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Archive for August, 2007

Finally! A way out to these expensive weddings. In the west, an average afghan wedding costs no less than $20 000 (compliments to the brides side of the family who encourages the groom to spend more thinking it will increase the value of the to-be wife… WRONG!).

The trend is ongoing in Afghanistan, many spend thousands of US dollars on weddings. in a country where people can afford so little, barely a meal on the table, this is a burden.

Yes i am opposed to expensive weddings for many reasons, some are as follows:
1) it’s nothing but showing off… competition (As the article below explains)
2) not everyone can afford expensive weddings and therefore earn themselves a deadly debt
3) once they have a debt, the newly wedded couple will have to earn enough money for the next few years to pay it off
4) most importantly, ITS UNISLAMIC- yet, it’s the muslims that have the most expensive weddings. shame!
5) quantity doesnt necessarily mean quality weddings.
6) the list goes on…

But here’s the article i came accross today!

Ba omideh deedaar, khuda negahdaar…

Mullahs spoil the party
By Sayed Yaqub
Ibrahimi

August 28 – Religious council bans lavish wedding parties
in Balkh province to prevent locals bankrupting themselves. (IWPR) One of the
first cultural icons to reappear in Afghanistan after the fall of the Taleban
were Wedding Halls – usually gaudy glass palaces that serve as the venue for
what is, arguably, the most important event in an Afghan’s life. Weddings, and
the attendant parties, form the backbone of the Afghan social scene. But the
cost of the dinner, music, clothing and other accoutrements of the celebration
have driven many a young man to desperation.

Now, the Ulema, or
religious council, in the northern province of Balkh have come up with a
solution: They have banned most the expensive festivities altogether, provoking
hope and outrage in almost equal measure. In mid-July, the Ulema Shura of Balkh
issued a fatwa: except for one engagement party, they ruled, all celebrations
should be held in the home, to cut down on expenses. “It’s like the Taleban,”
grumbled Jamshid, 24, a resident of Mazar-e-Sharif. “We have only one wedding in
our life. It’s our dream, and people should be able to spend whatever they want.
It’s not up to the government to ban it.” But the Balkh government has supported
the Ulema’s decision, and is taking steps to enforce it. Copies of the fatwa
have been sent to all hotels, and nailed in a prominent place on their walls.
“This decision is for the good of society, and we support it,” said Atta
Mohammad Noor, governor of Balkh. “People are giving parties like competitions,
just trying to show that they can do it. But it disrupts the entire social
system. People have lost their way, and we are trying to bring back a little
order.”

This is not a Taleban-style attempt to prevent parties, he
insisted. “People can make a wedding for a few hundred dollars in their homes,”
he said. “The current situation is a disaster. We’re just trying to prevent
that.” According to the Balkh authorities, two commissions have been formed to
police the ban – one will promote public awareness of the measure, and the
reasons for it; the other will monitor wedding halls to make sure the new rules
are being observed. “If anyone violates the ban, we will not say anything to
them, but we will severely punish the hotel owners,” said the governor.

In Afghanistan, weddings are big business. In addition to paying the
girl’s father a sum of money as a bride price, most Afghan grooms have to come
up with 5,000-10,000 US dollars for a series of parties, inviting hundreds of
friends and relatives to eat, dance, and celebrate the young couple’s good
fortune. In a country where the average wage does not top 100 dollars per month,
the cost of getting married has kept many a young man single well into his 30s.
“I have an income of 200 afghani (about four dollars) a day,” complained
Mohammad Latif, a bicycle repairman in Mazar-e-Sharif. Now 35 years old, he has
been engaged for six years, trying to save enough money for the necessary
celebrations. “How am I supposed to find 10,000 dollars for a party? The Ulema
did a good job. When I heard about it, I thought, ‘Now I can finally bring my
wife home.’”

According to Mullah Mohammad Sadiq Sadiqatyar, pretentious
parties are against the Muslim religion. “Islam says that overspending is bad,”
he told IWPR. “If you want to get married, it is enough to have one engagement
party. Anything else is banned. These parties have caused disruption within the
society. We see many men who are wifeless, and many girls without husbands. This
is because a wedding party in a hotel will cost at least 5,000 dollars.”

Weddings have become a competition, he added. People who cannot
afford the party have to borrow money, saddling themselves with debt they may be
paying off for decades. “
It is our responsibility to make people aware
of Islamic rules,” said Sadiqatyar. “It is also prohibited for male singers to
perform at women’s parties. They should not be present to watch women dancing.”

In Afghanistan, the sexes are strictly divided during wedding
celebrations. Men and women cannot dance together in public. This is good news
for the few female musicians in Balkh. “It is time to given women some
opportunities,” said Arizo, a female guitarist. “If girls are allowed to sing at
women’s parties, it will be a motivating factor for women’s music. Many girls
may become musicians. But if men continue to dominate the music scene, there
will be little chance for us to do anything.”

Male musicians and hotel
owners were uniformly glum about the fatwa. “We had to go to Pakistan during
Taleban times because music was banned,” said the head of one male band, who did
not want to be named. “Now we might have to leave the country again. Since the
fatwa, no one invites us to their parties any more. And even if we do get some
work, they only pay us for the men’s party, we cannot play for the women. I have
to make a living, for heaven’s sake.” Bismillah, the owner of one wedding hall,
was similarly upset. “This is our peak season,” he complained. “Everyone wants
to get married before Ramazan. But since this fatwa our business is down by 50
per cent, and I think it will just get worse. What kind of country is this?”

According to Bismillah, the government should ignore the Ulema’s
decision. “Otherwise the mullahs will just issue decisions on whatever they
want,” he said. Lawyer and politician Kabir Ranjbar welcomed the fatwa, with
reservations. “From my perspective, this is a good decision, and it is for the
good of the people.
Unofortunately, it is illegal,” he said The fatwa
violates Afghanistan’s constitution, and disrupts the normal legislative
mechanism, he added. “When the government wants to make a law, it has to propose
it to the Wolesi Jirga (Lower House of Parliament),” he said. “Only after the
legislature has approved it can the government implement the law.” The Ulema’s
decision was arbitrary, he added, and did not correspond to Afghanistan’s rule
of law.

“The constitution guarantees freedom to Afghanistan’s citizens,”
he said. “No one has the right to deprive people of these freedoms.” But the
Ulema is not overly concerned with the constitution. According to Sadiqatyar,
they are answering to a Higher Power. “The rules of God are above everything,”
he said. “We respect the law. But the fatwa we issued is according to the
dictates of God and the sayings of the Prophet. And this is higher than even the
constitution.”

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Institute for War & Peace Reporting, UK 08/21/2007
By Aziz Ahmad Tassal

As combat operations rage across Helmand province, Musa Qala district is quiet – and firmly under Taleban control.
Musa Qala, in the north of Helmand province, is unusually peaceful these days. Children are getting ready to go to newly-opened schools, and farmers in this opium-rich region are busy preparing their fields for autumn planting.
In contrast to the rest of Helmand, security is good in Musa Qala. There is little crime, and the bitter battles that have scarred surrounding areas seem far away.
Nor do residents live in fear that the Taleban are coming – they are already here.
“The Taleban control everything in Musa Qala,” said Mohammad Aref, 26, a shopkeeper in Musa Qala bazaar. “They have reinstated some traditions from their old regime of five years ago. They collect food rations from every house, and they drive around in their trucks.
“But the Taleban don’t treat people badly, the way they did before. They are very calm and they respect people. Everyone is happy with them.”
The Taleban took over Musa Qala in early February, after a tenuous truce brokered by tribal elders collapsed. So far, there is little sign that either the Afghan government or the International Security Assistance Force, ISAF, is ready to intervene and change the status quo.
“We have no plans to recapture Musa Qala,” said Ghulam Mahayuddin Ghuri, commander-in-chief of the Third Corps of the Afghan National Army.
Face to face with the Taleban, residents like Mohammad Aref are making the best of things.
“People are very happy that the Taleban have brought security,” he said. “And they are not forcing families to give them a male fighter, like they used to.”
During the Taleban regime, from their capture of Kabul in 1996 until the United States-led Coalition drove them into retreat in late 2001, they would conscript soldiers from the local population. They levied one male member from each household, or from everyone who owned a shop or plot of land. Anyone who could not afford to pay someone else to go in his place was forced to join the Taleban.
In addition, the Taleban instituted a brutal regime to impose their strict interpretation of Islam on the general population. Music, films, television, photography, even kite-flying were banned. Men could be beaten for wearing their beards too short, women could not work or study, and in some places they could not even leave the house unless accompanied by a male family member.
Even in this conservative southern province, people chafed under such restrictions, and most welcomed the freedom that came with the new government and the international presence in Afghanistan from the end of 2001.
But in the past few years, disillusionment has set in. The promised reconstruction has been slow to arrive, and the Kabul government is seen as weak and ineffectual, unable to provide security or development. Local government and the police are plagued with corruption, crime is booming, and the drugs industry is taking over the economy.
The foreign military presence is also becoming increasingly unpopular. As ISAF mounts operation after operation to clear away the insurgents, the civilian casualties climb.
Musa Qala was the scene of intense fighting between ISAF and the Taleban throughout the late summer and early autumn of 2006. In October, the British-led forces withdrew from the district after reaching an agreement with tribal elders designed to keep the Taleban out of the district centre.
But that agreement broke down in early February 2007, after an ISAF air strike, which the Taleban claimed fell within an agreed exclusion zone, killed the brother of a powerful commander.
The Taleban swept in and established their own regime, complete with district governor, police chief and Sharia courts.
But according to residents, they have learned a bit about winning hearts and minds since the fall of their government in Kabul.
“If people want to watch television in their homes or listen to music, they can do as they wish. We won’t say anything to them,” said a Taleban commander, who did not want to be named.
“Everyone gives zakat [Muslim tithe] to their own mullah. It is voluntary. If they don’t give it, no one will force them.”
The commander said the rules imposed by the Taleban were “Afghan Islamic law”, and he said people were very happy with it.
“No one tells people what to do,” said one local resident, who did not want to be named. “They can shave their beard or let it grow. And no one bothers you if you are cultivating poppy. Opium is bought and sold on a very high level.”
Helmand alone will supply close to half of the world’s heroin this year. Its poppy crop increases annually despite all the rhetoric from the Kabul government and the international community linking the war on drugs with the war on terror.
The Taleban eradicated opium production almost entirely, in a one-year campaign conducted in 2000-2001. But this time around, they are being more lenient, perhaps because they too are benefiting from the profits of the trade.
Musa Qala is now known locally as “Smugglers’ District”, and some observers say that many of the factories that process opium paste into heroin have relocated here, since it is a no-go zone for the government and its counter-narcotics forces.
But it would be a mistake to assume that the Taleban have gone all soft, say residents.
“The Taleban are not forcing people, the way they did before,” said Sher Mohammad, 20, a resident of Musa Qala. “But still, people are changing themselves, they are going back to the way they were during the first Taleban regime. For example, instead of playing music in the shops they now play Taleban songs. Women still go out, but not too much.”
The Taleban have also expanded their radio station, the Voice of Sharia, to Musa Qala, backed by a wealthy patron from the district. It broadcasts a daily ration of exhortation to join the jihad, news and analysis, and music such as national, jihadi and fighting songs, always sung without musical accompaniment. Staffed by volunteers, its major message is of resistance to the government and to the foreign presence in Afghanistan.
A local Taleban, Mullah Ezatullah, praised the new regime, noting that there is a new district governor, Mullah Matin, while Mullah Mohammad Hassan doubles up as deputy governor and town mayor. The chief of police, Mullah Torjan, has managed to get the security situation under control, he added.
“If someone commits a crime, he is punished,” said Ezatullah. “If a person steals, his hand is cut off. All things are done according to our law.
“Our government is not like [President Hamed] Karzai’s,” he told IWPR. “In Kabul, when someone is a high-ranking official, people have to fear his friends and relatives. But in the Taleban government, all people are equal. And all the people support the Taleban.”
That may be a bit of an overstatement. Despite the welcome calm in the district, there is tension in the air.
“People are not happy,” said one resident, who would not give his name. “Many are afraid to come to the bazaar from neighbouring villages. They are afraid that the foreigners will come and bomb the district. They are afraid of an attack from the air, as well as from ground troops.”
After the Taleban took over in Musa Qala, hundreds of families fled in fear of both the Taleban and the expected retribution from the foreign forces. Many are still living elsewhere, camping out in ruined buildings, as they are afraid to return to their homes.
The Taleban do enjoy broad support among the population, said this resident, but there was an element of fear in the people’s acquiescence.
“The Taleban are very serious in this district, and when they say something, they do it. People give them food, and other kinds of help, not because they are forced to but because they don’t want to upset the Taleban,” he said. “People don’t play music at weddings unless they get permission from the Taleban.”
Abdul Bari, another Musa Qala resident, is also disgruntled with the new government.
“Who knows how much they have changed?” he grumbled. “We can’t watch television, we can’t watch the news, and there are other restrictions that upset us.”
The Taleban are also taxing local businesses, added Abdul Bari, although he would not disclose the percentage or amount.
The Taleban have allowed some privately-run schools to open.
In Musa Qala, as in much of the rest of Helmand, most schools have been closed due to security concerns. Many schools have been burned, and teachers and schoolchildren have been killed. The mayhem is most often attributed to the Taleban, although they have denied the charges.
“I am now back in school, and very happy,” said Faiz Mohammad, a local teacher. “But the schools have been flattened, ruined by the bombs. So I have made my own house into a school. People are very happy, but unfortunately we don’t have desks, chairs, or anything else.”
“I love going to school,” said sixth-grader Ahmadullah. “I am very happy that I am going to be studying again.”
“The Taleban have encouraged us to send our children to school,” said Zia ul-Haq, a resident of Musa Qala’s bazaar district. “We are very happy now, because literacy is light and without it a person is blind.”
At present, however, most girls are still denied an education. While the Taleban do not publicly oppose girls going to school, they will not allow co-education. Until the situation improves and separate new schools are built, girls will most likely stay at home.
“We are not opposed to education,” said a Taleban commander. “We support schools that are in accordance with Afghan culture and Sharia law. Boys and girls should not study together.”
He insisted that the Taleban did not close schools to hamper education, and certainly did not burn them. “When schools are closed, it is because they have been bombed or there’s been fighting in the area. And those who burn schools are criminals and anti-Islamic,” he said.
He said the Taleban keep a tight rein on the curriculum. As an example of the kind of schooling they favour, he said, “We like schools that teach ‘A is for Allah’ instead of ‘A is for Anor’ [pomegranate]. Not ‘J is for Jawari’ [maize], but ‘J is for Jihad’.”

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What’s the point of life, if the conclusion is death?
What’s the point of fate, if the conclusion is death?
What’s the point of prayers, if the conclusion is death?
What’s the point of hope, if the conclusion is death?

My uncles wedding took place last night, it was a good wedding. the Henna night was even better, it was a lot of fun. Mums side came from all over the world for this occasion- Europe, the States, Australia. it was good fun meeting everyone. i can put faces to the names i heard.

The henna night was held at our house, on the rooftop (what afghans call, the bomm) under a marquee. Food was catered by on of the nicest restaurants in Share Naw (typically very oily). The night was filled with kids running around, ladies laughing, music pumping loud and lots of food. Eventually, the night ended when the power went out (5am) some had left home early, the remaining slept over at our house.

The next morning, it was a skit house. Kids everywhere, women talking real loud in Pashto, the dining room was full. I went to the kitchen and made my own breakfast, eating in my room- in peace. i wasn’t up for all this, for some funny reason my jaw was aching the entire weekend. i just wanted to sleep.

Typical of me, i forget about pain once i start partying.

Anyways, the guests left at 10.30am for their houses to prepare for the wedding that night. Mum and a few others left for the Hamaam (yukky). Mum returned, my sisters and i left for the hairdressers. that took forever! we left home at 2pm and returned at 730pm to find that we have no electricity. So, we get dressed in the dark! thankfully our hair and make up was already done!

I didnt like my dress 😦 so i changed into one of the dresses i bought from back home.
We ended up leaving that night at 8.03pm. At first, all eyes were on my sisters and myself. I felt awkward! Very uncomfortable! moments later my uncle and his newly wed made an entrance.

That’s when the party began! Everyone had a great time! it was excellent!

I got home at 2am. Dead tired! And i had work the next day!

Sad news hit me today. My grandfathers cancer has spread to his lungs and liver, he doesn’t have much to live at all! I was talking to my cousin on Messenger when she told me the news and broke down in tears (yes in front of my colleagues, but i didn’t care). i feel sorry for him, imagine knowing that death is so close. I feel even more sorry for my dad losing his dad.

I can’t believe he’s going to die, i really dont want to talk about this. so i’m going to leave it here.
Tomorrow the doctors are going to find out how long he has to live. But it’s all upto God, he knows better, he’s the giver and taker.

Praying for a miracle… ba omideh deedaar, khuda negahdaar.

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By Graeme Smith August 18 – Mr. Rahman, in a soft voice, the unravelling of a tale that starts a decade ago with a child fleeing the slums to find his fortune, and the love that lured him into prison. (Globe and Mail)

“Have you ever heard The saddest story in this prison?”

In the crumbling cell blocks of Sarpoza prison, on the western edge of Kandahar city, the question seems impossible to contemplate. This is a place full of terrible stories, some true and others bred in the imagination of men who survive on little but gruel. But the deputy warden, Nadi Gul Khan, has something specific in mind. He looks over at his friend, Mohammed Nader, who nods in agreement. Mr. Nader, thuggish and meaty, serves as an informal boss in Sarpoza’s national-security wing. A prisoner from a wealthy family, he has connections that give him influence in the worst corner of the prison, reserved for accused murderers, kidnappers and Taliban insurgents. Many of the convicts here languish in dark cells where chunks of masonry fall from the ceiling as they sleep.

Mr. Nader has a better room, with a bed, a television, and windows that look out on a garden. His cell is swept clean, his dishes washed, and his tea carefully poured by a little man named Abib Rahman. “Yes, it’s true,” Mr. Nader declares, solemnly. “My tea boy has the saddest story.” Tea boys often suffer in places like this, where the role can require working as a sexual servant for other inmates. Maybe that is why the deputy warden feels it necessary to add: “It involves a girl,” he says. “It’s a love story.”

The prison boss summons Mr. Rahman, and he scurries into the room like a hobbit. Everybody else lounges on cushions, but the young man with downcast eyes takes a spot on the floor.

“Tell your story,” the deputy warden says. Mr. Rahman obeys, and begins, in a soft voice, the unravelling of a tale that starts a decade ago with a child fleeing the slums to find his fortune, and the love that lured him into prison. He introduces himself as the 22-year-old son of Mir Alam, of the Amirhil tribe, which makes him an ethnic Pashtun like most others here in southern Afghanistan but without any connections to the powerful tribes that hold sway in this region.

He lived in the slums of Kabul until he was 12 years old, he says, when his family sent him to Kandahar in search of work. The Taliban ruled the city in those days, and jobs were scarce. A rich landowner from Panjwai took pity on the child. The farmer promised to pay Mr. Rahman the equivalent of $50 a month, he says, in exchange for menial work in his fields of wheat and grapes southwest of the city.

The boy moved into the farmer’s house and spent his days watering the crops, driving a tractor, and tinkering with the irrigation pumps. A year passed. Mr. Rahman started to feel accepted by the family; the daughters didn’t cover their faces in his presence. He felt grateful for the work and the shelter, he says, but he grew worried about the fact that he hadn’t yet been paid.

“He was like my father,” Mr. Rahman says. “It was hard to talk to him about the money.” When Mr. Rahman did broach the subject, the farmer was apologetic, saying he had little extra money. But he did have another kind of wealth: His daughters, which are worth about $5,000 each in southern Afghanistan, where brides are regularly purchased with cash, land, or cattle. The farmer said he noticed that Mr. Rahman had grown friendly with one of his daughters. He calculated that it would take the boy eight years to earn the bride-price by working the land, after which he would give permission for them to marry. “She was a year younger than me,” he says, remembering her with a shy smile. “We were children together, we knew each other. We were very happy.” Afghans usually keep their families hidden from strangers.

Mr. Rahman declines to say his sweetheart’s name, or describe her. He says only this: “She is beautiful.” More years passed. The girl started wearing a burka, the concealing blue shroud, after she reached puberty. Sweating in the fields added ropy muscles to the young man’s frame. He grew a light-brown beard. The teenagers were no longer allowed to meet in private, because of local traditions, but one night the girl visited the young man in secret. She begged him to take her away from her father’s house, he says. She claimed that her mother had given her blessings, and she wanted to escape with him to Kabul. She never gave him details about why she wanted to get away from her father. Horrified, the young man refused. He could not betray the man who had protected him like a parent, he says, and Pashtun tradition forbids marriage against a father’s wishes.

Still, he says, the daughter persisted. She would often find ways of getting him alone, sometimes only for a minute, to repeat her request. His willpower started to break when he was 20 years old, he says. Eight years had passed and the farmer showed no interest in a wedding. The daughter visited him again one evening, with a variation on her usual plea. This time she brought a bundle of money, 30,000 Pakistani Rupees, or about $520. She had stolen the cash from her father, she said, and she wanted him to buy a motorcycle.

He picked out a red Chinese motorbike a few days later, paid cash, and stashed away the leftover money for their journey. Still, he hesitated. He told the farmer he’d purchased the bike with gift money from his family in Kabul, and the old man seemed pleased, sending him on errands along the dirt tracks that wind like brown streams around the green Panjwai valley. Two months later, he finally worked up the nerve. The daughter packed a few dresses in a bag; he didn’t own anything except the clothes he was wearing.

They drove away at night, up the bumpy paths in Panjwai, onto the paved roads that lead through Kandahar. The city teems with traffic by day, but the streets are empty by late evening and noise of their little bike’s engine would have echoed down the rows of shuttered shops. They passed under the arched eastern gates of the city and took the northern fork in the road, puttering across the darkened scrublands. Two hours later they reached Qalat, where truckers often stop on their way to Kabul, and hit a police roadblock. I

It was September of 2005, and police were watching the highways carefully in hopes of preventing any disruption of the upcoming parliamentary elections. As usual in this country, the police also used the checkpoints to enrich themselves. Officers told Mr. Rahman it was forbidden to travel by motorcycle to Kabul because the road was too dangerous; instead, they would give him two seats in a shared taxi and hold his bike for safekeeping. The young man had little experience with such situations, and didn’t argue with the officers’ logic. The young couple squeezed into an overcrowded taxi, a yellow-and-white Japanese sedan, and reached the capital city the next morning. A cold welcome awaited them in Kabul.

Mr. Rahman had not seen his hometown since boyhood, and his parents had died while he was away. His three brothers were still living at home with their wives and children, a total of 16 people crowded into a modest five-room compound in the city’s western slums.

The family was scandalized by his attempt to elope. He introduced the 19-year-old as his future wife, and his brother exploded in rage. “My brother said, ‘You don’t have a wife! Who is this woman?’ ” Mr. Rahman says.

His brothers sent word to the Panjwai farmer that they had located his daughter. The landowner arrived quickly, all smiles, ate lunch with the family and spent a night in their home. In the morning he declared himself satisfied with the Rahman family and gave his consent for a wedding, on the condition that his daughter return home so they could prepare for the celebration.

The daughter wept at this news, Mr. Rahman says, because she didn’t want to go back. “I knew he was dishonest, but there was nothing I could do,” he says. “I tried to argue with him, but I’m not so strong.” Mr. Rahman watched his bride loaded into a car, and saw it disappear into the ramshackle slums. He was penniless, with nothing to show for his labour.

His brothers tried to console him: As a healthy young man with no debts, they said, his prospects were good. The regime of President Hamid Karzai had brought prosperity to the capital; surely he could start again in the new Afghanistan. The young man says he knew that returning to Kandahar wasn’t a good idea. By promising a wedding, the farmer had taken back his daughter with a face-saving untruth, and everybody involved knew it. Asking the farmer to make good on his promise would only invite trouble. But Mr. Rahman was in love.

He caught a southbound bus a week later, and showed his naivety by stopping in Qalat to inquire with the local police about his motorcycle. In the course of his explanations about the missing bike, Mr. Rahman mentioned the name of his former employer. One of the officers phoned the farmer, Mr. Rahman says, and moments later he found himself under arrest. He spent the following months shuffled from jail to jail, from Qalat to the secret police headquarters in Kandahar, and onwards to the crumbling prison on the west side of the city. He told his story countless times to police interrogators, he says. The formal charge laid against him was kidnapping, but a prosecutor who listened to his story seemed sympathetic and predicted he would be set free within a month. The poor and powerless often fare badly in Kandahar’s justice system, however.

Mr. Rahman says the farmer used his tribal connections to influence the case, and he was sentenced to 15 years in jail. The young man goes silent. The prison cell is quiet for a moment, except for the clicking of the deputy warden’s prayer beads. Birds sing in the garden. The prison boss stretches his heavy limbs and settles himself back on his bed with a chuckle at his tea boy’s misfortune.

Mr. Rahman stares down at his dirty feet. He is asked whether he regrets coming back to chase after his love, and he looks up with a glance that suggests he couldn’t have done anything else. “Everything turned out the way I expected,” he says.

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Signs of life in Kandahar

Boy was i surprised when i saw the above picture, i had heard that Kandahar is much more advanced than Kabul but i didnt believe it. i continued to believe that Kandahar residential places were similar to that of Kabul villages. I guess not, huh?the photo proved me wrong. Kandahar has become a place which i want to visit. And they say that Kandahari Pashto dialect is the most romantic dialect of Pashto in the country (perhaps something like French).

I’ve been hit with the flu. i haven’t been exposed to cold weather, just walking around shopping in Shar-e-Naw has lead me to getting the flu.

there was a 5 day jirga with Pakistani- Afghan delegates held in Kabul leading the city to traffic jams (as if we dont have enough already) and extra high levels of security, searching Corollas older than 2000. Thankfully, no suicide attacks took place during these events.

Right now, i’m at the office hearing a debate (one person on my left, the other on my right) about designer labels. Wow, never would i have imagined hearing a debate about such a thing in KABUL. One is saying that spending money on designer wear is extravagance and the other is saying that well presentation is much better. I prefer not to get involved. my flu is getting to me

*sniff*

My sisters bday was last night and oh i nearly forgot, mine was 5 days ago. my TWENTY FIRST… i haven’t had the chance to celebrate but they held a surprise birthday party for me at the office. so nice! and i got bday presents- perfumes!!

nothing new has been happening, same old at work…

Will update with photoes soon, hope i get better soon *sniff*

Bah omideh deedaar, khuda negahdaar *sniff*

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