My Afghanis

Baghee, panni, Baghee, roti!
A simple request for bread and water. My Afghan kids are at the gate and if I don’t come out soon they’ll ring the bell, alerting the whole neighborhood to their noisy presence.
Eayk minute! I reached for a nearby scarf to throw over my head, Pak. style but not really. A woman isn’t fully dressed here unless she has her dupatta slung around her body in some fashion when she goes out of the house. As usual, I’m evolving my own style. This morning, my jalabiyya was so comfortable I didn’t change or go to the grocery to get something for their breakfast... Anyways, they eat whatever I give them: apples, biscuits, a little porridge left from my lavish breakfast. I added milk and honey, so I don’t think it was too bad. They ate it. They’ve also sampled peanut butter and jelly lately and liked that, too.
After eating, it’s time to play. Lailmina, Zargilleh, Zarmina and Shazia have brought clay with them, soft, red clay, dug up from the riverbank near a local construction site. Lailmina sets about making a whole kitchen set complete with a pot of chicken curry simmering in a pot. The younger girls each make a pot or two. We have a tea party complete with clay biscuits and fancy tea cups, a miniature pot and milk from the gayn (water buffalo) that Shazia has made. She is a real pip. Must be about four to five years old and wants to prove she’s better and tougher than anyone, boy or girl who tries to mess with her. But today she was at her creative and imaginative best, hosting a tea party for us.
Pakistan is a tough place to live, but you can easily fall in love here. Lailmina is about seven but she is tall, like a nine year old. She’s thin and lanky, but strong, and she has beautiful, brown understanding eyes. Arnagul is a little older, about 12 maybe, with the deepest, most glittering eyes of all. There is a whole group of them, including Heer Bibi, who wants to wash every chance she gets, especially her hair. There is no clean running water in the ramshackle huts they call home. They sleep three, four or more to a bed, a simple charpay meant for one. They dream of having a double bed when they get married. After the bed comes the swaddled baby lying on the bed Arnagul fashions from clay this morning. Not to be outdone, little Shazia makes a whole man and they all chuckle at her creation.
I noticed these Pathan, or Afghan, children, as soon I began living here in Chatta, about two weeks after I arrived in Pakistan. They were on the highway, cutting dry grass, and in the bazaars helping parents who had stalls there. But I didn’t start really seeing these children until I saw Lailmina.
Walking to and from the school where I help with English twice a week, I would observe groups of five to seven children with large burlap and plastic rice bags on their backs, picking up trash. Then one day I saw a group of them clustered around something on the other side of the high curb that separates the street from the muddy creek that the water buffalo wallow in. One of them called out happily and excitedly to her friends, Sayp, sayp! I went over to see what it was they were so delighted about. I looked down into a mess of rotten apples that had fallen from a tree.
I know they love apples, because they’ll eat as many as I have, along with cookies and any other treat I can find them. One day it was ice cream that made them happy. Another it was Pepsi and they were practically delirious with glee, even though each one only got a quarter glass full. These are things they love, just like all kids.
But what they really come here for is food. The fun comes second. They need the pot of rice I cook for them and serve with whatever is left over from our dinner the night before. Or I make daal, (lentils) which are quick, cheap and filling. They need the clean water that comes out of my tap to drink or to wash with. Sometimes they just need to use the bathroom and want to play with the flush toilet, a novelty in their lives.
These are my Afghan girls. There are also three boys. Ali is the oldest, tall and lanky. A younger boy is short and chubby. He likes chasing the girls and climbing the columns that flank the sides of our home. The third boy is quiet and dignified. He usually likes to stay out of trouble.
Ali recently found a broken MP 3 player somewhere in his ramblings and was trying to get it to work. But when he saw my camera batteries had died, he took the batteries out of that MP 3 and put them in my camera. It still didn’t work, so he tried some other batteries he had in his pocket. No luck. He collects all kinds of scrap metal, which fetches more money than plastic bottles and discarded cardboard boxes. So does the broken glass I’ve seen them stuff into their bags.
They eat lunch, and then play their games. They love the space of the courtyard for tag, climbing the columns and high jump games. They are highly imaginative and spontaneous. They’ve never been to school. One can’t even imagine their boundless energy being contained in a classroom. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have the opportunity of going to school. For now, the world is their classroom, with all the harsh and complex reality that is Pakistan today.
I’ll never forget the day Saima, Arnagul, and Marina, the older crowd, saved my life on the highway. I had gotten a taxi to go to the Daewoo bus station for my four hour trip to Lahore After I got in the taxi, the driver started asking me how to get there! As is our usual plan, if a driver doesn’t seem to know where to go, I call my husband, Asad, and he talks to the driver. It usually works fine. But this time, after yelling at the driver, Asad talks to me and tells me, Get out of that taxi and get another one. This guy doesn’t know where he is going. Okay………
I gestured for the driver to stop. It was less than a quarter mile from where we started out. I hop out and he has the nerve to ask me asks for money! Asad, still on the phone, tells me to just walk away, as I had already started doing. Suddenly, who should I see materialize by the roadside as if out of thin air? There were my girls, walking back to Chatta from Chak Shazad, a bigger town where they had gone to collect plastic bottles and other recyclable trash. There they were, walking in a graceful line, carrying bundles on dry grass on their heads and trash bags on their hips, the way mothers carry babies sometimes, looking for all the world like the beautiful young women they are soon to be.
We were delighted to see each other. They took one look at the cab driver, and then glanced quizzically at me. In my very poor Urdu, I explained the situation and they started yelling at the driver, all of them together until he drove away! I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life! They stayed and chatted with me and then waved good bye as I waved to them from the new cab’s rear window. When I got back from Lahore this afternoon, they were already in the courtyard, making me more tea sets.
By the way, those bags they carry are not all that heavy. One kilo of plastic is needed to make 15 rupees, the price of three rotis at the local tandoor (bread bakery). Plastic is very light, so it takes a lot more than one bag to earn their bread.

They are all our children.
For more pictures, please see http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/emailAlbum?uname=sommieh&aid=5537432693344912721&continue=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fsommieh%2FAFC%23
11/9/10
Sommieh Stephanie Flower
Chatta Baktawer, Pakistan