Afghanistan Journal, March 2007
“I think you should wear Afghan clothes. What do you think?” asked Amin. I sort of had
been wanting to, but didn’t want to appear the fool so I said noncommittaly, “OK. What
do you think?” “Yes,” he said, and from then on I followed his lead in most things. He
bought me a shamal kamiz, the long thigh length shirt and the baggy pants with draw
string they wear under it. “It should be white because you are a man of peace,” but they
only had tan in my size. He then sent Kushal to another store to look for sandals “hand
made in Pakistan, but if they see you they will charge too much.” I was still in jeans and a
sweater. Kushal came back empty handed and they made plans in Pashto for later. Back
in the SUV, Amin handed me the cell phone. “It’s the poet Dr. Akbar. He has written a
poem for the Women. He wants you to sing it at the Women's day celebration
tomorrow.” “Hello Dr. Akbar, yes I will try,” I said. I was getting the idea and going with
the flow. We drove to the media center run by Media Support Partnership Afghanistan,
toured the facility, and I was given a recitation of the poem in Pashto and was sung the
song by the composer. “Could you write down the melody?” “No, but we will make you
a CD” We sat in the recording studio and Dr. Akbar read the poem then said every word
very slowly. I suddenly knew I was in trouble, there was a vowel and a consonant that I
had not picked up on in the Pashto recording that I had gotten the morning I left for
Afghanistan. The speaker had ignored my instructions to speak the words slowly and one
by one. I needed to first figure out what the new sounds were and then redo my
phonetical text and then learn it for the Women's celebration tomorrow morning. I
wanted to do one story in Pashto and one in Dari. Amin said, “They are waiting for us at
the TV.” “Amin I need to learn the Pashto for tomorrow.” “OK no problem.”
“I think you should wear Afghan clothes. What do you think?” asked Amin. I sort of had
been wanting to, but didn’t want to appear the fool so I said noncommittaly, “OK. What
do you think?” “Yes,” he said, and from then on I followed his lead in most things. He
bought me a shamal kamiz, the long thigh length shirt and the baggy pants with draw
string they wear under it. “It should be white because you are a man of peace,” but they
only had tan in my size. He then sent Kushal to another store to look for sandals “hand
made in Pakistan, but if they see you they will charge too much.” I was still in jeans and a
sweater. Kushal came back empty handed and they made plans in Pashto for later. Back
in the SUV, Amin handed me the cell phone. “It’s the poet Dr. Akbar. He has written a
poem for the Women. He wants you to sing it at the Women's day celebration
tomorrow.” “Hello Dr. Akbar, yes I will try,” I said. I was getting the idea and going with
the flow. We drove to the media center run by Media Support Partnership Afghanistan,
toured the facility, and I was given a recitation of the poem in Pashto and was sung the
song by the composer. “Could you write down the melody?” “No, but we will make you
a CD” We sat in the recording studio and Dr. Akbar read the poem then said every word
very slowly. I suddenly knew I was in trouble, there was a vowel and a consonant that I
had not picked up on in the Pashto recording that I had gotten the morning I left for
Afghanistan. The speaker had ignored my instructions to speak the words slowly and one
by one. I needed to first figure out what the new sounds were and then redo my
phonetical text and then learn it for the Women's celebration tomorrow morning. I
wanted to do one story in Pashto and one in Dari. Amin said, “They are waiting for us at
the TV.” “Amin I need to learn the Pashto for tomorrow.” “OK no problem.”
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I played for International Women’s Day, an event organized by Wadan attended by 150
women including 15 parlimentarians. After several hours of speeches just before lunch I
performed and made it successfully through my story in Pashto. I had finished retyping
the text after my two teachers had gone over each word sometimes competing to see
who could say it louder. Nasib seemed happy with my performance. “You did in one day
what most people couldn’t do in three months.” Jean told me that this was the third such
event they had held and the women were much more comfortable this year and there
was more mingling and conversation with the men who sat mainly in the rear of the hall.
I wore the traditional village musicians’ vest and turban and the sandals with no socks,
as prescribed by Amin. I thought I looked ridiculous but every one there said I looked
nice. Amin said “It makes the people happy to see you in these clothes.” I confessed to
Jean that I felt a little like old King Cole. She laughed but agreed with Amin. That
afternoon I worked on the song for Women. The CD had arrived too late for me to
perform at the Women's day event. On the CD there was a karaoke version of the song
but in very Bollywood pop style. I isolated the melody and made an arrangement for
bass and voice that worked quite well.
women including 15 parlimentarians. After several hours of speeches just before lunch I
performed and made it successfully through my story in Pashto. I had finished retyping
the text after my two teachers had gone over each word sometimes competing to see
who could say it louder. Nasib seemed happy with my performance. “You did in one day
what most people couldn’t do in three months.” Jean told me that this was the third such
event they had held and the women were much more comfortable this year and there
was more mingling and conversation with the men who sat mainly in the rear of the hall.
I wore the traditional village musicians’ vest and turban and the sandals with no socks,
as prescribed by Amin. I thought I looked ridiculous but every one there said I looked
nice. Amin said “It makes the people happy to see you in these clothes.” I confessed to
Jean that I felt a little like old King Cole. She laughed but agreed with Amin. That
afternoon I worked on the song for Women. The CD had arrived too late for me to
perform at the Women's day event. On the CD there was a karaoke version of the song
but in very Bollywood pop style. I isolated the melody and made an arrangement for
bass and voice that worked quite well.
That night in the WADAN office, after a trip up the Shomali plain north of Kabul to buy pottery, I sang the song for a group gathered there, including
a minister who was leaving the next day to head a delegation to Pakistan to discuss terrorist groups crossing the border. Nasib told me “My time is
not my own. People come by and want to talk so I must talk with them.” I could see how much people respected him and wanted his advice and
counsel. I met a lot of people in that office and learned how to greet in the Afghan manner. Shake, place right hand on the other man’s chest, lean
forward and touch cheeks, then shake again.
a minister who was leaving the next day to head a delegation to Pakistan to discuss terrorist groups crossing the border. Nasib told me “My time is
not my own. People come by and want to talk so I must talk with them.” I could see how much people respected him and wanted his advice and
counsel. I met a lot of people in that office and learned how to greet in the Afghan manner. Shake, place right hand on the other man’s chest, lean
forward and touch cheeks, then shake again.
I had attended a conference at Dartmouth College the last week in January and had met people from all over New England working with organizations
in Afghanistan. There were hand embroidery projects, schools, women judges, a mobile mini-circus and the one that most impressed me, WADAN.
The American advisor, Jean Kissell, was from Brattleboro, Vermont and was the New England connection even though her family now lives in the
Emirates and she works full time in Afghanistan. The director, Mohammad Nasib, embodies the mission of the organization, which is to work for the
welfare of all Afghans though peace and education. His voice is gentle, reasonable and serious, but he smiles a lot. His core belief seems to be:
Build strong relationships and then open people's eyes to change through reasonable gentle persuasion. WADAN runs three main programs: non-
formal schools in villages where there is a population that got left out of the mainstream public system. There are 80 of these. Drug rehab centers
there are four of these, plus some drop-in centers: Malik training. The maliks are the chosen leaders of each village. They are also the de facto justice
system. The training helps them with governance and understanding democracy with human rights and women's rights. They have trained most of
the Maliks in the country and formed them into an association that has become a growing political force for change. The training works because the
Maliks see that they can use what they learn for the benefit of their villages.” We don’t tell them what to do but we encourage them,” said Nasib. He
attended my concert that weekend at Dartmouth and said to me, “We will welcome you in Afghanistan.” I wasn't sure what this meant, but I thanked
him. Jean said, “Learn some Pashto.” I said, “I will send you the stories to get them translated.”
In the aftermath of the conference, I wrote to all the organizations I had met offering concerts in Afghanistan. I heard back from one school, but
nothing from Nasib. I had barely managed to get an invitation letter from FCCS, the group that had sponsored me last year. It was clear that they
were busy with their annual festival in Mazar but said they would try to organize some concerts for me. No one had offered me a place to stay and I
hadn’t heard from my friend Joyce Lehman who had found a place for me at her guest house last year. As it turned out, my over active spam filter
had been eating messages from her and others. The last week before I left, Nasib wrote and said the Pashto translation was coming. He had been
traveling and had not received my emails. I met with Joyce who was in New Hampshire for a few days and she generously offered to let me stay at
her hotel while she was away in Chile and have her assistant pick me up at the airport. I felt quite a bit better.
I wheeled my bass with my giant duffel on my shoulder to the third parking lot after bribing an army officer to leave me alone. He said he had gotten
me through customs. I wasn’t sure. I called Joyce's office borrowing a cell phone from a passer by and stood in a sea of mud waiting for the van as
a huge crowd gathered around the bass case. Everyone was hugely entertained and friendly. I was glad to be back in Afghanistan.
The next day I walked around Kabul with my friend Ohne Pärl. We met the ‘bookseller of Kabul’ who asked if I would play in his new bookstore bus
which would be parked in Mazar for the Nauroz festival. I said I would try, but wasn’t able to. I called Nasib and he said he was on his way back
from Jalalabad where he and Jean had been detained by a demonstration following the accidental death of 16 Afghans by US soldiers. They were
sorry they had missed me yesterday and would send a car. I was adopted.
For the next three weeks I became the performing arm of WADAN. Nasib outlined some events they had planned for me and then Amin, armed with
his cell phone, arranged things on the fly. Once I told him I had done 30 concerts in Palestine in three weeks it became a competition for him. “How
many events so far?” he would ask. “Ten,” I would say. “Ah but the quality is much greater here,” he would say.
in Afghanistan. There were hand embroidery projects, schools, women judges, a mobile mini-circus and the one that most impressed me, WADAN.
The American advisor, Jean Kissell, was from Brattleboro, Vermont and was the New England connection even though her family now lives in the
Emirates and she works full time in Afghanistan. The director, Mohammad Nasib, embodies the mission of the organization, which is to work for the
welfare of all Afghans though peace and education. His voice is gentle, reasonable and serious, but he smiles a lot. His core belief seems to be:
Build strong relationships and then open people's eyes to change through reasonable gentle persuasion. WADAN runs three main programs: non-
formal schools in villages where there is a population that got left out of the mainstream public system. There are 80 of these. Drug rehab centers
there are four of these, plus some drop-in centers: Malik training. The maliks are the chosen leaders of each village. They are also the de facto justice
system. The training helps them with governance and understanding democracy with human rights and women's rights. They have trained most of
the Maliks in the country and formed them into an association that has become a growing political force for change. The training works because the
Maliks see that they can use what they learn for the benefit of their villages.” We don’t tell them what to do but we encourage them,” said Nasib. He
attended my concert that weekend at Dartmouth and said to me, “We will welcome you in Afghanistan.” I wasn't sure what this meant, but I thanked
him. Jean said, “Learn some Pashto.” I said, “I will send you the stories to get them translated.”
In the aftermath of the conference, I wrote to all the organizations I had met offering concerts in Afghanistan. I heard back from one school, but
nothing from Nasib. I had barely managed to get an invitation letter from FCCS, the group that had sponsored me last year. It was clear that they
were busy with their annual festival in Mazar but said they would try to organize some concerts for me. No one had offered me a place to stay and I
hadn’t heard from my friend Joyce Lehman who had found a place for me at her guest house last year. As it turned out, my over active spam filter
had been eating messages from her and others. The last week before I left, Nasib wrote and said the Pashto translation was coming. He had been
traveling and had not received my emails. I met with Joyce who was in New Hampshire for a few days and she generously offered to let me stay at
her hotel while she was away in Chile and have her assistant pick me up at the airport. I felt quite a bit better.
I wheeled my bass with my giant duffel on my shoulder to the third parking lot after bribing an army officer to leave me alone. He said he had gotten
me through customs. I wasn’t sure. I called Joyce's office borrowing a cell phone from a passer by and stood in a sea of mud waiting for the van as
a huge crowd gathered around the bass case. Everyone was hugely entertained and friendly. I was glad to be back in Afghanistan.
The next day I walked around Kabul with my friend Ohne Pärl. We met the ‘bookseller of Kabul’ who asked if I would play in his new bookstore bus
which would be parked in Mazar for the Nauroz festival. I said I would try, but wasn’t able to. I called Nasib and he said he was on his way back
from Jalalabad where he and Jean had been detained by a demonstration following the accidental death of 16 Afghans by US soldiers. They were
sorry they had missed me yesterday and would send a car. I was adopted.
For the next three weeks I became the performing arm of WADAN. Nasib outlined some events they had planned for me and then Amin, armed with
his cell phone, arranged things on the fly. Once I told him I had done 30 concerts in Palestine in three weeks it became a competition for him. “How
many events so far?” he would ask. “Ten,” I would say. “Ah but the quality is much greater here,” he would say.
The next day we went to the Television studio. I carried my clothes on a hanger and
changed there. For the rest of the trip I just wore the Afghan clothes. I recorded the
‘Lions of Ramallah’ because they wanted a song in English, then did ‘The Saddest Day’
in Dari and ‘Another Fairytale' in Pashto, and then sang the song for the Women also in
Pashto. Then I recorded a promo for the station that was played a couple of times an
hour for at least a week or two. I said in English “Hi, I’m Dobbs and I’m here in
Afghanistan playing songs and telling stories. I love this country and you people and I’m
going to celebrate New Year’s here, ( March 21st ) and then in Pashto, Ze Dobbs De
Shamshad Sera.” I’m Dobbs and this is Shamshad TV. They wanted me to say
something in English because otherwise people wouldn’t know that I wasn’t Afghan.
I’m pretty sure that everyone in Afghanistan (at least where there’s electricity and TVs)
saw that promo. From then on everywhere I went people said, “I saw you on TV.” I did
the stories in one take but for the promo I did 5 or 6. Amin coached me through it. “Play
the chord on the bass then turn your head slowly to the camera.” Afterwards he would
say, “I am now a TV director” and laugh. “I was the only one with English” and laugh
again. Over lunch I confessed that I had always wanted to cross the Khyber pass. Amin
got this look in his eye and said, “Lets go. Why not? We’ll go to Jalalabad and play for
changed there. For the rest of the trip I just wore the Afghan clothes. I recorded the
‘Lions of Ramallah’ because they wanted a song in English, then did ‘The Saddest Day’
in Dari and ‘Another Fairytale' in Pashto, and then sang the song for the Women also in
Pashto. Then I recorded a promo for the station that was played a couple of times an
hour for at least a week or two. I said in English “Hi, I’m Dobbs and I’m here in
Afghanistan playing songs and telling stories. I love this country and you people and I’m
going to celebrate New Year’s here, ( March 21st ) and then in Pashto, Ze Dobbs De
Shamshad Sera.” I’m Dobbs and this is Shamshad TV. They wanted me to say
something in English because otherwise people wouldn’t know that I wasn’t Afghan.
I’m pretty sure that everyone in Afghanistan (at least where there’s electricity and TVs)
saw that promo. From then on everywhere I went people said, “I saw you on TV.” I did
the stories in one take but for the promo I did 5 or 6. Amin coached me through it. “Play
the chord on the bass then turn your head slowly to the camera.” Afterwards he would
say, “I am now a TV director” and laugh. “I was the only one with English” and laugh
again. Over lunch I confessed that I had always wanted to cross the Khyber pass. Amin
got this look in his eye and said, “Lets go. Why not? We’ll go to Jalalabad and play for
We visited Prince Amanulas palace and then scooted back
to the office to play for the school. The overwhelming
smell of wet wool and about 60 boys and their teachers
greeted me. After I played the third Bach Suite and told
the story of Billy and Brenda, I had an idea and asked the
boys to wave to the children in America. I said I would
take that picture to my wife's school and have the
children there wave back. It became a theme of the trip.
Amin saw what a good idea it was and organized it
wherever I went. The coordinator for all the non-formal
schools in that province, a woman, liked my performance
a lot and promised to try to convince one of the girls
schools to come the day after next when I returned from
Peshawar. We rushed back to the Consuls office and
finally I was ushered into his office. I was alone, all of
the influence wielding friends were left outside. Amin had
told me. "You are a special advisor to WADAN and you
want to fly home on Pakistan Airlines because you think
that Ariana Afghan Airlines is unsafe." "Wait a minute I
flew in on Ariana." "I know you don't want to lie but
sometimes.... "he shrugged. As it turned out, the Consul
to the office to play for the school. The overwhelming
smell of wet wool and about 60 boys and their teachers
greeted me. After I played the third Bach Suite and told
the story of Billy and Brenda, I had an idea and asked the
boys to wave to the children in America. I said I would
take that picture to my wife's school and have the
children there wave back. It became a theme of the trip.
Amin saw what a good idea it was and organized it
wherever I went. The coordinator for all the non-formal
schools in that province, a woman, liked my performance
a lot and promised to try to convince one of the girls
schools to come the day after next when I returned from
Peshawar. We rushed back to the Consuls office and
finally I was ushered into his office. I was alone, all of
the influence wielding friends were left outside. Amin had
told me. "You are a special advisor to WADAN and you
want to fly home on Pakistan Airlines because you think
that Ariana Afghan Airlines is unsafe." "Wait a minute I
flew in on Ariana." "I know you don't want to lie but
sometimes.... "he shrugged. As it turned out, the Consul
non-formal boys and girls schools and then we’ll drive to Peshawar Pakistan where my family lives. “I had thought that Jalalabad was too
dangerous," but he said, “You will dress in Afghan clothes. No problem.” We consulted with Nasib and Khushal and they had a private meeting,
which later I realized had to do with my safety and care during that trip. Then we set off. We drove through the pass leading out of the Kabul valley
as it got dark. The new road, which is spectacular, cuts through immense rock-walled canyons with snow covered peaks looming way overhead.
There were sheets of rain pouring down the windshield as we passed lines of trucks. We were driving in the left lane, darting back in line to go
through tunnels. We arrived at the Jalalabad office at around 9:00pm, but everyone was still there waiting to greet me and have dinner. I wanted to
play something for them, but I almost fell asleep nodding over my tea. The next day it turned out the rain had made the road to the non-formal
schools impassable. I was disappointed, but Amin said. No problem they will come here. They will walk to the main road and then take a truck.
Meanwhi, we will start getting you a visa for Pakistan. We went from office to office rounding up influence or greeting friends or both. I couldn't
always tell. I had my photo taken.
dangerous," but he said, “You will dress in Afghan clothes. No problem.” We consulted with Nasib and Khushal and they had a private meeting,
which later I realized had to do with my safety and care during that trip. Then we set off. We drove through the pass leading out of the Kabul valley
as it got dark. The new road, which is spectacular, cuts through immense rock-walled canyons with snow covered peaks looming way overhead.
There were sheets of rain pouring down the windshield as we passed lines of trucks. We were driving in the left lane, darting back in line to go
through tunnels. We arrived at the Jalalabad office at around 9:00pm, but everyone was still there waiting to greet me and have dinner. I wanted to
play something for them, but I almost fell asleep nodding over my tea. The next day it turned out the rain had made the road to the non-formal
schools impassable. I was disappointed, but Amin said. No problem they will come here. They will walk to the main road and then take a truck.
Meanwhi, we will start getting you a visa for Pakistan. We went from office to office rounding up influence or greeting friends or both. I couldn't
always tell. I had my photo taken.
Then he asked me when I was thinking of traveling to Pakistan."Today," I said. He nodded his assent. "We'll chat while they go to the bank." When I
finally emerged my team let out a cheer as I said, "Visa for today." It normally takes two days.
We set off after lunch. The chaos and turmoil of the border which is right at the beginning of the Khyber pass is indescribable. Lines of trucks,
horns, exhaust, pedestrians, everywhere. The consul had told me 20,000 people cross every day. Only a few like me need a visa. It turns out I could
have crossed without one as no one recognized me as anything but an Afghan. A WADAN driver from Peshawar met us on the other side of this
‘border’ which is not recognized by either country. In his van we switched to driving on the left side of the road.
finally emerged my team let out a cheer as I said, "Visa for today." It normally takes two days.
We set off after lunch. The chaos and turmoil of the border which is right at the beginning of the Khyber pass is indescribable. Lines of trucks,
horns, exhaust, pedestrians, everywhere. The consul had told me 20,000 people cross every day. Only a few like me need a visa. It turns out I could
have crossed without one as no one recognized me as anything but an Afghan. A WADAN driver from Peshawar met us on the other side of this
‘border’ which is not recognized by either country. In his van we switched to driving on the left side of the road.
This meant of course that we drove mainly on the right side passing hundreds of trucks and
buses. We picked up an armed guard for travel though the tribal areas (a regulation for
foreigners) but he started out confused and thought I was a Priti tribesman and he was
guarding the husband of one of the female parlimentarians who was Afghan, but had a
German passport, who was catching a ride with us to Peshawar. Lots of laughter when he
heard me speaking English. The Khyber pass is a forty something kilometer groove in the
mountains through which Alexander the Great and Ghengis Khan both attacked India, and
through which the British tried twice, unsuccessfully, to conquer Afghanistan. Within the
pass is the tribal area where everything is legal and available; drugs and weapons including
missiles. The Pakistani police are not allowed to enter. I’m having a lot of trouble
understanding all of this. There are many different tribes on the Pakistan side and the
Afghan side but they are all Pashtun. So in addition to the Pashtun who are Pakistani there
are millions of refugees from Afghanistan; some living comfortably in Peshawar like Amin
and Kushal who work in Kabul but leave their families is Peshawar mainly for the good
schools for their children, and many living in squalid refugee camps. These people are being
slowly repatriated and I saw a staging ground for returning refugees and their animals, but
this is a slow and difficult process. The root causes of all this border mess is, of course,
the British who wanted to split up the Pashtun into two different countries to try to weaken
them. At each end of the pass the views are spectacular. After crossing the border into
Pakistan, I see all the boys playing cricket instead of soccer and volleyball.
buses. We picked up an armed guard for travel though the tribal areas (a regulation for
foreigners) but he started out confused and thought I was a Priti tribesman and he was
guarding the husband of one of the female parlimentarians who was Afghan, but had a
German passport, who was catching a ride with us to Peshawar. Lots of laughter when he
heard me speaking English. The Khyber pass is a forty something kilometer groove in the
mountains through which Alexander the Great and Ghengis Khan both attacked India, and
through which the British tried twice, unsuccessfully, to conquer Afghanistan. Within the
pass is the tribal area where everything is legal and available; drugs and weapons including
missiles. The Pakistani police are not allowed to enter. I’m having a lot of trouble
understanding all of this. There are many different tribes on the Pakistan side and the
Afghan side but they are all Pashtun. So in addition to the Pashtun who are Pakistani there
are millions of refugees from Afghanistan; some living comfortably in Peshawar like Amin
and Kushal who work in Kabul but leave their families is Peshawar mainly for the good
schools for their children, and many living in squalid refugee camps. These people are being
slowly repatriated and I saw a staging ground for returning refugees and their animals, but
this is a slow and difficult process. The root causes of all this border mess is, of course,
the British who wanted to split up the Pashtun into two different countries to try to weaken
them. At each end of the pass the views are spectacular. After crossing the border into
Pakistan, I see all the boys playing cricket instead of soccer and volleyball.
We have dinner in a wonderful restaurant and then I spend the night at a house belonging to Nasib,
where his sister lives, but I stay in an empty part of the house and see only a nephew who brings tea.
I had been expecting to visit either Amins’ or Kushals’ house and meet their wives and children, but I
realize that these are traditional families and it just isn’t done.
The next day we go to the old city and Amin and Kushal finish dressing me. First with a white shamal
kamiz and then a white hat and a white vest and a white blanket. Because I am a man of peace. When
they are finished some passersby speak to me calling me Haji. I mumble something and Amin says “It
took the consuls’ father a year and a half to make Haj. Dobbs did it in an hour and a half. “He tells this
story a lot. I fall in love with the outrageously over decorated busses and spend a lot of time trying to
get pictures of them out the car windows. The next morning we return to Jalalabad and find out, to
my great disappointment, that the girls school will not be coming. Everyone tried really hard to
convince them but it was too much. A man playing music. “Maybe next year," says Amin. We are an
hour out of Jalalabad on our way to Kabul when I ask, “But aren’t there any other non-formal schools
where his sister lives, but I stay in an empty part of the house and see only a nephew who brings tea.
I had been expecting to visit either Amins’ or Kushals’ house and meet their wives and children, but I
realize that these are traditional families and it just isn’t done.
The next day we go to the old city and Amin and Kushal finish dressing me. First with a white shamal
kamiz and then a white hat and a white vest and a white blanket. Because I am a man of peace. When
they are finished some passersby speak to me calling me Haji. I mumble something and Amin says “It
took the consuls’ father a year and a half to make Haj. Dobbs did it in an hour and a half. “He tells this
story a lot. I fall in love with the outrageously over decorated busses and spend a lot of time trying to
get pictures of them out the car windows. The next morning we return to Jalalabad and find out, to
my great disappointment, that the girls school will not be coming. Everyone tried really hard to
convince them but it was too much. A man playing music. “Maybe next year," says Amin. We are an
hour out of Jalalabad on our way to Kabul when I ask, “But aren’t there any other non-formal schools
that I could play for?” “Of course,” says Amin, “But you wanted girls.” I just wanted to play. “We can go back,” and he reaches for his cell phone,
but it really is too late in the day and we have a long trip and then tomorrow we go to Gardez. I would like to come back and play for 20 or so of
those schools and travel to their sites. Some have buildings and some meet in mosques or outside in tents. Jean told me a story of one village that
didn't have a school and the children were crossing the river to attend at another village. During high water one of the girls was determined to go to
school any way and she drowned holding her school books over her head. Her village then decided to build a school on their side of the river and
name it after her.
but it really is too late in the day and we have a long trip and then tomorrow we go to Gardez. I would like to come back and play for 20 or so of
those schools and travel to their sites. Some have buildings and some meet in mosques or outside in tents. Jean told me a story of one village that
didn't have a school and the children were crossing the river to attend at another village. During high water one of the girls was determined to go to
school any way and she drowned holding her school books over her head. Her village then decided to build a school on their side of the river and
name it after her.
| Kushal Buying Dobbs a Hat |
| Peshawar Market |
| Khyber Pass |
| Khyber Pass Traffic |
| Amin and Dobbs |
| Women's Day Event |
| Shamshat TV |
| Road To Jalalabad |
| Nonformal School |
| Boys Waving |
That night I had dinner with Ted Achilles, who had also been at Dartmouth. He had made two unsuccessful trips to Bargram the American Military
base to try to get the instruments that we had sent via airforce cargo jet. He apologized but said he was leaving the country for a wedding and
wouldn't be able to help anymore. Another American, Kathleen, had also tried and missed by five minutes the suicide bomb meant for Dick Cheney.
Jean said don’t worry something will turn up.
base to try to get the instruments that we had sent via airforce cargo jet. He apologized but said he was leaving the country for a wedding and
wouldn't be able to help anymore. Another American, Kathleen, had also tried and missed by five minutes the suicide bomb meant for Dick Cheney.
Jean said don’t worry something will turn up.
was starved for conversation. We had a nice chat about politics and I told him of the great work
WADAN was doing on the grassroots level. His family came from Chetwar province in the north of
Afghanistan and his grandfather had made Haj and traveled to Mecca. It took him a year and a half.
WADAN was doing on the grassroots level. His family came from Chetwar province in the north of
Afghanistan and his grandfather had made Haj and traveled to Mecca. It took him a year and a half.