Homeland

Homeland

April 02, 2016
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Nadine M.S. Mojadidi

I recently returned from Kabul. That is a sentence I thought I would never say. For me, Kabul has always been an apparition. It only became reality when my father suggested we travel there, and I hesitantly accepted. Going to my father’s birth place had been on my bucket list since hearing my grandmother’s stories of Afghanistan during childhood. But I knew that this was not a visit to Disneyland. This was something different, personal.

I was traveling to my homeland. Homeland. What an extraordinary, promise filled word.

Why is Afghanistan home? This is, simply, my background. I am half Afghan. My last name carries historical and political weight in the country, yet I neither speak the language nor am I familiar with Afghan culture except for its cuisine. A “mixed breed” so to speak, I am Afghan on my father’s side and Saudi on my mother’s. I was born and have always lived in Jeddah.

Afghanistan was an abstract concept only glimpsed in passing. The opportunity to actually visit Afghanistan, the only place where I don’t need a visa to enter, was impossible to refuse. To find my mythical roots, I took the leap, accepting my father’s invitation to visit my default “homeland”. Was I sure of my decision to travel? My whole being replied “YES”.

I packed, bid my family farewell and set off to one of the most dangerous places on Earth. I had many friends and family members who tried to discourage me, and with reason. Researching prior departure, I was startled by the warning Wikitravel put in their article advising against travel to the country.

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As we waited in the boarding area of Jeddah airport, I felt uncomfortable as there were hardly any females boarding the plane. Questions tormented me. What will happen when I arrive? Will I be scorned for merely being female? Will my “abaya” expose me as a foreigner, even though I am not? After take-off, my father asked if I could visit the cockpit. Luckily, they agreed and half way in our travel, I was escorted to the cabin. The Afghan co-pilot courteously showed me a few controls. However, I was so excited, he may as well have been speaking French!

As we chatted, the sun rose and we slowly pierced the clouds. “Am I really doing this?” I pinched myself to let the notion sink in. Upon landing, my first contact with a fellow countryman was eased when I saw a smile and heard an English “welcome home” Somehow the immigration officer knew, in spite of my passport, that I didn’t speak the language.

Arriving on the first day of Eid, the streets were calm and hot. I gazed out of the armor plated car sent to pick us up glimpsing little children walking towards a mosque for Eid prayers in pristine garments. All the shops and markets were closed except for a few fruit stalls that sold watermelons and grapes.

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We drove smoothly to Qargha, a suburb of Kabul where my great uncle, Professor Sibghatullah Mojadidi, and his extended family live. I was about to meet, for the first time, over 30 family members and I was anxious. Was I an outsider to them ? I did not know them nor knew how to speak the language. However, fear faded away as I entered and everyone warmly embraced me, their warm, kind hearts reflected in their graceful smiles and hugs. “Muta’sefana, Farsi yad nadorum” which translates to “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Farsi”! I said this, which I had memorized, over and over, embarrassed that I did not speak my father tongue. However, I was met with encouraging smiles whenever I practiced my broken Farsi. While I was surprised by the Arabic and English speakers in my family, that did not deter me from trying to learn Farsi. I carried with me my notebook and took notes of the beautiful language.

I enjoyed every conversation that afternoon. Whether with my great uncle on the political status of Afghanistan or with my youngest relative on 3D kites, conversations flowed naturally, laughter came frequently and smiles were abundant. Hospitality is taken seriously by Afghans and is a core value in society. Children are taught their social duties beginning early. I was astonished to find my male relatives serving tea and pastries. They also helped in serving the meals, duties only a female would do back home. And what meals they were, rich spreads of qabuli palaw, narinj palaw, naan, cherry chutnee, sabzi and lentils. I have tried Afghan food at home and while traveling, but nothing comes close to true Afghan food cooked in Kabul.

I traveled to Shewaki, an ancestral village where my grandmother’s family have lived for centuries. The ruins of the family qala’a a 19th century fort-like structure still stands. As we walked past, I remembered the stories Grandmother told us of growing up in this village. She loved climbing trees whenever she was upset, and now I was walking by the huge century old walnut tree that was her hiding spot. I passed through my uncle’s greenhouse where he raises roses and pigeons, popular Afghan hobbies. Outside, I observed farmers harvesting fields of potatoes, tomatoes, apricots and orchards of apples.

Night time in Shewaki was spectacular. The first evening, on my uncle’s terrace, I looked up awestruck at the sky enveloped in an infinite number of stars. I wondered how this view would look like in morning light. Intoxicated with fresh weather, I slept deeply only awakened by the morning rooster. I opened my windows to gorgeous green farmlands and bare mountain ranges embracing them. The sky was clear blue and the weather clean and crisp. It was a sight that will stay forever in my memory.

Singing is a surprising central component of Afghan culture. My uncle arranged for a famous singer to perform for us in Shewaki. I was mesmerized by the tabla and harmonium, and the raspy, gentle voice of the singer delivering words about love and longing for the homeland. As I listened and watched the musicians, I observed those around me. There was serenity and peace in their eyes. Only a decade ago, this simple musical evening with family would have guaranteed a death sentence by the Taliban. I smiled at my cousin and thanked God for the blessed times we are in now.

I also visited Paghman, a resort for Afghans escaping city life. We stayed in a beautiful home with views of the huge Hindu Kush Mountains on one side and the bustling city of Kabul on the other. I was overwhelmed by the spectacular view of green mountains colliding with the boundless blue skies. I was entertained by intense matches between the younger generation of family members playing “Karambool” a version of the Saudi game keram and watched a teenage boy skillfully flying his kite, a living page from “The Kite Runner”, the novel by author Khalid Hosseini.

Every day was exciting and eventful with many people to see and places to visit. At times, I was overwhelmed. However, I calmed myself by taking a moment and observing my surroundings. I found magic in the ordinary. I found magic watching a little Afghan girl peeking out of the door of her house, eyes piercing, full of wonder, sneaking looks at people on the street. I found magic when I saw a man who had perched his wife and three children with him on his motorcycle, all of them smiling, eyes squinting against the wind. Magic, too, watching an Afghan boy diligently pulling his donkey down the street, patting him during rest stops, affection between master and breadwinner. I found magic in the old man selling spices in the market, sitting on his throne every morning watching people perusing his treasures. I found magic in the way Afghans shake hands with one arm lightly placed on the other person’s forearm. Also, I cannot forget the beautiful greeting of “salam aleikum” with which children greets you in passing, rhythmically singing the words.

I also witnessed hardship and insecurity. Random suicide bombings were a daily possibility. I witnessed torn up roads, damaged buildings, beggars on the street and children selling cigarettes instead of attending school. In short, a nation long at war. I heard stories of my relatives being systemically killed and others escaping on foot during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan.

The last day, we returned to Qargha. I packed, tried to learn as much Farsi as possible, and said farewell to my family. In the car, I looked out the window, to absorb everything. I observed little boys in pristine garments, and fresh watermelons and grapes in fruit stalls. What I saw now mirrored what I had seen upon arrival in Kabul. However, I had changed.

And how had I changed? Truthfully, I didn’t go intending to learn anything. I left Jeddah open and willing to see Afghanistan as it truly is rather than how media portrays her. I desired to experience the countryside, the villages. I hoped to speak to people about their personal firsthand views of Kabul, rarely represented in the media. I experienced all this, but I also learned one more important lesson.

That deep lines of pain and fear on faces can frame little fires of hope in the eyes of the survivors. That decades of horrors swirled with present terror become bearable when a belief in a better tomorrow becomes a shield against them.

Markets will always carry on selling, children will always play in the streets, women will always cook for their families, Eid and weddings will always be celebrated. Life, simply, goes on.

As soon as we landed, I was comforted being back in Saudi Arabia. Being safe with my loved ones is wonderful. However, strangely, a longing began building inside me; to visit Afghanistan again. I returned home with a new longing to go home and was reminded of Rumi’s words (the 13th Century Poet) “You are every image yet I am homesick for you” Khuda Hafez Afghanistan, until we meet again.


April 02, 2016
HIGHLIGHTS