Up Close and Personal - Angola : Nuzhat Shahzadi

I have lived in war zones. In the midst of horrors, heartbreaks and harrowing conditions, I learnt humility . . . saw courage, recognized honor . . . My dad was a military doctor–I grew up in cantonments. Being a survivor of a horrific genocide in my adolescence (liberation war of Bangladesh from Pakistan, 1971), I chose a career that dared me to work in conflict zones. Even when the RPGs roared in the background and bombs fell there was a lighter side in the darker times. So I decided to tell the stories of war . . .

Angola:

On a summer-day in 1997 (possibly) I landed in Luanda. I had joined ESARO (Nairobi) as a Communication Officer and to head the regional Sara Project a year ago. Had I at the time realized I would be recounting those days decades later, I would have kept a stricter journal . . .


The Ocean followed us as we drove from the airport in the office car. The landscape looked fascinating. I knew no Portuguese so except for “bon Dia” and a bow I couldn’t say anything to our elderly driver. His smile was friendly. The sunlight shone on his tobacco stained teeth.


My assignment was to run a VIPP workshop for our staff and guide them in developing communication strategies for each section at the end of the group event. During my mission I was also scheduled to meet with Ministers and dignitaries to advocate for the rights of girls. The office hired an interpreter to be with me. I called her “Senhora.”


After a briefing with the Representative and staff, the Operations paid my 80% DSA in Cash–all in $100 bills. I was advised to get the bills changed in smaller ones from the women sitting with their baskets on their heads on the roadside just outside the office. I was obedient. My first encounter with mobile-women’s bank was a success. The small changes came with many smiles, spontaneous giggles and friendly non-verbal gestures. Senhora was with me but she allowed me to seal the deal.


The political situation of the country was volatile. MPLA, the ruling party (backed by Soviet Union and Cuba) and the insurgent UNITA party (backed by the US and South Africa) were trying out a fragile political discourse but the nation was prepared for any eruptions. So I was to do my best before the situation worsened.


I was booked at a guesthouse with several UN visitors on mission. Our daily breakfast (for two entire weeks) was one boiled egg, one sausage and a bread roll with a slice of butter, per guest. I was a pure vegetarian so the amused kitchen staff kindly gave me two bread rolls. They were baffled–how could a person survive without meat and eggs?


I met with the country’s Education Minister––a beautiful, pleasant woman who had just celebrated her 40th birthday. She instantly promised to support the cause of the girls and loved the Sara comic books and videos that I gave her. When we parted she said something to Senhora with a laugh. Later in the car she relayed the Minister’s advice to me: “when she hits forty she will lament for not investing enough in getting a romantic partner––one woman to another.” I had truthfully revealed my “single-hood” status trying to establish an informal tone as the Minister asked personal questions.


The next important meeting was with the Women’s Minister––a 27-year-old woman who had given birth three days ago. She kindly agreed to meet with me at the clinic. We discussed business; she received a Sara package and voiced her commitment. Then she gave me her baby to hold. The tiny girl cooed, opened her eyes and smiled at me. I said, “Everything we do, we do it for you and girls like you.” The young Minister embraced me. Her post-partum hormones were high. It was infectious and I had to wipe my tears as she did hers. By the way, a coupe of local journalists and Angola television production team had followed us throughout. So, whatever we said was immortalized by the camera!


Next morning at breakfast there were broader smiles from the kitchen staff and whispers, “Indiana . . . Indiana . . .” That’s all I could catch. The cook said something and saluted. I was dumbfounded. One kind guest who somewhat understood Portuguese provided a clue: I was all over television-Angola last night. Excerpts of my meetings with the Ministers were repeatedly broadcast at prime time and late night news. I had become a celebrity! And the kitchen staff were honored to feed me (my regular bread rolls!!). I ate my lunches and dinners with people in “high-places.”


On the fourth day of our workshop, conflict broke out. Some of our field staff were called back to their stations. However, we somehow managed to get the communication strategies drafted.


I still had a few more visits to make, meet with some more people. So I was patient. I knew the only weekly flight would land safely to take me back to Nairobi, soon.

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