’s house for the night but the teachers long
to talk and ply us with green tea.
It is time to go and we make our way in the cold dark night
to our vehicle. We drive up the track gaining height until the path becomes too
narrow and stone ridden for our driver. We climb out, the darkness thick around
us in this unpolluted world. Lucky to have my torch, we pick our way over a
stream and up a narrow path flanked by high stone walls to the wooden gateway
and into the night stop home. I feel a million miles away from my home and
wonder that we can walk like this in Afghanistan without fear.
We are greeted by familiar faces as we have stayed here before.
We climb wearily up the steps and into the women’s quarters, where we sit down
in a carpeted room, simple and clean, lined with toshaks and are served with
more green tea. Again, we socialise and want to be on good form for these
generous people. But it is so hard to keep going as exhaustion overwhelms and I
have rarely been so grateful for a cushion on the floor and a sleeping bag.
15th April
Next morning comes all too soon. We head back to the school
and after breakfast are called into the garden.
The whole school is sitting out
in rows in front of a balcony area, where there is a row of seats and a
microphone set up at a lectern. I am taken to sit up there and children come up
and put garlands over my head, there is even one girl with a huge popper which
explodes and showers down brightly coloured paper. A young girl leads the
proceedings. Others perform songs, poetry and even a comedy sketch about
children who pass and fail exams…the ones who pass are not the clever ones, but
the ones who can pay for their result…I am interested that they know about the
corruption and are allowed to make fun of it. I am given letters, written in
English and about 5 students stand up and read their letters out. I am deeply
touched and amazed by the confidence of these young girls.
The gates open mid proceedings and the Governor of Worsaj
arrives in a green police vehicle with about 6 armed guards. He comes up on to
the platform and gives a speech thanking me for all that Afghan Connection has
done for Worsaj. He says that education is the greatest gift and this area has
the best education in the region thanks to our work. I am presented with a
framed letter of appreciation.
We talk afterwards and have a very interesting discussion.
He tells me that Worsaj district borders three areas-Baghlan, Panjshir and
Badakshan. There are malevolent forces at play in Baghlan and Badakshan, but
because of the educated population and the attitude of the community in Worsaj
the district has stayed safe and it is likely to continue that way.
The afternoon is spent at the beautiful mountain home of
Sayed O. He is what I would call the father of education in Worsaj. I
have known him for 13 years. He is the man who first asked us to build a girls’
school here and was the Headmaster of our first Worsaj school. He is 62 years old but his beautiful
expressive face looks much older.
His mother’s family were well educated and encouraged him to
study. He went to the local school and aged 6 he moved to Taloqan City to get a
better education because at that time Worsaj was a place where there was not
much interest in education, and there were few teachers and schools. No girls
went to school back then.
He was successful at school and went on to teacher training
college in Kabul. This was during Nur Muhammad Taraki's regime. Taraki was a
Communist who persecuted intellectuals. Sayed O heard that his henchmen
were coming to imprison him and fled back to Worsaj, but he was pursued and put
into prison for 3 years. He was tortured with electric shocks and at just 24
years of age thought his life was over.
After 3 years, the regime changed and he was released. He
came back to Worsaj and organised his own group of Mujahideen to fight the
Communist government and Soviets. He went to Pakistan to get arms and fought
all over Afghanistan, often alongside Masood, who became a close ally.
But after the Soviets withdrew, he became disillusioned by
the Mujahideen, who became a destructive force during the civil war that
followed. Instead he decided to teach and to fight for girls’ education. He
founded 2 schools in Worsaj. Just once the
Taliban came to Worsaj, but he managed to get a group together with the support
of Daoud Khan and fought them until they left.
He has 7 children, 5 of them daughters. They are all
educated and have all been through or are at university. He is wearing a smart
grey flannel jacket over his traditional dress and there is a Pierre Cardin
label on its sleeve- a gift from his son in Kabul. I never thought I would see
a Pierre Cardin label in Worsaj!
We walk back through the fields and villages, followed by a
long line of children. The young boys have small tyres which they roll with
sticks. They laugh and play as the evening light fades and we reach the school,
by which time, there are over 30 children following us. I stand in front of
them and play games and teach them English and soon have them all playing the
Dari equivalent of Simon Says. It is hard to say goodbye and as dusk falls they
keep climbing the wall and shouting out I
love you!
16th April
We wake to rain. The drive up the mountains to the next school is wet and muddy and the mountains are cloaked in thick grey-black
clouds which disgorge onto the already drenched fields and swell the river
below. It is a community-based school, set up for children living in
remote villages who had no access to education. Once it reached Grade 6, we
built a school for them, it was registered as a formal government primary school
and we started handing over classes to the government.
The school stands
high up on the barren mountainside beneath the crags and below lies the village, which is perched on the edge of a massive ravine and looks as if
it has sprung straight from the mud and rock. They build their homes up high
here to escape the flooding in the valleys, but it is a harsh life up on these
barren heights and the school offers hope.
We follow a path which hangs on the edge of a vertical drop
and run through the rain to a small house.
It belongs to a family whose
daughters go to the school. We walk in and there is the smiling face of a very
old man. I recognise him immediately as his photograph is hanging
on my wall at home and he used to be the guard at one of our schools. I met him
the first day I came to Worsaj. He has a wizened face and few teeth. He wears a
traditional green striped coat which comes down to the floor. He is the
grandfather of this house and welcomes us in. It is a poor home. A single room
with a small kitchen outside. The father, like some 80% of the men here, is
working as a labourer in Iran and has been there for two and a half years.
The
mother is left to look after three young children. We are here to meet
Barishna, her name means light and she is a serene 12 year old girl. As the
eldest child, she is in charge of the house while her father is away and has to
clean, wash clothes and cook before school and help with the younger children.
She does a filmed interview and is remarkably clear and capable and tells us
that the school has transformed their lives. Before there was no school here
and there was little chance of having an education. Now there is a school in
her community, she can see it from her window and despite both her parents
being illiterate, she can go to school.
We walk to school with her and as we draw near, crowds of
children run down the steps and form a line to greet us with flowers and
banners. Najiba and I are taken to the female staff room where
breakfast awaits
us and the teachers have come to see us. There are also members of the school
management committee- women from the community appointed to look after the
school. They come in once a month sit in on lessons and make sure the teaching
is up to standard and the building is well maintained. They are passionate
about their work, which is voluntary, because they care so much about children
having an education.
Most of the teachers are graduates from other schools we
have built in Worsaj and you can begin to see how education is working its
magic and producing the next generation of educators. They also comment on the
change a building has made. Before they taught children outside and often had
to cancel class due to the weather. They sometimes rented rooms and were
constantly on the move, now they have a safe environment and the education goes
uninterrupted. It has also sparked interest from the communities and now
children come from 5 villages to this school and numbers are rising.
I ask them about how life has changed in recent years. 5
years ago they got hydro powered electricity and this has changed so much. They
can heat water, have light and if affordable, televisions and refrigerators.
This saves so much time, less wood chopping, less time boiling water, their
chores take half the time they used to. It means they have time for school and
social activities as well as work. This was not the case for their mothers. Far
less women and babies are dying during childbirth, they have a doctor and a
midwife -both of who were educated here. One of their husbands is the local
doctor, he went to Kabul University and has come back to support his people.
They have mobile phones and the security is good. Now they have a school at the
heart of their community and every girl and boy attends. They feel they have
many more opportunities than their mothers, who never had an education, and
many now get to university. The one problem is employment and the fact that so
many of the young must leave the villages in search of work.
We visit the
classrooms and say our farewells before heading off to the next school.
This school was set up as a community-based school and has enjoyed great success. It now goes all the way to Grade 9 and has 518 pupils, 247 boys and 208 girls. At Grade 9, all those who pass
their exams, go on to the High Schools, one of which was built by
AC. The school has been registered as a Government school and 10 of the 12 teachers
are now supported by the government, and 2 by AC.
 |
| Pupil, Kemyan |
We stay the night in a village nearby. I am welcomed in to
the women’s quarters with Najiba and meet some incredible young women. Wahija
is 25 years old and went to BZ school. She graduated from teacher
training college and then university and is now a master trainer for the SCA.
She is here to deliver this year’s syllabus to the community-based schools. We
will accompany her on her travels next day to see the distribution process. She
also trains CBE teachers. They receive subject knowledge training in the winter
when schools are closed but also benefit from bespoke training in their
schools.
I also meet the Zahria, who is in her last month of
pregnancy with her fourth child. She is our field monitor and visits all the
CBE schools regularly, giving support to the young teachers and referring them
for extra training where necessary. This poor girl will cook for us all,
outside over a fire. By the time supper is ready, there are some 40 visitors in
the house, many of whom are uninvited. This is the way it goes here when
visitors come, others are curious and come along to meet them and also receive
great hospitality. We eat partridge, mutton, rice, and at least ten other
dishes of food, all prepared by her and her cousins. We talk late in to the
night…it is rare to have guests from abroad so there are lots of questions. I
find out that every woman in the room is married to a cousin. They know the
medical risks, but this is still very common practice here and there is a high
rate of disability resulting. It is fascinating coming to these villages,
hearing the stories of the inhabitants and staying in their homes. It really is
a privilege and though it has its challenges, including the absolute lack of
privacy, it is deeply rewarding.
April 17th
One of the visitors from last night has asked us for
breakfast. We go in to her village house and to my surprise there is a big
double bed in the guest room, still with its headboard covered in plastic.
Fancy cushions are scattered over it and around the room and our breakfast is
served on beautiful china which came from her daughter-in law’s dowry.
Sometimes it is hard to eat, but every mouthful brings more happiness to those
who provide it. This morning is a struggle! How ever many mouthfuls of trout or
eggs or milk pudding or walnut flavoured tea I have, it is not enough!
We are following Wahida to distribute books to one of our community based schools.
The journey is stunning and takes us through a valley I have not travelled to
before. Willow and poplar grace the river banks and irrigation channels, the
grey clouds lift to reveal a crisp blue sky and we feel warmth at last from the
sun which is emerging from the shadow of the mountains. The school was
established just 3 years back and is funded by AC. It is so very remote and it
is miraculous that education is now reaching these far corners of Afghanistan.
There is a welcoming party of elders, teachers and children and I am showered
with gifts. As well as the usual garlands and bunches of plastic flowers, there
are pens covered in tinsel, scarves wrapped in plastic and bars of soap! Two
children come and throw bags of sweets in the air and the rest dive like
starving magpies grabbing the sweets off the ground with whoops of joy.
It is a wonderful feeling to see the children stand in line
and to step forward as their name is called
and receive the precious books and
pencils that will be their future.
We head for P School. This was funded by AC and
completed in 2017 and is a two-storey building for over 500 girls. It is
nestled in the most beautiful valley, with the giant snow peaks of the Hindu
Kush towering behind and the Korcha River roaring outside its classrooms. Again the welcome! As we come to the end of
the line of children who have showered me with flowers, I step into the school
and all the children run in after me and there is a great scrum of white
headscarves and excited faces and waving arms. The two male teachers are
powerless to prevent this surge of happy humanity leaping up the stairs and
filling every inch of space like a liquid filling a cavity.
Exuberance at its
best.
We do interviews with teachers and pupils and are proud of
these defiant and determined girls and women who believe that education is
their future. Mariam, a young 16 year old, says that education is changing
attitudes towards women and more and more they are thought of as equals. It is
her dream to get to Kabul University to study medicine so that she can come
back and serve her people.
The headmistress invites us to her village and home for
lunch. She somehow feeds an army of teachers and visitors and then presents me
with a new outfit. I have to put it on in front of everyone. We sit eating
copious amounts of food, in a room overlooking the fields and mountains. The
women around me who are uneducated are all enrolled in adult literacy classes
and determined to learn to read and write. They feel cheated of an education
and are making sure their own children do not suffer as they have done.
As we emerge from the house, a young boy is brought to me.
Some weeks back he found an unexploded device and thought it was a toy. He has
no right arm, the thumb on his left arm is missing, his eye is blind and streaming and he feels his life is over. It
is hard to escape the harshness of life here. The suffering seems limitless at
times and the world seems mad and cruel. What has anyone gained from his injury
which has damaged his life for ever?
 |
| before the skies turn black |
The clouds turn black as we head back to Taloqan and feeling
unwell I drift in and out of sleep. The guest house is freezing cold and we
have messages from home describing the heat wave!
Wednesday 19th
We head off to Farkhar in the rain. Despite all our layers
we are cold. The temperature has plummeted and the visibility is low. There is
8km of new road which makes a massive difference to the start of the journey.
It has been built with funds from the National Solidarity Programme but has not
been completed because money ran out. We are soon back on river beds which make
hard going due to the rains. Muddy water runs in torrents and the wheels slide
on mud and stone sending showers of water into the air.
As we arrive at G School, small boys with UNICEF
satchels are ghostly shadows in the mist as they pick their way up the riverbed
to school. AC built this school in 2013 with funds from National Geographic and
generous donors. This year, we are building a resource centre with science lab,
computer room, library and special needs room, with funding form National
Geographic and the FCO. Despite the weather, lines of children are there to
greet us and we are taken in for hot tea in the headmaster’s room. There we sit
with parents, elders and teachers. We hear of all the challenges and
triumphs.
This is where Fariha goes to school. She is a remarkable 18
year old who was set to be the first girl ever to complete her education at
this school. We have photos of her sitting in class with only boys as her
friends had had to leave because they had been married or because their parents
would not let them study with male teachers. However, this year’s Grade 12 was
cancelled. There were only 6 pupils as many of the boys had had to drop out to
go to work in Iran. It is a very poor village and many of the young are sent to
Iran to earn money. The government would not run the class with less than 10
pupils and so Fariha’s dream of completing education came to an end. She was
so upset, she contacted SCA and begged them to help her. They arranged for a
teacher to be paid to cover the lessons of the 6 children who wanted to study.
But still the government would not give approval. So Fariha enrolled in a
school 3 hours away. She and her father trek there twice a week but they cannot
do more than that because it is too far. I promised her that I would go and see
the Provincial Education Department and sort it out and that she would get to
study. All she wants to do in life is complete her education and be a teacher
for other girls on the school. It was a rare sight to see this young woman
sitting in a room full of men, all of whom were trying to find ways to help
her. Her father was also there and said he would do anything to support.
Numbers of boys have escalated since we built the school and the number of
girls has increased but they desperately need female teachers. They have 6
candidates sitting the national teachers’ exam today and if they pass life will
change for GSchool.
We made our way outside. It was freezing and vast snowflakes
were falling on excited children as they waved us goodbye. It was a reminder
that without this school building education would have been impossible today.
We went up a very muddy slope to Fariha’s house, a tiny home on the side of
the hill.
Her mother, father, brother and sister greeted us. It was a poor
home, but so welcoming. There were gifts for each of us of pistachios and
scarves. The house was a simple room with cushions on the floor. It was the
first time Ollie had been able to sit in a room with a woman. We heard their
stories. I feel a burning responsibility to help Fariha and will not rest
until she has completed her education. She is a Malala and deserves support.
Thursday 19th April.
A day of mud, rain and cold which served to remind us how
tough life is in these rural areas. My last visit to Rustaq in July was
shocking because of the drought. It was a dustbowl and there was not an ounce
of green. The rains have come late this year and probably too late to save the
crops., but the farmers are still rejoicing.
In 2015, AC decided to start replication of its Worsaj
Education project in Rusatq District. This is a far cry from Worsaj. The ethnic
mix is different, Worsaj being Tajik, and Rustaq being a mix of predominantly
Uzbek and Tajik. Worsaj has water whereas Rustaq is a land of drought and
poverty, with a population roughly 5 times the size of Worsaj. In Rustaq there
are 216 villages, but only 80 schools. Half the schools have no building and
12000 young people have no access to education. Following years of AC and SCA
support, almost 90% of boys and girls in Worsaj attend school. The challenges
are vast in Rustaq and there is little support. Aga Khan Foundation, Concern
and Terre des Hommes operate here but apart form a few schools supported by
Concern, they do not support education. In 2015 we took on some 300 children
into community-based education classes. This year numbers were over 1500. I
feel if I say no, then these children have no one else to support them. We have
built 4 schools and have another funded for this year.
Today we will see three of those schools and we will visit
our next project, a school for 500 girls in K village. The journey is rough, with
vast potholes full of dirty rain water and large riverbeds oozing with flood
waters cascading down from the hills. The rain is relentless and the cold bores
down to the bone. We arrive after some 3 hours at K. The school is a field.
Lines of elders are here to greet us and all the girls have come to school
despite the atrocious weather. We receive the usual welcome and then some of
the girls make speeches. They tell of others who have come before us and
promised to build a school and have never come back. This is a huge project for
us, but as I watch the hundreds of children crouching down in the mud exposed
to the cruel weather, I know we must make it happen. This is such a
poverty-stricken region and yet their determination to be educated is as
evident as the rain is wet!
We are soaked and cold and tell the children to go home. We
are taken to a village and sit in a small dark room drinking warming tea and
eating chicken and huge circles of flatbread.
I meet our Monitor, Sefatullah,
who looks after the community-based schools for us. He is delightful and has
been looking at our website and is very happy to be working for us. He tells
the others in the room about all the things we do, like the cricket.
As I step outside and slide about in the mud, I look back at
the mud walled street and the homes from which we have emerged and think back
on all the places where we have been taken in and given hospitality. Again, I
am struck by the privilege of this and of travelling in this largely forgotten
region, discovering so much about its people and meeting so many of them in
their homes and schools.
The next stop is a fleeting look at the beautiful Y School, bright blue and spanking new and a feast for the eye after all the mud.
These children used to study out in the dust and were it not for the school e
have built, they would be missing school today due to the weather. It is good
feeling to peep through the windows and see the lines of girls, heads bent over
books, safe from the elements.
Then to S School-another school built by AC for more
than 500 girls. It is wonderful to see the finished building and the joy of the
hundreds of girls packed in to the entrance hall as they greet us. It will be
painted in the better weather but already they are using it for study.
Lastly, we head for K School. The roads become rougher
and rougher and the conditions are appalling for the drivers as the rain
continues to fall. K School has been built by AC with funds from Euromoney. Again,
it is a very poor village and the school has brought so much hope. The school awaits painting but is already in use. The welcome is even more overwhelming
than usual and I can hardly stand up under the weight of flowers. A frightful
loud speaker system is booming and echoing at high volume as we are
thanked for
changing the lives of this community.
It is a sleepless night for me. I feel ill and cold and
can’t help thinking about all the children we have seen. Something about seeing
this place under such extreme weather conditions, the bleak landscape, the
cold, the snow, gives one more insight into the challenges they face. By
planting our footsteps in those muddy fields, alongside the footsteps of so
many, by feeling the bitter cold, by lying on the floors of their houses, it is
as if we are weaving our lives closer to theirs. I know that we can make such a
difference, with schools, with water, with hope, I just desperately need the
funds to support.
24th April
Sitting at Kabul airport on the first leg of my journey
home. I feel sad to be leaving but gratitude for the wonderful home and family
which await me. We had to cancel our last day of travel in Rustaq as the floods
blocked the way. We spent the day in our rather bleak accommodation. Its
windows, painted to protect us from the outside world, blocked out the sun
which came out in the last few hours of our stay. As the skies cleared we saw
evidence of the last few days of bitter weather. The mountains were covered in
a new layer of unexpected spring snow which will bring essential water in the
months ahead.
We were fortunate to have this break in the weather which
allowed our UNHAS flight to land and scoop us up and away from the raw, wild
beauty of Badakshan and our dear drivers and friends who had taken such good
care of us.
Back in Kabul I managed to manufacture a plug from a sock
and a cup and to soak in a shallow bath of hot water and relish the warmth! The
care we receive from the guards, the cook, the driver and all those who work in
the SCA compound is extraordinary.
I have 2 days of meetings and learn so much about the
education system and all the changes which will come in to play over the next
few years. At my meetings with our implementing partner, SCA, I am looked after
so well. The engineering team make me special tea for my cough, a mixture of
olive leaves and mint in a thermos which they give me for the day. Others offer
me food, coffee, and any hospitality they can. We discuss plans for the future
and exciting ways to increase impact.
I have a very
spoiling lunch with the Ambassador at the British Embassy and meetings with the
FCO and DFID. As I walk between the Embassy and the FCO building, I hear
gunfire and then a loud speaker announces that we should take cover. We dash
into the building.
We find out later that two incidents have taken place. The
first, a suicide bomb which killed 52 people who were registering to vote. Democracy
targeted. Mainly women and children dead. 112 injured. Another day in Kabul.
Another barbaric attack on totally innocent people. Another incident
punctuating 40 years of war and suffering. Another statistic giving no hint at
the individual suffering, grief and loss.
On twitter I see photographs of the blood on the pavements
and the graves being dug and I read the despair of a nation. I also read about
the peace movement which is sweeping through Helmand and Kandahar following the
big suicide bomb in that region in late March. People are sick of the war.
The second incident, which accounts for the gunfire, was
police firing to warn off crowds who were out protesting because 3 children had
been run over by international troop vehicles in a road accident.
The Kabul traffic is heavier due to road blocks, but
otherwise the city moves on as usual, with much activity on the streets and much
to see from the windows of our armour plated vehicles. Life is trying so hard
to resume normality. The markets and stalls are like grass forcing through
concrete in this city which has given so much of itself over to high walls and
hesco.
I enjoy a delicious supper with the Country Director of SCA,
her Deputy and a security advisor. We hatch plans for my next trip.
As I sit here, I reflect that despite the anxiety before
coming to Afghanistan, which I always feel, I have felt so calm and unafraid
throughout my trip. I am sure this is because I am constantly surrounded by the
generosity, hospitality and warmth of Afghans, some of whom I have known for
many years. I even had a phone call from Gul Noor, who has looked after SCA
guests for years before finally retiring last year. He was like a father to me.
I understand the brutality, the risks and the dangers but it is remarkable how
much good there is and how the warmth of the people who surround me always
outpaces the fear.
The most important thing to say is that on my return to Taloqan, I visited the Provincial Education Director. He happens to be the son of the headmistress of P School and I had had lunch in his mother's home the day before. He was educated in Worsaj and is a good man who wants the best for his people. I asked him about Fariha. He agreed to re-instate the class. The happy end to my trip is that Fariha and her classmates will complete their studies this academic year and Fariha WILL be the first girl ever to complete her education at G School.
 |
| Fariha |
 |
| Community based education student |
 |
| Receiving books |
 |
| receiving books |
 |
| Student |
 |
| The elders, parents and teachers at G School |
 |
| Olli Englehart, our film maker |
 |
| Student |
 |
| Students at Community Based Education, Worsaj |
 |
| Fariha's sister |
 |
| CBE student in national colours |
 |
| Fariha's father |
 |
| With my guide and friend, head of Swedish Committee Northern Regional Office |
 |
| Students, K School |
 |
| The new P School for more than 500 girls |
 |
| A snowy farewell. |
The mud brick houses and adobe walls are there as ever, the
terraced fields and the wooden ploughs drawn by oxen. A timeless scene and yet
new life is springing up. Things are changing. There are more buildings emerging
along the way. New or half built mosques are in every village and sometimes
more than one. There is a vocational training centre and an agricultural
college, a brand new petrol station and bright blue schools, largely built by
AC, standing proud against the backdrop of mountains. 
I am ushered into the women’s quarters and spend a
delightful evening with many of the village women. One is the headmistress of
my favourite Worsaj School. I am happy to hear about all the changes afoot in
Worsaj. I ask her if she would mind being filmed the next day for an interview.
I am very disappointed when she makes the excuse that she is heavily pregnant
and having a bit of pain, but somewhat humbled when she gives birth that night!
We spend the days visiting new school buildings and resource
centres with labs, computers and libraries and community based schools, where
previously there was no education at all-the rich results of years of
fundraising and the remarkable generosity of donors. We interview community
members, parents, teachers and students and collect a catalogue bearing witness
both to the miracle of education and to the challenges of unemployment and
poverty. It is hard to describe the immense joy I feel when I hear of the
positive changes our support has brought and it is clear that the community
holds us close to their hearts and values hugely what we have done.
director in Taloqan and pleaded with him to help and he allowed her to enrol at
a school some 3 hours away to complete her studies. She had done it despite
every challenge. But now all she wanted to do was to teach at her school, so
that other girls could complete their studies. There are no female teachers
because these are the first girls to be educated. So now we will try and
support her with teacher training and a teacher support job in this school. We
will find a way. She is one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. So
softly spoken and diminutive, yet with courage of steel. She is a true hero.
She is the hope for the future. Her father is desperately poor but has done
everything he can to support her. He has even built a room onto 
My journey to Rustaq is breathtaking. The rain has fed the
landscape and the response is a patchwork of vivid greens against the vast
white mountains. The views are eternal. Villages cling to the hills, flocks of
goats caked in mud interrupt our route. It is wild and dramatic, with great
sheer drops below the muddy track. I am certain we would not have made it the
day before. We are well shaken by the time we reach the first school. This was
funded by Euromoney and is a wonderful school in a remote community which now
has girls attending school for the first time.
