Off the Radar/Nuzhat Shahzadi

 

We landed at the Kabul airport. It was a rough flight. The weather in Herat was bad. It was worse in Kabul. The small UNHAS-aircraft rocked and bumped, lost and gained height as we entered the air space in Kabul. I clutched the arm rest of my seat, kept my eyes focused on the isle. The Pilot was trying his best to navigate the sudden air turbulence––we were heading for a crash, I feared!

It was early 2009, possibly––(before the Taliban killed several UN staff in a suicide attack in a guest house in Kabul). We came from all the regions to participate in a meeting. Colleagues from NYHQ were also present. Such group events boosted our morale, helped with our mental health, in addition to professional growth. We were based in far-flung field-offices facing remarkable security challenges, were isolated.

Catherine, our Representative, encouraged our presence in Kabul. In addition to the official work, robust interactions, we also had access to other amenities that the “Kabulite-colleagues” didn’t sometimes realize were unavailable to us. They lived in a secured-fortress surrounded by modern resources––within the walls of the UN Complex, and beyond.  I basically missed good food. Six weeks of non-stop staple of carrots-spinach-potato-rice-naan was oppressive.

At the meetings, new colleagues were introduced––replacements and new recruitments.

 . . . There was a sort of a “girls-group” in Kabul that included colleagues from the other UN agencies as well. I didn’t know everyone but often got invited at their parties through friends. I attended only the ones organized inside the compound. However, I did join at dinners, several times, hosted by Catherine and others at the Lebanese restaurant outside of the UN compound. It was our favorite place, cleared by UNDSS. However, nothing was ever safe in Afghanistan. (In Jan, 2014, the Taliban killed 21 people in a suicide attack at this restaurant––13 expatriates. I knew one of them. But by that time, I had already left Afghanistan). 

“Nuzhat, party tonight! You must come.” My friend’s excitement was infectious––I was so ready!

I wore the right clothes, my dangling silver earrings, a touch of mascara and a dash of Channel-CoCo- Mademoiselle. And I was “perfect.”

We walked to the other side of the huge Complex. The area was new to me––never had ventured that far before. The party was hosted (possibly) in an agency office––converted into a party venue. It was well decorated. I was especially surprised by the decorations on the artificial low ceiling made out of several emergency- tents stitched/attached together––shiny stars and clouds hung from it. We climbed down a small set of stairs; the dancing floor was just below. Food and drinks were in abundance. My friend had paid for my entry fee (I guessed). 

We mingled, laughed, ate and drank and danced. I had a good fill of the party . . . I sat in a corner and tried to enjoy from a distance. The outside world was forgotten, the war seemed less menacing. 

A young man took the chair beside me. “I am your 2nd DJ for tonight,” his smile was friendly. He was from Sweden––on a short assignment to Kabul. He came on a six month-contract initially which was extended to a year. I had been to Sweden several times. We talked about it.

“Do you want to stay longer?” I asked.

“No. One year in Afghanistan is more than enough,” he said. We spoke a bit more–– about music, our preferences.

“I like jazz . . . country music. Sort of hate Rap,” I confessed. “My son became a great fan of Rap as he hit 13 . . .” We laughed. 

He played some music on his Walkman. We listened together sharing his ear phones. There was no sign of my friend . . .

We indulged in small talks. He mentioned that some UN female colleagues were regularly sneaking out of the complex to date Afghani men. There were rumors . . .

“What’s wrong with dating Afghani men?” I was curious.

“Well . . . the ladies possibly think this is exotic. Souvenir? . . . something to tell friends back home,” he replied. “They’re breaching security protocols.”

It was almost midnight when my friend and I left the party. We walked through the compound under the pale moon, in the silence of the cold night.

Two nights later there was an ambush in Kabul. The head counts (to check every staff was accounted for) began as the night progressed. UNDSS couldn’t locate one female UNICEF international officer. She was residing inside the compound at the time but wasn’t in her quarters. She didn’t respond to the call, didn’t call the radio room either as required. She hadn’t taken the office car or permission to leave the duty station. The worst was feared. The search continued.

The next morning, she reappeared.  I had met her previously on program issues. She was the OIC of a section and a ruthless critic of UNICEF. I was surprised at her anger, actually . . .

The senior management was forced to make a hard decision. The young lady had severely misbehaved. 

Finally, she was allowed to resign.

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Please find more articles by Nuzhat here  

Nuzhat’s contact is nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com