Snow, boundaries, and that curious beast, the American

Snow today again in Kabul. Absolutely beautiful, big, floating flakes quiet the air and cover the ground. My mind remembers Brennan's first remark about snow as we looked out our small apartment second floor window in 1992 Medford, Mass: "White covers the whole world, Daddy." So it did, that 4 year old's world. And so it does here now, this 50 year old man's world. The white accumulates on everything able to collect flakes and turns this warzone into a menagerie, magical city, hushed. The menacing concertina wire that spirals atop gray slabs of tall concrete catches flakes and becomes a softened horizontal helix; the sharp barbs disappear in whiteness and reach into the distance in fascinating shapes, stitching together with white thread walls between embassies, ministries, houses. Indeed, one beautiful facet of snow: eliminates the lines we draw between ourselves, between grass, concrete, dirt, rocks, between property. Looking down, all white, grace covers all. People here respond to the snow falling. The playfulness of Afghans emerges and spontaneous snowball fights erupt; great snow for snowballs, light, dry but packable. Snow brings about authentic community compassion. Bundled and roving security guards carrying AK-47 or SAW automatic weapons smile in the mysterious warmth that surrounds soft falling snow; even these guards seem to realize, whether you are Afghan, American, Tibetan, Indian, Canadian, Brit, French, Italian, Macedonian, Spanish, we are all in this together. 

Which we are. Except news reports assert this as the coldest winter in Kabul in 15 years. Those same news reports present tragedy and isolation. Apparently, twenty two children in internally displaced refugee camps throughout Kabul have died as a result of the cold. And the media is fast to point out how absurd it is for us to be spending billions of dollars over the past years but here in the Kabul, right under our noses, vulnerable children are freezing to death! Of course, as soon as some Western readers became aware, they responded, which is our way. Blankets and food and firewood were quickly delivered by Western aid; response to what we are aware of. (There is so much, though, here that we are not aware of.) John Donne writes, "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls..." One of Donne's points was that when one person dies, the whole corporate body of the community loses. Another point of that fantastic Meditation XVII was that the bell tolling, the death of one person, evokes mindfulness of one's own mortality. And a sober person begins to experience the vastness of uncertainty that surrounds, how much could go wrong, the ocean of threats that swim about our ordered island lives; and in John Donne's world, a sober person would turn to God, our only security. Parents, even in our Western lives, quickly learn how fragile health is when their child gets sick for the first time and runs a fever of 102, climbing; my God, I felt so powerless when that happened to Brennan! Some parents learn the practicality of praying, with all the things that threaten kids these days; prayer is often all we can do. I imagine the parents of those children were praying. The snow and compassion grieves me for those parents.

Something an American said in the newspapers about the death of those children struck me as indicative. A mother and obstetrician from Cambridge, MA wrote the NY Times: "when you described the children dying of cold, it drove me crazy...I have fantasies when I'm on the treadmill of flying large passenger aircraft to those places and loading up all the moms and dads and children and flying them back to live in Florida or California." Now, am a student of language and these words here shine a light of insight about the American approach to Afghanistan. First, the heartbreak. The urge to take action. The imagination snatching for solutions. All of those good intentions are there. So is the naivete, the misunderstanding of this place, that this world differs from hers so very much as she ambles on a treadmill indoors. And let me suggest there is selfishness in that as well. If I listen to the words one way, the woman seems to want the suffering of these people to stop more for herself than she wants to understand their situation to genuinely help them. Taking Afghans, (especially Pashtun, which these people are, from Helmand) moms and dads and children and flying them to Florida or California would be the worst act for it would rip them out of their social fabric here, their community, their group and plunk them down in the middle of... fish outta water doesn't begin to describe the mouth agape, or the myorcardial infarction, these people would have if they landed on Venice Beach or South Beach. So, God bless that doctor for her big heart and her clear articulation that points to how little our Western world understands this Eastern world. Kipling wrote, "East is east. And West is west. And never the twain shall meet." We have met. We're still trying to figure it out. Let me get back to you in a few years.

Like Colorado, the sun will come out tomorrow morning. Morning, shining sun will light the clear cobalt sky and blinding whiteness all around, no boundaries for a while, just white. And the snow will crunch under my feet as I walk to the motor pool, breath puffing condensed moisture punctuating my step, smile at the Gurka guard, "Nah mah STAY," (I salute the light that emanates from within you.) And he will smile back and say, "Nah mah STAY, sir." And I will push open the door to the Motor Pool Dispatch Office and say, "Salaam alaykum, Sobik khay air." (Peace be upon you, good morning.) And the dispatcher will kindly greet me and recognize me as the guy who goes to the Ministry of Finance and then yell loudly for my driver, "Kakoo!!!" or "Suleiman!!!" or "Naseeb!!!" And we will get in the up armored Toyota SUV and drive through the streets of coming-to-life-through-the-white Kabul. A giant shark fin mountain swims to the southeast of this city, its menace softened in smooth white against a beautiful blue sky. And I will climb the cold marble stairs up three floors to take my place in the workaday world here. Much like any other gubment job in any other place. Except it's Kabul.

Love to you, T