The Smallest Matters that Mattered : Nuzhat Shahzadi

 

On weekends, waking up in my room at the UNICEF guest house in Herat sometimes was peaceful. I tried to plough away the weeklong emergency-debris out of my mind. Though officially we were supposed to work 40 hours a week––we did much more. My life was like riding a Ferris-wheel at top speed, constantly. The emergencies never stopped. Just kept piling up. I brought mountains of work back at the guest house––documents to read, sign, heaps of emails to respond to. We had a full office setup at the guest house. My work rolled over to almost 16-18 hours a day, routinely. I slept very little. Got burnt out.

I loved my work. The team was very committed. I could sense our work was recognized.

From the 3rd year of my being in Herat, I initiated some preliminary discussions with HR NYHQ––began applying. The (semi) positive responses were for posts in emergency duty stations, mainly. Discussed some more. I sensed that the agency wasn’t willing to move me out of Herat.

Afghanistan had branded me as an “emergency official.” I gave up.

On peaceful weekends, while most residents slept late, I used to take rounds in our small garden. It was a considerable size when we first rented the premise. Later, the Hesco-walls ate up most of the space. I wasn’t so fond of working out in the indoor gym.

“Salam Alaikum,” our gardener, who was now hired as one of the unarmed guards, greeted me.

I responded. All those years in Herat, all we traded were smiles. This elderly man was always there, every day of the week, busy trying to tend to the mini-garden and the roses now planted on top of the Hesco-walls. I guessed he came by to water the plants even when he was off duty.

Our Gardener

Our guesthouse was meant to be self-financed (zillions of years would be needed to make break even, I thought!). We accepted paid guests (only internationals) throughout the year. I also entertained colleagues on missions at dinner. Other residents usually didn’t invite any guests––though there weren’t any established rules. There was no objection––I was heading the office and after all it was a UNICEF guesthouse.

Suraya Pakzad, the head of Voice of Women (VoW) sometimes came over on weekends. We worked on project related matters. At the time, VoW was contracted to implement the Clean Village initiatives (WASH) in all four provinces in western Afghanistan as well as self-immolation and Juvenile justice programs. Suraya’s NGO was the only agency that had intense grass roots reach. She had also kindly agreed to be interviewed by me about her life, we talked about it in peace at the guesthouse. (Her life’s story is fascinating. Someday, I intend to publish it as a book to which she consented).

“Nuzhat Jaan, I want to bring my daughter to meet you today,” Suraya called one Saturday. I wasn’t surprised. I had been meeting with daughters of colleagues . . . and young people frequently. I loved the chit-chat with the girls, especially their giggles––happened any time, without any cause.

Suraya arrived on time with her daughter.

“I want her (daughter) to talk to you, to see how you live . . .,” Suraya didn’t need to explain more. Teenagers are a “basket-combination” of emotions. Their universe is developing, constantly changing. They get bruised easily–– handle with care kind of sprouting personalities.

I still remember that morning we spent together. I gave them a tour of the guesthouse (while the residents slept). The teenager was spontaneous, asked questions––responded to mine. She spoke good English. Finally, I took her to my bedroom. She was struck by the simplicity of the room––the mattress on the carpet was my bed, the TV in one corner . . . one small suitcase, a few pairs of shoes––my one-room home away from home (glad she had no clue about the many pairs of shoes I kept at my sister’s in NY!!).

“You live a simple life,” the girl said.

“In Afghanistan, yes. But back at home I have stuff––some excesses . . .” I had to be honest with her. She deserved to have a full picture.

We talked about her school, what she wanted to do with her life. She smiled as she spoke, with a little bit of shyness, a touch of confidence, some uncertainty . . .

“I want to join the UN, like you . . . go places.” She sounded determined. Many of the girls I had met in Herat, expressed their desire to join the UN. The UNICEF-Herat was full of women staff–– internationals, nationals, including cleaners, body-patters (security checking) . . .

We had tea with snacks that I had brought from the US on my R&R, and nuts and grapes. The enchanting visit came to an end.

“Salam Walaikum,” the gardener smiled as the visitors left. He locked the entrance door. He was back on duty as our guard now.


Write to Nuzhat at nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com
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