The low voltage electricity provided by the city was inadequate to meet our requirements. Our air conditioners coughed and struggled––asphyxiated, lights blinked, computer screens froze. We sweated in the heat––were “iced” in the cold winter.
In the office, we ran two huge generators.
“This welcoming coolness, fast internet––our drug for motivation. Forget opium,” some of us joked, now and then. It was the truth, in some ways, among other things. The heat was brutal.
In the guest house, however, we tried to be more economic––in summer and winter times. Though we had one large and one small generator, we mostly rationed the operation of each. It was all economics––the large generator was more expensive. It was switched on for two hours in the morning and in the evening to cover smooth breakfast and dinner situations. On weekends, we added one more hour to cover the lunch time. The small generator kicked in during load shedding. For security reasons, we couldn’t live without power.
In the initial years (2007-2008), we had two layers of security for the UN guesthouses and the offices. The outside was guarded by a team of armed UNPUs (United Nations Protection Unit) and the inner layer was protected by an unarmed team. All were locals. A tiny tin roofed guarding shack with a toilet was provided to each group––separately built inside the compound and near the outside gate.
In the UNICEF guesthouse, UNPUs weren’t allowed to enter the compound unless absolutely necessary. Under no circumstances they could step inside the guesthouse building, neither could the unarmed guards. We had an intercom system installed so that the UNPUs could speak to the domestic guesthouse staff to explain the reason for their entry inside the compound. That was the rule I had established. In all other guesthouses, the guards had free access.
One morning, I was informed by the guest-house manager that the guards wanted to speak with me. I sent our supply officer, Md. S, an elderly, respectable Afghani man to talk to them. They refused to discuss their issues with anyone but me. Finally, Teeranuch (our Ops Officer) and I stepped outside to have a face-to-face chat with them. Md. S accompanied us.
Captain of the UNPU, UNICEF Guest house
“You’re our boss, Ms Nazhaat. We should speak to you––you have to listen to our problems,” said the team leader or the captain. He was a young man, stylishly combed hair (I guess I saw a hint of gel?), wore sun-glasses and spoke some English. He took off his glasses when he spoke to look straight at me.
“Have you seen where we live? It’s not fit for animals . . .” his voice held defiance.
“Okay, let’s check this out.” I had no idea . . . We stepped inside the tiny shack. There was a hard bed, no mattress and two threadbare blankets, a mini window. A sub-human set up. The heat was suffocating. I knew it was freezing during the winter. I didn’t look at their bathroom.
“What do you want from me?” I tried to hide my guilty-shameful feeling under a “business- like-façade” face. Security issues were entirely under UNDSS. They hired, fired and managed every aspect of the UNPUs and the guards. We followed their instructions.
On behalf of his team, the captain gave me a list of demands that included more blankets, a portable heater, a fan and a television.
Without discussing with UNDSS, I approved their demands. We did the same for the office UNPUs as well. UNDSS wasn’t happy. Neither were the heads of other UN agencies because their guards now made similar demands.
“If the guards are too comfortable, they will sleep at night- not guard anymore,” Senyo our FSCO-UNDSS argued. We were good friends but I didn’t agree with him.
The UNPUs were often on opium––a common problem throughout Afghanistan. If the nights were too harsh in winter or too hot in summer, they used it more. We experienced incidents of near gun fights when they were high.
The captain came to me a few more times on other issues. I guess he wanted to flex his masculinity to foreign women like Teeranuch and me, gain more respect among his fellow guards . . . I decided to get him transferred to another agency. UNDSS took him to the multi-UN agency compound. In 2010, when it came under attack by suicide bombers, he attempted the first layer of resistance, I was briefed.
I knew Herat was never safe. I had to argue with the SRSG on this issue . . . I am glad I didn’t give in to him and several other heads of agencies––created security strategies with UNDSS that kept our staff and assets “comparatively safer.”
As the Area Security Coordinator (alternate) of western Afghanistan, I knew what was happening around us. I had the full support of Catherine, our Representative, and the Ops Chief in Kabul–– we got armed Gurkha guards (UNICEF got 6, and UNAMA got 17. All other agencies opted for additional UNPUs to avoid the cost).
The Gurkhas saved our lives, eventually . . . human lives are expensive, right?.
Winter in Herat
Herat under Snow
Dear Nuzhat, I enjoy your posts, thanks. As I promised, I had a conversation with two generation of Afghan women from Herat about the word "Kaneez or Kaniz" as a name for a female. Kaneez in Arabic, Farsi/Dari and Urdu means "female slave". "Ghulam" also mean slave for male. Ghulam followed by Mohamad, Ali, Sakhi, Sidiq, Rasool is a very common name for male in Afghanistan. I have never heard a girl or a women named Kaneez. Neither our friends from Herat. In fact I was told it would be an insult to the women if she is called Kaneez. I understand in Kenya and Bangladesh Kaneez is a name as meaning the slave of God.
ReplyDeleteI hope you find this information useful. All the best.