An Indian In Kabul

I woke up on Friday morning around 6.40 to a loud noise, thinking we were having another earthquake. That illusion dissolved within seconds when I heard the second blast and then gunfire. Within minutes, after a call from a colleague, the four of us living in our staff compound got together. We could see the smoke from the blast and hear continuous firing for more than two hours after that. Details of what was happening kept coming in along with rumours. The one thing we were sure of in the initial hour was that it was an attack in the area of Shar-e-Naw -- the city centre. All through the day, I was in touch with friends at the Indian embassy and others, and every call added another horror. It was too close to home this time around. 

I am a development professional who has been living in Afghanistan now for nearly two years. This is not the first time I have lost friends or colleagues to an attack of this nature, nor would it be the last. The first big explosion was a few months after I came here -- the attack on the Indian Embassy in July 2008. Still new to the country, my initial thought was that it was a car back- firing, till I saw colleagues moving away from glass windows. That was my induction to life in Afghanistan. The second one was when one of my first friends here, a Canadian AID worker, was killed on her way back to Kabul from visiting a community education project. Three other colleagues died with her.

Over the years, one has grown accustomed to the fact that insecurity is a constant part of life. One doesn't even think about it, until another attack/kidnapping happens. Then you find out the details, try and understand where we can tighten security, what one needs to avoid or be careful about and move on to business as usual. It's the only way you can survive working here.

But this Friday was different. I knew many of those killed. I have memories of going to Noor Guest house to visit the doctors when I had been ill, and having heard Nawab, the tabla player, at cultural events numerous times. These were people and places that are like my back yard. My favourite sheer yak (local ice cream) shop is the one next to where the Noor Guest house once stood. It has been vaporised now. I know the children who beg on these streets. I know some of them by name -- they are part of the fabric of my life here. This was an area which has numerous guest houses where friends and colleagues are put up when they are visiting.  This time around, I have still not been able to put this behind me and move ahead.

It is the first time I have felt unsafe here, exposed because of my nationality and the fact that I am a Kharaji (foreigner). Till now I have basked in the love and affection the people of this country have showered on me. The way they have opened their hearts and homes to me has always made me feel at home. But I no longer feel that I could blend into the crowd at Mandayee or Laysee Mariam (the local markets), having been told enough number of times that I can pass off for an Afghan woman, till I open my mouth. Now every time I am on the streets and my head- scarf slips, I feel exposed.

One of the first questions I am asked by Afghans is: Am I a Hindustani or a Pakistani? And when I respond, the smile and welcome I get overwhelms me. Indians are loved in this country. Is that all an illusion? I used till now to believe that I am not as much of an outsider as other expats here. I have never been as conscious of my nationality as I am here, both in a positive and negative way; it had never been something that I allow to define me exclusively.

The slightest sound now startles me into thinking: Is this another attack? I do feel unsafe now, however much my friends and colleagues have tried to comfort me and tell me otherwise, it's a sad state of being. I don't live in a fortress with armed guards, and I don't wish to either. That isn't why I am here: to hide behind armed guards, only move between office and home. I am here to get to know this country and its people, to contribute in any small way I can to its development. Large gatherings of Indians is a security risk we are being told, that one needs to avoid guest houses and other places where there is a large Indian population.

I organised a prayer meeting a few days ago in memory of all those who lost their lives in Friday's attack: Afghan, Indian, Italian and French. All of Friday there were calls from Afghan friends and colleagues reaching out. They live with this insecurity every day of their lives. They live with the fact that today might be the last day of their lives. Every single one of them has lost loved ones in the last 30 years of war; I hope I have imbibed some of their strength and resilience while I have lived in their country. 

I do not want this fear to remain and change me, I want to continue living and working here with my friends. But I do live with the reality that if 'they' are out to get you, they will. This is the phrase most often used by the Indian and Expat community here. It could just also be a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time which, I reflect, is true of any other part of the world as well.

The tragedy is that my memories of Afghanistan are built around such incidents -- those are the time- lines we use here: The day of the Serna attack was the Bollywood party, the day of the German embassy bombing was when our Health Grant came through. These are the incidents you use to remember when things happened. When will this change? In my lifetime? When will my Afghan friends who have had to leave their country be able to come back?

I am of course here by my own choice. My Afghan friends and colleagues don't have that choice. They can't escape the violence. The children on the streets don't have that choice.