Spring unfolds in Montana in a most painful, start-stop fickle manner over many months. I am sure the reality is no different in Afghanistan, though perhaps commencing a bit earlier and holding back its glories less petulantly. Since I arrived about ten days ago spring has been most generous. The grass in our personal and the hospital compounds has visibly greened and I can measure the new red-growth of the rose bushes. A type of lilac with single pale lavender blossoms throws out great plumy spikes from eight-foot tall bushes lining the short walk between the house and the hospital. The leaves are not the typical spade-shape, and the lilac fragrance is over-laid with a clove scent. Coming and going I cannot help the Foltz tendency for stealing flowers. Every morning a handful go to the hospital's office and every afternoon a handful return with me to my rooms.
A bush of salt-cedar, or tamarisk, is in tight blossom. I'm sure its cousins along the Yellowstone have yet to make a showing. Honeysuckle spirals in confusion over some make-shift trellises. In a few weeks they will thrum with insects.
I have said little about the place I'm living. The rooms of the apartment are laid out single file, along a short entrance hall: bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and study. All windows face west, but from 04:45 first light until sunset, all the rooms except the bathroom are flooded with light. The best word to describe it is comfortable, though I'm not sure others would use that the defining characteristic. It gives me what I want and more than what I need. I rearranged the furniture in the study so that I have a long "runway" to do tai chi, all the while looking at the snow-topped mountains--a most magnificent sight, the heights close at hand, just beyond the dusty bowl of the city.
From the study and while I write, I have a good view of the hill Tom and I climbed last Friday morning. There are always people walking its paths and usually a car creeping along the narrow bumpy road. Sometimes I see strings of runners/joggers. The best for me are the ones walking or playing along the crest. Their silhouettes are more stark than the forms trudging along the hillside. It is a hill where people live and use at their own; a part of their lives, not an obstruction.
29 April 2009
28 April 2009
The Takhtjami --The party to celebrate the bride coming to her new home
The Takhtjami
Hedayat's wedding earlier in the week necessitated another family party on Friday, the takhtjami, and his brother Shukoor invited me to join. (Both brothers are surgeons at Emergency hospital) I couldn't pass it up as an anthropological experience. Shukoor arrived at the compound with his younger brother, Engineer Hamed, as driver in a borrowed car with two beautiful curly-headed 3 year old boys (Sassoon and Siawash) asleep in the back seat. The family's compound lies beyond the airport, I believe to the northwest, but early on I lost my orientation.
Coming to the compound, I would have never guessed from the outside that inside were 50-60. No parked cars, no people milling around, nothing stirring. I finally met Shukoor's wife, though still do not know her name. I'm only told, "This is my wife." It is not an introduction, rather a statement. Hedayat looked very scrubbed--well shaved, nice hair cut, and wearing a beautifully embroidered kamis, totally roped into this extravagance. I.e. the whole affair is not in his character. His new wife, also without a name, is a tall, willowy, beautiful girl, and sister to Shukoor's wife. The elaborate wedding may very well be in her character.
After entering the house I peered into the room with all the women--at least 50 of them sitting on the floor pillows around the perimeter of a large room sun-lit from three sides. They looked rather intimidating and I think the male members of the family, wanting to spare me from being plunged into their midst, led me into a private room where Shukoor and his family sleep. We talked a bit; I met a sister and other brothers and parents. I gave Shukoor the copy of A Leg to Stand On, which he was most happy to receive. Later in the afternoon he told me he was so very, very happy with the book. He pointed to a part about him, saying his father read this and for the first time looked at Shukoor as being other than a jokester. That his son was recorded in a book was something special.
When I finally joined to women in their room to eat lunch, Shukoor said they were all his close relatives. He wanted me to sit at a set of raised seats at one end, a seat of honor, but I wanted to be down with the women, not some object of consideration. On the floor with the women is where the anthropological aspect comes in. I scrunched in among some and of course picked a spot between a couple of girls who didn't speak any English. It was all rather guarded with everyone stealing glances at me and when caught out, returning an embarrassed smile. The children didn't turn from their steadied staring. None of us knew exactly how to respond to each other, so we smiled a lot.
After eating qabli palao, (rice with raisons and carrots) and the rice and fruit skin filled floor cloths were removed, some of the teenagers with a bit of school-English scooted close, forming a semi-circle that expanded into a warm, close girl-knot. It started as an approach-avoidance affair of them moving to me, asking my name, touching my hand, forgetting the English words they wanted, retreating, with another filling her place, asking my name again--as if it might have changed and the second interrogation would bring out the correct response. The reality is that that is the substance of the first lesson of every language class and like good students we were starting at lesson one. After proving that I was not a monster and was quite ready to talk and answer appropriately, we ventured onto lesson two. This involved family. If I am married and how many siblings and children I have. No one asks about Kara the dog. A picture of her would not elicit any warm responses. Within 10 minutes everyone had asked me my name at least once.
Shukoor and Hedayat's sister led the dancing. A few years ago, when going through the long list of his siblings and what each did, he told me this sister was like a nun. The idea of life-long celibacy seemed radically against the tradition of family held by both the Afghan religion and culture. He clarified, saying she did not want to marry. Since then I had pictured her as the consummate aunt, a most auspicious position in some ways. Especially in a large family an unmarried sister has a place in the family--the joy of being surrounded by children but without the chore of a husband. My interpretation is that within the family she is more an individual. I liked this sister, (again, I was given no name.) She and some other women came into the women's room with a huge tambourine singing a song of short repetitive verses. It sounded tribal, but why I use that description, I can't say, except that it was not very melodic to my ears and the words were known and sung by all the women at a wedding party in Afghanistan. The sister started to dance, alone, the typical woman's dance of a few simple steps, arms raised so hands were at at head height, sinuously rotating the wrists to the beat of the tambourine and clapping.
A plump middle-aged woman, in more sedate and westernized, but still well-covering clothes, stood up to sing. Probably a love song. Isn't that what one should sing at a wedding? When she finished another woman danced. It wasn't the young women who danced, rather the older and middle-aged ones. Everyone looked at me with wondering glances to see if I would join in. Of course. It was what they wanted, what I wanted, and made me part of the group. The laughter and clapping encouraged me into more western movements, prancing around the hot room, looking most out of place in my stodgy-colored Lands End knits against the colorful shimmering textures and sparkle of Afghan female finery. In the same manner I had been invited to dance--the one dancing, bending down and extending her arms for me to join--I invited some of the older ones, with tattoos and plain clothes to dance with me. This brought great howls of laughter. The women covered their faces with their chadors, as they warded me off. Of course I had asked the ones whose husbands were strict and didn't like their wives to dance, even at weddings. When I sat down, a young girl with a diamond in an eye-tooth said their husbands were "taliban." (I asked Shukoor about the facial tattoos, thinking it meant the women were Koochis, but he said it was only an old fashioned beautifying mark.)
Most of the women were dressed in shimmering shalwar-kamis, of colorful diaphanous materials, spangled and beaded, made up with lots of face paint. Even the young girls, tarted-up maybe for the first time with an amateurish trial of eye shadow and lipstick, were decorously smudged and smeared. Shukoor's wife called me out from the room and gave me a pink beaded/embroidered tunic and a pink scarf with silver threads. Shukoor had asked if I had Afghan clothes and I thought he meant if I had clothes to modestly cover myself. He had bought these for me so I wouldn't feel out of place. The outfit helped to make me part of the party. I'm sure my un-made-up face was a drab affront to the carefully and gaudily made-up women. The girl sitting beside me reached into her purse and in great flourish applied her lipstick to me.
(I just read in the book about Afghan culture for Westerns, that, "It is important for women attending an engagement or wedding party to wear dressy outfits make from shiny, silky or velvety fabrics. Wear a different outfit on each day of the celebrations. Cotton clothes are not appropriate."!)
The many children, tearing about in their own groups, but also very much a part of the scene were dressed in the most incongruous outfits: a flashy, sequined blouse topping a pair of oversized jeans and little high heels on a 4 year old--a real mix and match assortment I found most wonderful. These were second hand clothes, high-end Salvation Army and Good Will treasures. The more I think about the combinations and the way they were worn, I realize that I would have chosen the same thing at age four or six.
Among the 50 women and girls I was the only one wearing glasses. How strange.
I watched some of the video of the actual wedding. This was a very grand affair, with huge amounts of money spent for clothes. The male parts of the video showed older men at the contract-signing (the neka) dressed in chapans, karakal caps, turbans, or in western suits and ties. The younger men were in shiny, metallic-colored suits or suit jackets, often too large and ill-fitting, which made them as flashy as the women. They wore long, pointy toed shoes often topped by tattered jeans, or one of the "newer" jean styles of permanent creases, patched over rips--very fashionable. They occupied their own section of the wedding hall, their dancing rather uncontrolled, but with no sexual innuendo, since they weren't dancing with or for women--just for themselves. They were a combination of West Side Story hoodlums and 14th C. grandees thumbing their noses at sumptuary laws.
It became very hot in the woman's room and I transferred to a cooler room, which soon filled with people--the girls pouring over the album of wedding pictures. One of Shukoor's boys and another of the same age came into the room dragged by their mothers, dripping wet with bits of food clinging to their hair and bodies. They had decided to go swimming in the bath-tub sized basin where the plates were being washed. The boys were screaming and very unhappy at being taken from their fun.
I can see that growing up in such an extended family compound could be very reassuring for a child. There is always someone to talk to you, hold you, wipe your tears, save you from drowning. Your mother scolds you, and in response you march off to your aunt or uncle who open their arms and think you are a very clever darling.
Hedayat's wedding earlier in the week necessitated another family party on Friday, the takhtjami, and his brother Shukoor invited me to join. (Both brothers are surgeons at Emergency hospital) I couldn't pass it up as an anthropological experience. Shukoor arrived at the compound with his younger brother, Engineer Hamed, as driver in a borrowed car with two beautiful curly-headed 3 year old boys (Sassoon and Siawash) asleep in the back seat. The family's compound lies beyond the airport, I believe to the northwest, but early on I lost my orientation.
Coming to the compound, I would have never guessed from the outside that inside were 50-60. No parked cars, no people milling around, nothing stirring. I finally met Shukoor's wife, though still do not know her name. I'm only told, "This is my wife." It is not an introduction, rather a statement. Hedayat looked very scrubbed--well shaved, nice hair cut, and wearing a beautifully embroidered kamis, totally roped into this extravagance. I.e. the whole affair is not in his character. His new wife, also without a name, is a tall, willowy, beautiful girl, and sister to Shukoor's wife. The elaborate wedding may very well be in her character.
After entering the house I peered into the room with all the women--at least 50 of them sitting on the floor pillows around the perimeter of a large room sun-lit from three sides. They looked rather intimidating and I think the male members of the family, wanting to spare me from being plunged into their midst, led me into a private room where Shukoor and his family sleep. We talked a bit; I met a sister and other brothers and parents. I gave Shukoor the copy of A Leg to Stand On, which he was most happy to receive. Later in the afternoon he told me he was so very, very happy with the book. He pointed to a part about him, saying his father read this and for the first time looked at Shukoor as being other than a jokester. That his son was recorded in a book was something special.
When I finally joined to women in their room to eat lunch, Shukoor said they were all his close relatives. He wanted me to sit at a set of raised seats at one end, a seat of honor, but I wanted to be down with the women, not some object of consideration. On the floor with the women is where the anthropological aspect comes in. I scrunched in among some and of course picked a spot between a couple of girls who didn't speak any English. It was all rather guarded with everyone stealing glances at me and when caught out, returning an embarrassed smile. The children didn't turn from their steadied staring. None of us knew exactly how to respond to each other, so we smiled a lot.
After eating qabli palao, (rice with raisons and carrots) and the rice and fruit skin filled floor cloths were removed, some of the teenagers with a bit of school-English scooted close, forming a semi-circle that expanded into a warm, close girl-knot. It started as an approach-avoidance affair of them moving to me, asking my name, touching my hand, forgetting the English words they wanted, retreating, with another filling her place, asking my name again--as if it might have changed and the second interrogation would bring out the correct response. The reality is that that is the substance of the first lesson of every language class and like good students we were starting at lesson one. After proving that I was not a monster and was quite ready to talk and answer appropriately, we ventured onto lesson two. This involved family. If I am married and how many siblings and children I have. No one asks about Kara the dog. A picture of her would not elicit any warm responses. Within 10 minutes everyone had asked me my name at least once.
Shukoor and Hedayat's sister led the dancing. A few years ago, when going through the long list of his siblings and what each did, he told me this sister was like a nun. The idea of life-long celibacy seemed radically against the tradition of family held by both the Afghan religion and culture. He clarified, saying she did not want to marry. Since then I had pictured her as the consummate aunt, a most auspicious position in some ways. Especially in a large family an unmarried sister has a place in the family--the joy of being surrounded by children but without the chore of a husband. My interpretation is that within the family she is more an individual. I liked this sister, (again, I was given no name.) She and some other women came into the women's room with a huge tambourine singing a song of short repetitive verses. It sounded tribal, but why I use that description, I can't say, except that it was not very melodic to my ears and the words were known and sung by all the women at a wedding party in Afghanistan. The sister started to dance, alone, the typical woman's dance of a few simple steps, arms raised so hands were at at head height, sinuously rotating the wrists to the beat of the tambourine and clapping.
A plump middle-aged woman, in more sedate and westernized, but still well-covering clothes, stood up to sing. Probably a love song. Isn't that what one should sing at a wedding? When she finished another woman danced. It wasn't the young women who danced, rather the older and middle-aged ones. Everyone looked at me with wondering glances to see if I would join in. Of course. It was what they wanted, what I wanted, and made me part of the group. The laughter and clapping encouraged me into more western movements, prancing around the hot room, looking most out of place in my stodgy-colored Lands End knits against the colorful shimmering textures and sparkle of Afghan female finery. In the same manner I had been invited to dance--the one dancing, bending down and extending her arms for me to join--I invited some of the older ones, with tattoos and plain clothes to dance with me. This brought great howls of laughter. The women covered their faces with their chadors, as they warded me off. Of course I had asked the ones whose husbands were strict and didn't like their wives to dance, even at weddings. When I sat down, a young girl with a diamond in an eye-tooth said their husbands were "taliban." (I asked Shukoor about the facial tattoos, thinking it meant the women were Koochis, but he said it was only an old fashioned beautifying mark.)
Most of the women were dressed in shimmering shalwar-kamis, of colorful diaphanous materials, spangled and beaded, made up with lots of face paint. Even the young girls, tarted-up maybe for the first time with an amateurish trial of eye shadow and lipstick, were decorously smudged and smeared. Shukoor's wife called me out from the room and gave me a pink beaded/embroidered tunic and a pink scarf with silver threads. Shukoor had asked if I had Afghan clothes and I thought he meant if I had clothes to modestly cover myself. He had bought these for me so I wouldn't feel out of place. The outfit helped to make me part of the party. I'm sure my un-made-up face was a drab affront to the carefully and gaudily made-up women. The girl sitting beside me reached into her purse and in great flourish applied her lipstick to me.
(I just read in the book about Afghan culture for Westerns, that, "It is important for women attending an engagement or wedding party to wear dressy outfits make from shiny, silky or velvety fabrics. Wear a different outfit on each day of the celebrations. Cotton clothes are not appropriate."!)
The many children, tearing about in their own groups, but also very much a part of the scene were dressed in the most incongruous outfits: a flashy, sequined blouse topping a pair of oversized jeans and little high heels on a 4 year old--a real mix and match assortment I found most wonderful. These were second hand clothes, high-end Salvation Army and Good Will treasures. The more I think about the combinations and the way they were worn, I realize that I would have chosen the same thing at age four or six.
Among the 50 women and girls I was the only one wearing glasses. How strange.
I watched some of the video of the actual wedding. This was a very grand affair, with huge amounts of money spent for clothes. The male parts of the video showed older men at the contract-signing (the neka) dressed in chapans, karakal caps, turbans, or in western suits and ties. The younger men were in shiny, metallic-colored suits or suit jackets, often too large and ill-fitting, which made them as flashy as the women. They wore long, pointy toed shoes often topped by tattered jeans, or one of the "newer" jean styles of permanent creases, patched over rips--very fashionable. They occupied their own section of the wedding hall, their dancing rather uncontrolled, but with no sexual innuendo, since they weren't dancing with or for women--just for themselves. They were a combination of West Side Story hoodlums and 14th C. grandees thumbing their noses at sumptuary laws.
It became very hot in the woman's room and I transferred to a cooler room, which soon filled with people--the girls pouring over the album of wedding pictures. One of Shukoor's boys and another of the same age came into the room dragged by their mothers, dripping wet with bits of food clinging to their hair and bodies. They had decided to go swimming in the bath-tub sized basin where the plates were being washed. The boys were screaming and very unhappy at being taken from their fun.
I can see that growing up in such an extended family compound could be very reassuring for a child. There is always someone to talk to you, hold you, wipe your tears, save you from drowning. Your mother scolds you, and in response you march off to your aunt or uncle who open their arms and think you are a very clever darling.
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