I had a short day at the clinic yesterday as Dr. Mojadidi's driver had some personal business to attend to. I therefore skipped out when the good Doctor drove himself home, so as not to make him come back to pick me up. I took advantage of the remaining daylight to take a walk though the neighborhood. I was offered the company of the house guard Asraf. Not for security reasons, but to ensure I wouldn't get lost, and I gratefully accepted. So, the two of us headed out and shuffled down the dusty Kabul streets. We wandered down to a market fairly close to the house. The streets were saturated with color, sound, and smell- booths with music blaring; people everywhere in all manner of drab and brightly dyed garb; kabobs, nan, and meat cooking on and just off the street; chickens, sheep, goats, and donkeys weaving through the crowd of people and cars. And then there was me, wondering just where the hell I was, and I'm sure looking like a black runt in a litter of giant white puppies, despite my best efforts to “blend in”. Though, that said, Afghans are an incredible blend of ethic variety, with all manner of skin tone and bone structure. I even saw a small child yesterday who, with his fair skin and blond hair, could have passed for a son of mine. I don't think it my skin tone, or the red in my beard, that makes me stand out. Aman, who ethnically is as Afghan as they come (and speaks Farsi fluently), says he always is seen as a foreigner. He has ascribed this to his clothes, his glasses, and even the way he walks and holds himself. Point is, if he is taken for a foreigner, I ain't a chance of blending in.
I soon stopped in a small shop with Asraf to grab something to drink. The clerk apparently knew a bit of English and asked where I was from. “New York City”, I said and he replied with a courteous, if unimpressed nod of his head. My companion then said something to him in Farsi, of which the only thing I could make out was “Mojadidi”. The clerk's level of interest then obviously increased and he gave me another nod, this time notably laden with respect.
I suppose this is an appropriate time to give a bit of a history lesson. As the book “Afghanistan: A Short History of Its People and Politics” says in its introduction, “Further center's of influence (in Afghanistan) are a number of Sufi orders, which have for many centuries inspired a form of spiritualism centered around the veneration of murshids, or pirs, (spiritual teachers)... In Afghanistan two of the most prominent Sufi orders are the Qadiriyya and the Naqshbandiyya, the contemporary leaders of which, Sayyid Ahmad Gailani and Sebghatullah Mujadidi, have also been leaders of Afghan resistance groups.” (Mujadidi is just another romanized spelling of Mojadidi) In fact, Sebghatullah was the leader of one of the main mujaheddin groups who fought the Soviets, later the interim President of Afghanistan after the Soviets left, and currently the leader of the upper house of Afghanistan's parliament. Dr. Asad Mojadidi, my host, is his brother. Mojadidi means something to the effect of “one who brings something new”. The family is traced to a man who founded said Sufi order in Bukhara (in modern day Uzbekistan) in the 14th century, and ever since has been a significant force of religious leadership in the region. So, in a sense, I'm staying with religious royalty. Though I would never say as such in those words to my host, as such a grandiose talk would surely make him uncomfortable, and perhaps I should apologize to any members of the family who reads this for such hyperbole. But, I'm just trying to paint a picture of my experience here, and this reality is DEFINITELY part of said experience.
Last night I had dinner with Dr. Mojadidi, and two friends of his- a retired oncology professor and a man roughly my age who works for the Afghan Department of Business Registration. The group made for excellent conversation, except for when they spoke only in Farsi, at which moments I was left
peacefully with my own thoughts. During dinner it came to my attention that Dr. Mojadidi will be heading to Jalalabad for a couple of days on Thursday. Right after he told me this he said, “I thought about taking you with me, but the road is often narrow, and sometimes the Taliban likes to fire rockets at the cars there.” After I immediately followed that by wishing him safe and speedy travels, he said, “I go because I have to. And I am old, and have lived my life. You are young and precious.” I of course was greatly appreciative of his concern for my safety, but I was possibly even more thrilled to have my nearly 40 year old self described as “young” much less “precious”.
Today at the clinic was chill. I helped the nurses with some of their patient assessments, and spent a great deal of time talking with the staff about both medicine and the differences and similarities between our cultures. I did some teaching regarding EKG interpretation with one of the nurses during a slow spell. The clinic is consistently busy in the AM and slows down significantly after noon. I'm beginning to think what teaching I do will be best applied on a one-on-one, or one-on-two basis during these slow periods.
To report on the further gastronomical adventures of Ward- today, during lunch at the clinic, I was faced with a bit of a pickle. Figuratively speaking that is, as vinegar renders things safe. The clinic has it's own lunch room/kitchen, and today I was served a delicious spiced cabbage dish with nan. Included with the serving was a side plate of tantalizingly and scrumptiously looking hot peppers. One of the bits of advice I've been given is, “don't eat any fresh fruit or vegetables with the skin still on”. Well, these peppers were too small to be effectively peeled, and they looked SO good! I chose to live on the edge, albeit cautiously. I cleaned two peppers with an alcohol hand sanitizer (99.9% of germs, let's hope!), and then rinsed 'em off, before chowing down. I wasn't wrong, they were indeed scrumptious. Here's hoping I don't pay for it later. As one of the doctors said to me after I ate them, “Tawakaltu ala Allah” meaning “Trust in God”. Well, it's in God's hands now.
[Addendum, Dec. 21st: All's been quiet on the intestinal front. And, I'm now knocking on wood.]
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