TGIT as the expat community prepares to leave for the watering holes in town to drink themselves silly till curfew time and beyond. Heads, bottoms, cleavages all covered only to be removed at the foyer to a nondescript grey door which opens up in dark lanes.
Faces, bags checked and in you go to be yourself. There is chatter about where the next war is going to be fought, or where to get a bottle of Old Malt or when and where will be the next rest and recuperation.
While Thursdays to Afghans working at government offices is also a welcome relief as they go home after the communal lunch of nan-e afghani and shorba. Some travel far from Kabul to their family homes while others take the local taxis, buses or walk through the dusty streets for a peaceful Friday to offer their payers in mosques in the “guzars”. The women stay behind in their homes with the children to prepare the Friday meal of kabuli.
Of late the Thurdays bring a sinking feeling in many of us here. One Thursday it was a blast at the City Centre, another time a car piled with explosives rammed into the wall of the Indian Embassy and last night Afghanistan, borders of Pakistan and the Hindu Kush shook at mid night due to tectonic plate movements. Being near ground zero to the blast was a traumatic experience so any sound a little louder than a slammed door makes us jump.
The bomb blast two weeks ago is still fresh in my mind. As I walked into office from our armoured car at 8:20 AM and shared the usual pleasantries with my Afghan colleagues at the Ministry of Interior, I plugged in the walkie talkie to recharge the battery as we carry it with us almost all the time.
There was a sudden flash and the building shook and I immediately dropped to my knees and crawled out to the corridor. My two other Afghan colleagues and I were plastered against a wall as windows, their door frames and glass flew in all directions. At first I thought it was an earthquake. Then I noticed the fear on my colleagues face and asked, only to be told that we must get down to the basement.
As we hurried Kaka our watchman was in a trace, not wanting to get down to the safe room. We were covered in dust and we all huddled together with a few others who had taken refuge there. We bonded with nervous laugh and chatter that it was over and we had survived. My colleague Salimshah said “look we have been though bomb blasts for 30 years” and yet every time another blast takes place the fear returns. The mobiles jammed yet hurriedly a head count confirmed that we were all alive. Within another 40 minutes life returned to normal and we were sending our emails and were back in business. But being together made us feel a little braver.
The quake of Thursday night was a little lonelier. The doors, windows and the chandeliers shook. I woke up and rolled out of bed to grab at my jacket. The building shook for 2 minutes. Came out of the room and met my housemates at the landing. It passed and we sighed! Not a blast, just a quake.
Yet the instincts were clearer – grab the jacket, the socks, the passport and the handbag. But some are more organized as Norbu who carries a 10 Kg grab bag to work every day – with a medicine kit, passport, money, water purifier, dry shampoo, dry food, pouches of coffee, a rope (small one – seemed more to tie up someone), underwear, sanitizer, walkie talkie. Norbu and others are certainly prepared for any eventuality. As I completed my conscious sleep for the rest of the night a thought crossed my mind – what holds for us next Thursday?
(The Columnist is a guest writer working in Afghanistan for UNDP)
(The views expressed by the author in the blog are his/her own)