Reflections on Afghanistan

My husband, Hans, was wandering down SE Hawthorne Blvd. in Portland, Oregon, recently and just happened upon a new restaurant. It’s called “Kabobi,” and it features the cuisine of Afghanistan. Unfortunately, the restaurant was closed at the time, but he did manage to talk to the owner, Kabir Wahedi, for a while. When Hans came home that evening, he was bubbling all over about his discovery. Naturally, we had dinner there the very next day.

“Why?” you might ask. Why should an Afghan restaurant matter so much to us? Because we met in Kabul 31 years ago. I was a newly-arrived Peace Corps Volunteer, and Hans was the co-owner of a business, Carpet Centre Afghanistan, that exported oriental carpets to the Netherlands.

We met one cold, gray, December evening during Happy Hour, which took place in the large, comfortable home of the American marines. Once a week, the marines turned their basement into a little corner of the West–replete with alcohol, darts and dancing to records. Happy Hour not only attracted Americans, but also Europeans, Brits and Australians. They worked for the embassies, development agencies, and international businesses headquartered in Kabul.

I saw Hans come in the door and was immediately interested. As he started talking to Jackie, one of my Peace Corps friends, I heard a distinct voice in my head say, “That’s the most interesting man I’ve seen around here.” Once he had moved over to a seat at the bar, I asked Jackie if he was 1) married and 2) living in Kabul. She gave me the “right” answers (no, he wasn’t married and yes, he lived in the city), so I asked her to introduce us. Two weeks later, Hans proposed to me, and 10 months later we were married.

My parents and twin sister came from the States for the wedding, and Hans’ parents came from Holland. The wedding took place in the Catholic church at the Italian embassy and was presided over by Father Panigoti, a big-hearted, small-statured (5′) man who had spent his life serving in third world countries and who would marry anyone as long as they loved each other.

That evening, we rented an Afghan restaurant, hired a live Afghan band, and invited 150 people to celebrate with us–Hans’ business associates, my students, Peace Corps friends. I still remember the tables piled high with Kabuli palaw, lamb, bolanee, borani, pomegranates, green salad, cucumbers, vine-ripened tomatoes, yoghurt, nan–all redolent of cardamom, cinnamon, cumin and saffron.

Obviously, the world has changed tremendously in the last three decades. And the proud, creative and vibrant Afghan people–the best language learners I have ever taught–have suffered through decades of endless war. I look at the wedding pictures of my students surrounding me–their faces smiling, happy, hopeful–and I wonder where they are, how they are, if they are even still alive.

Afghanistan has left an ache in my heart. And it has tied my husband and me together through the challenges and uneven years through which we’ve lived. So when we discover an Afghan restaurant in our own backyard, something lights up within us. 

We ordered Kabuli palaw (mounds of basmati rice topped with raisins, thin slices of carrots, and slivered almonds) served with a melt-in-your-mouth shank of lamb; bolanee (homemade pastry shells filled with leeks, potatoes and spices, lightly fried and served with a yoghurt sauce); aushak (boiled leek pastries covered with a yoghurt/meat sauce), and Afghan nan–the thin, snow-shoe shaped (and sized) bread unlike any other I’ve tasted.

We washed all of this down with dogh–a yoghurt-based, slightly salty drink topped off with ice cubes, mint and fresh cucumber slices–and endless cups of milky, cardamom-laced black tea (you can help yourself).

I’m happy to say it was all delicious. We will return again. Soon.

Writing to Heal

In a fascinating book titled Opening Up: The Healing Power of Expressing Emotions, University of Texas psychology professor James Pennebaker describes numerous studies he and his graduate assistants have conducted on writing’s ability to heal.

Pennebaker has found that when people express their feelings and experiences in writing—even if it is for only 20 minutes a day, four days in a row—the health benefits are measurable and long-lasting.

He believes this is because many people who have experienced a trauma have never expressed their feelings about it to others. He says that:

“Writing about previously inhibited experiences helps individuals translate the event into language. Once it is language-based, people can better understand the experience and ultimately put it behind them.”

When we fail to express our emotions—even to ourselves—we often find the resulting stress we experience leads to illness.

For example, numerous studies have found that people who are unable to communicate their feelings to others are at risk for a variety of disorders linked to the immune system, including breast cancer, high blood pressure and diabetes.

On the other hand, Pennebaker has found that expressing our experiences and emotions in writing leads to improved health and fewer trips to the doctor.

“Dozens of experiments have now been conducted by researchers in laboratories around the world. Writing about emotional upheavals has been found to improve the physical and mental health of grade-school children and nursing home residents, arthritis sufferers, medical school students, maximum security prisoners, new mothers, and rape victims.

Not only are there benefits to health, but writing about emotional topics has been found to reduce anxiety and depression, improve grades in college, and aid people in securing new jobs.”

Pretty cool, huh?

 

 

 

Musings on Tilting at Windmills

I recently approached a potential client by copying one page from his company’s website and giving him my suggestions for how he could improve the writing! He replied by saying “Oh, you’re one of those.”

Thank goodness, he meant this kindly. It turns out he used to be a publisher, and he understands what professional editors and writers are like! His comment made me chuckle because I am one of those. Yet because of this, I sometimes feel like I am tilting at windmills, just like my kindred spirit, Don Quixote.

To me, the English language is full of poetry, flexibility and power. When ideas are expressed clearly in writing, when they tell a compelling story full of color, emotion and movement, and when their syntax generally adheres to the accepted forms of spelling, grammar and punctuation, they take on a beautiful harmony that feels right, balanced, complete.

When the ideas lack focus, are confusingly-expressed and filled with errors, they jar my nerves and feel a little bit sad–like a rosebud that dies before it can blossom. Obviously, not everyone feels this way. The world is paying less and less attention to the niceties of written expression in its rush to just spit the words out and move on.

Yet here I stand, picking up my pen as Don Quixote once picked up his sword, tilting at the windmills of language, trying to save the world in my own small way!