The longest day
I share my office with two Afghan men. One is older, a poet who fought with the Mujahedin, someone who gets a kick out of lobbing impossible questions about English grammar at me when I'm most harried. The other is a kid who seems far too serious, though when I told him that I was never keen on marriage, his eyes sparkled as he said: 'So Mister Jason tricked you?'
Yesterday the older man came in from our scrumptious lunch of dripping oil (it goes down particularly well in this hellish heat) and exclaimed on seeing me hard at work: 'Oh to see Afghan women like this! Thinking and writing!' My retort: 'Who will chop the wood?'
You have to understand that wood chopping was not an arbitrary choice.
When I first arrived here I was quite taken with these men. They seemed well-read, deeply philosophical, open to discussion on matters I had thought sensitive or even taboo. I was elated. Until I went to their homes, where their women slave day in and day out. True, they have at least 12 kids to help them with the heavy labour, but still no time to learn how to write their names. My disappointment turns quickly to bitterness.
Yesterday was the longest day.
Yesterday the older man came in from our scrumptious lunch of dripping oil (it goes down particularly well in this hellish heat) and exclaimed on seeing me hard at work: 'Oh to see Afghan women like this! Thinking and writing!' My retort: 'Who will chop the wood?'
You have to understand that wood chopping was not an arbitrary choice.
When I first arrived here I was quite taken with these men. They seemed well-read, deeply philosophical, open to discussion on matters I had thought sensitive or even taboo. I was elated. Until I went to their homes, where their women slave day in and day out. True, they have at least 12 kids to help them with the heavy labour, but still no time to learn how to write their names. My disappointment turns quickly to bitterness.
Yesterday was the longest day.
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