What we don't know

It’s been nearly four weeks since I’ve been back in Kabul. You’d have thought there’d have been at least one blog worthy event. Well, yes, there have been several ... suicide attacks, snow storms, shootouts, parties, excursions ... it just goes past in a blur sometimes.

Part of the reason for not blogging about what’s news here is that what you think you know one day turns out to be something very different the next. I mean, who really knows what’s happening with the private security companies. First Hamid Karzai described them as thieves and mercenaries and gave them an end of year deadline to pack their bags and get out ... then he softened and said those protecting embassies, reconstruction projects and convoys could stay ...  now I read in the Guardian that he has all but rescinded the entire order and will be allowing 11 contractors  with “a good record” to say. Among those groups, the Guardian says, is Blackwater, now known as Xe Services, a private security firm whose behaviour has already seen it thrown out of Iraq. Chalk one up to the west!  

A few days after I got back, on Feb. 14, there was a suicide attack on a shopping centre moderately full of Afghans buying presents for their girlfriends/boyfriends. Yep, believe it or not, Afghanistan, home to the ultra conservative Taliban, loves Valentine’s Day. Go figure!

Anyway, like with most things in Afghanistan, the story has several shades of reality. 

Our first lead was that a suicide bomber blew himself up at the entrance of Kabul City Centre, a rather empty mall attached to a hotel often used by aid workers for meetings, and which is known among the foreign crowd for its cheap knock off DVDs. Anyway, this bomber blew himself up, but, according to witnesses and other random sources, there were another two insurgents who had made their way into the building and were in a shootout with police.

We even had a quote from a “witness” saying he saw the other two attackers enter the mall, and then heard explosions and gunfire for about five minutes.

Except, that’s not what happened.

Our editor in chief was at the mall, or about 10 metres away, intending to buy a gift for his Valentine – his second wife, but that’s another rant. What he said he saw was one suicide bomber, who was shot, in the leg, by two security guards. As the guards approached him (duh!) he blew himself up, and all three were killed. One of those guards had five children.

There was no second or third, or as in some reports, fourth gunman/bomber. And the firing, he said, was caused by the arrival of the police, who, being kids and spooked, started shooting up the place.

Here’s another example. Two weeks ago, I had a few friends round for dinner. That morning, four rockets – possibly three or maybe five – were fired at something, no one really knows for sure what the target was, but they fell close to where two of my friends lived. One friend spent an hour in a safe bunker, the other was told to stay in her room.  An hour later, the all clear was sounded, everyone returned to work without so much as a follow up mail.

So that evening, I guess everyone is spooked because there have been far too many reports of suicide bombers roaming  the streets looking for targets. Every other day, there is a new alert for one restaurant or another. Someone I know, who has close ties to intelligence and security contractors, sent out a rare text advising his friends to stay away from high-profile western restaurants  and bars for 10 days. Ten days, what is there an expiry date on suicide bombers, they self-detonate after 10 days if they haven't found a target? 

So there we were at home, eating vegetarian shepherd’s pie, drinking our overpriced $25/bottle red wine, and pretending Afghanistan was just another developing country, whe “beep, beep, beep”, the first security alerts start coming through.

At first, and it’s always vague: “Incident at the Lebanese. No movement.”

Well, what incident, and which Lebanese? There are two Lebanese restaurants we usually go to; the Grill and the Taverna.

The second comes through: “Shooting at Lebanese. No movement.”

Then nothing. We go online, looking to see if any of the media had picked up the story. They hadn’t, so we rationalise it must be something small and continue with our dinner party. 

The next morning, amid the stories of foreigners having to be airlifted off the roof of the restaurant, my housemate shows me the security briefing she received by email on the shooting. It seems one guard at La Taverna restaurant accidentally set off a security alarm. Spooked by his own actions, he started to run. A second guard thought he was an attacker and shot him.

Ridiculous, but true.  So you shrug, you joke about the incompetence of the guards and police and shake your head about Afghanistan taking the lead on its security, and then you let it go.  

But, that wasn't the end of the story.

A few nights ago, I sat in a bar with a friend and her security detail. I mentioned the Taverna shooting to him as a way to discuss the capacity of police and security guards here. He looks at me quizzically. “It wasn’t the Taverna, it was the Golden Key, the Chinese restaurant."

Press Pass

I took a walk along the Nile yesterday, admittedly it was to the Ministry of Interior to apply for a press pass, but still, I can at least claim that I saw something of the sites in Cairo.

The government had decided that as of yesterday, all journalists who wanted to enter Tahrir Square --- where all that wonderful colour and all those passionate voices are --- would need to register with the ministry for a pass. Up until that time, it had been somewhat random in whether the military would ask you for credentials. So off we went, clasping our photocopies and official letters from the paper.
The area outside the ministry, defended by a dozen or so tanks, is the same area where my colleague was beaten up a few days ago, as police and soldiers looked on. He was understandably a little spooked, but that day, the area was full of people, heading to work, selling cigarettes and drinks and of course, foreign journalists all clutching their papers.
As we entered the ministry, our passports were handed like a baton from one person to the next as they led us through a warren of rooms until finally, upstairs we were given a form to fill in. Names, addresses, media we work for, purpose of our visit and who we wanted to interview.
The women working in the press centre seemed remarkably efficient.
We asked them how long the pass would take and they told us a couple of days. "So we can't go to the square without it?"
No, they replied, but you can go anywhere else. That seemed a little illogical, but nevertheless, we decided we would try to get in to the square without the pass.

Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays are the "million man" days at Tharir and when we got there, again there were thousands of people queuing so patiently, just waiting to get in. We pushed our way down to the front, squeezed through the barbed wire, in between the tanks, many of them covered with graffiti, and without so much as a question from the military, we were inside.  So much for the official bureaucracy that was supposed to make our lives much harder.

The atmosphere was even more electrifying than before, and much more organised. The night before the Google executive. Weal Ghonim, who had been detained several days ago, had been released and given an emotional interview on TV. His speech and possible presence that day galvanised the protesters -- people are talking about him as the voice of the revolution. Yet for many young people I spoke to, there was a sense that he alone could not be the opposition leader.
"This revolution is for all people, and we must have a leadership that is reflective of everyone's interests. Ghonim can talk for the young, and the elite, but there are Muslims and Christians and women and workers," said one rather erudite 17-year-old girl.
I spent a couple of hours wandering around, got caught up in a women's march, which had stunned the men who were frantically taking photos of them on their mobile phones.
What do you think of women taking part in this protest, I asked one guy, a mechanical engineering student at Cairo University. "Women have as many rights as men do," he told me, pointing out that his sister was also part of the protests. Again, he also told me. "This revolution is for everyone."
Every time I ask someone about women's participation and the role of women in the protests they tell me that women are not oppressed in Egypt. They are in control of their lives, can work, can drive, can say what they want. Yet, that very fact that their protest around the square that day drew so much attention from the men, makes me think that perhaps it is not quite as free as they make out.
I read somewhere that in the early days of the protests, women were told by female organisers to wear two layers of clothes, in case pro-Mubarak thugs tried to rip one layer off. When I put this to one woman, a well-educated saleswoman, she said "this is war, the vulnerable are always targeted. If the men are fighting, they too have to take precautions to protect themselves".

But the role of women is indeed something new. Previous protests have garnered about 10 percent female participation. These protests in Tahrir, I would say about 40 percent are women.

It's unclear what is happening with the movement now. The US seems to have backed away from demanding an immediate transition ... are they worried that Mubarak will refuse to go which could force them into taking action they do not want to take? Or are they just being pragmatic, they do not want to atagonise an ally in the vastly anti-US Middle East? There is also the issue of Israel, America's other ally in the region, with its powerful Jewish lobby. Mubarak has honoured his predecessor's peace deal with Israel, something the US s loathe to upset, while Israel fears a greater role for the Islamic Muslim Brotherhood.
These are oversimplified thoughts, I'm sure, but it's worrying to think that these people who are protesting with so much heart and strength -- last night they went to Parliament -- will lose everything in the coming months because of internal US politics.

Cassie

The army and the matchbook

I woke up yesterday morning thinking I would work on a story from the hotel. I needed to make some calls, and just rework what I already had.

I washed my clothes in the sink (saving on extortionate hotel laundry costs), and hung them out to dry on the balcony. Predictably, just a few minutes later, my colleague rang.

“(the foreign editor of the paper) wants us to go to (can't mention it as we haven't run the story yet). How soon can you be ready?”

We had been ding a lot of stories about the people at Tharir square, getting colour and quotes on a daily basis. Now it was time to see how other parts of Egypt were reacting. 

Five minutes is what I wanted to say, but I thought a senior editor shouldn't sound that eager about a little day trip, so I said I'd be down in 30 minutes. Then I worried about how I was going to wear my boots without socks – my only pair being sopping wet and drying on the balcony. I came up with a cunning plan to wrap hand towels around my ankles to beat the chafing, and hurried down to the lobby where my colleague had already lined up a car and driver for our journey.

The hotel desk had told him XX was only a 45 minute drive from Cairo, it was actually about 2 hours away. My colleague wanted me to sit in the front, as a woman with a headscarf he thought I would attract less attention.

But really, headscarves, or the hijab, are worn different depending on what country you are in. Egypt is much more flexible when it comes to pious dress; many Muslim women do not wear a headscarf at all, despite being what they would call devout. So while in Afghanistan where the hijab is mandated, and of course many women are forced into wearing a full burqa, women push the boundaries (much like you would with a school uniform), allowing wisps of hair to escape their confines and often allowing the scarf to slip down the back of their head.
In Egypt, or Cairo at least, it makes no sense to wear a hijab improperly if you don't have to wear it at all, and properly here means tight under your chin, and pinned tightly around your head. So with my loose head dressing, I wasn't fooling anyone.

As we left the city, it was obvious that Cairo was very much getting back to work. Several banks were open with a few dozen people cramming inside and around the ATMs. About 50 percent of shops were open, including the glitzy City Stars mall, where everything is “imported and expensive” according to our taxi driver, Tareq.

But what really made it clear that the city was back to normal was the traffic. Honking streams of it clogging the roads; black and white Lada taxis and battered and scraped Honda civics, beetles and Corrollas and Landcruisers. Compared with Kabul and the ubiquitous Toyota, it was a delight for my eyes, if not ears.

The day was grey and overcast, misty and full of potential.

The buildings we drove past; modern I was told, but built 30 years ago, some were grey concrete blocks, crumbling and unappealing. Others had beautiful iron balconies, and porticoes that gave them a colonial European look.

As we headed out over Nasr bridge and towards the memorial of Anwar Sadat, the former Egyptian president assassinated in 1981 (the year Mubarak came to power), there was a worrying development. Nose to bum, along each side of the road were hundreds of tanks and armoured personnel carriers, all pointing in towards the city. They had not been there before when I arrived in the city just a few days earlier. At any other time, I might have though the army was preparing for a coup, or worse, to attack the protester unrelenting in their protests in Tahrir Square.

But our driver seemed to think nothing of it. It was the army after all, and they were on the side of the people.
I find this love of the army interesting. Egypt is ruled by former generals and military men. Mubarak is a former air force commander, the new vice president, Omar Suleiman, is head of the military intelligence and the new prime minister is also a former air force commander. Yet still, the people believe that the army is their saviour.

As we neared our destination, we were stopped several times by the army, by soldiers in jaunty red berets, and our passports checked. But each time, the soldiers were polite and apologetic. At one checkpoint, we were asked to get out of the car and enter the army post, I left my bag in the car, with my notebook and point and shoot camera. As we walked into a small empty room, where two men sat frowning over our passports, I smiled and my colleague was able to chat to them in Arabic. They smiled back, apologised for causing us any problems and asked if we had a laptop or camera … nope we replied, and they waved us through. “Welcome to Egypt,” a refrain I have heard time and time again.

Perhaps it's because everyone must do mandatory military service at some point, except women, so Egyptians feel a certain amount of empathy with the army. But also, there's a structure within the armed forces, and a leadership that has not been corrupted, at least not in the ranks, unlike the police, whose sole job seems to be harassing and brutalising civilians. 

The army told us our destination was now calm, and we could talk to whomever we liked. But at a tea shop in XX, as we sat drinking sweet, black tea and chatting with men over a game of dominos, two patrons slipped quietly out the door and came back a few minutes later with the army.

We were beckoned across the road towards an armoured personnel carrier – there were several on the streets of what had just a few days earlier been a scene of intense violence. The commander, looking rather suave in his neat camouflage and red shoulder bands, unfolded himself from the front seat of the apc and took our passports. What are you doing here? he asked. We explained that we were journalists working for an Abu Dhabi newspaper, and again, I was pleased that I still had that visa in my passport (no one seemed to click that it had been cancelled a year ago).
There are no protests here anymore, why do you want to talk to the people, he asked, and we explained that our intention was just that: to explain to the world that the place was calm, to counter some of the wrong media reports about parts of Egypt.
He nodded, apologised that he had to check with his commanding office, and after asking if we had laptops or cameras (did I blink when I said no?) handed us back our passports, and wrote his name and mobile number on a Marriott matchbook which he said we were to use if we ran into any trouble. After that, there was a lot of smiling, shaking hands, apologies, welcome to Egypts, and off we went.

At first we did not want to go back to the same cafe, fearing perhaps our brush with the army may have tainted us with our new friends. But our driver insisted, he said we needed to show that we were ok, plus we had the matchbook.

People were noticably hesitant. There have been so many stories in the Egyptian state press about foreigners stirring up trouble, acting as spies for countries such as Israel and Iran, that they were unsure about who we were. “Are you Israelis?” one guy asked … .a word unmentionable in most Muslim countries. But after a while, they relaxed, helped by the countless cups of coffee and tea we bought, and of course the matchbook, and the stories that were told kept us enthralled for hours.

In general, while the protests in Tharir Square are a call for the removal of Mubarak, in more remote parts of the country, they are after more practical demands. Higher salaries to counter rising prices, an end to police brutality and corruption. Better job security and opportunities.

Many people still like Mubarak. "I have a picture of him in my house," one man said. But they feel he is too old to lead anymore and is being misled by his lieutenants. Elections may bring some relief, but for many it is more about survival. 

When we left, our notebooks, and bladders, were bulging.