It’s one-thirty in the morning. I’m at Qasim’s house (name changed for security), sitting in the dining room, staring at the computer screen. One question in my mind. What the fuck am I doing here?

This morning I awoke, jet-lag keeping up part of the night. Qasim and I stood in the kitchen, making some coffee. Afghans drink tea, they do not drink coffee. He handed me the sediment and cream heavy bitter sludge, I sipped it, and appreciated it anyway, after telling him this was the worst coffee I’d ever had. Our chuckling was interrupted with a heavy rumble of a distant bomb. We looked at each other, Qasim casually blurted, “Bomb went off.” I asked “Are you sure?”. What the hell does a bomb sound like? I was trying to think what else it might be, but concluded, that I know nothing about bombs, and if Qasim says it’s a bomb, then it’s a bomb.

We headed out for the day, Qasim to work, and I to meet a young student filmmaker to help me get a film permit. Afghan Logistics runs a taxi service of Toyota Corollas with working air conditioners, it’s what the expats use to get around, they cost a little more, but your chances of getting kidnapped are reduced. On the way to Afghan Films, the government film agency, the taxi driver filled me in. A suicide bomber had climbed into a Toyota Corolla (the irony didn’t escape me), and drove the bomb filled car into a crowd in front of the Indian Embassy. He killed dozens of people, injured more than a hundred, including of course women and children standing in line to get visas, and also took down most of the concrete wall of the building. The streets were jammed, some closed around the area. Afghan Films was in that general area, after some delays and re-routing we finally made it there.

Engineer Latif runs Afghan Films, and is a pleasant man in his late forties, he let me into his office, and listened to my plans to do my documentary, while making last minute arrangements for the Afghanistan International Film Festival, kicking off tonight. I had met him last night, along with a bunch of other interesting folks at a dinner held by Islamic Relief. “You should have gotten the pictures like I told you for the permit!”, he exclaimed. I wasn’t going to argue, that I was with him at the dinner until eleven pm, and this morning I was in a taxi ride that should have taken fifteen minutes, but took an hour, cutting off my time to get the pictures. Imal, the young student filmmaker showed up, and we left Engineer Latif’s office to get our ID pictures taken.

We walked down the main street, and found a photography place, sat down and put on our cheesy smiles, got the pictures. I paid ten bucks for the pictures, clearly getting ripped off, but didn’t have time to argue. By the time we got back to the Afghan Film office, Engineer Latif had left, his secretary murmured something about getting one of his guests out of the police custody, for not having proper papers with him. We walked around the office, and found his second in command, and as gently as possible, convinced him that Engineer Latif had ok’d us getting the permit. We waited for his meeting to finish, and made our request again. He asked us to come back in a couple of hours, after taking all the details. I asked if we could hand out, and just wait, as we needed the permit urgently. He said to come back in a half hour. We sat in the outside garden, and returned in half hour. He looked at us, asked us to have a seat, and started the paperwork – I guess he meant he would start in half an hour, we heard he’d finish in half hour. Our mistake of course.

After writing all the details in Dari on a piece of paper, and noting all relevant information for the permit, like my fathers name, he announced the letter would now have to be typed to make it official. To type if, of course, a computer needs to be working properly, as this was not the case, we get routed to another building further in the complex. We get there, head to the second floor, and meet with a third official. He cross examines the hand-written note. I’m staring at the proximity of his carelessly waving hand with the lit cigarette next to my precious permit. He asks a few questions, we go through the whole story of what I’m doing here, why I want to make a film what I will film, what I won’t film, and my father’s name. He puts the paper down, and says we have to come back in a few hours the printers not working. I smile, and Imal translates, “How about I look at your printer, I’d be happy to help in whatever way I can?” He smiles, “Sure”.

Having avoided an insult, I get behind the dust covered computer, that’s at least 5 years old. It turns on, I check the printer connections, everything’s connected, but the drivers are not installed. With the staff of four government officials watching me work, I install the drivers, and print out a test page. Smiles break out around me, and a chorus of “Tashakor” (thank you), I avoid feeling like a hero. They take the hand written letter, type it in, print it, glue our pictures on it, sign it a few times, then stamp it a couple of times. Everyone’s happy. The official offers us some lunch, string beans and naan. With the running around and waiting, we’re starving, we graciously accept, and eat with him. I promise him that I’ll include his name in the credit of my film, for getting me the permit. He smiles and laughs. We’ve made a friend.

We finally leave, and I get home. I’m exhausted, and my jet-lag is making my eyes strain for sleep. We don’t do any shooting for the day. I tell Imal we’ll start tomorrow. I take a four hour nap, and wake up, with the news on CNN. They’re talking about the bomb, pictures of ambulances, and people in bandages. Kids in bandages, rushed to the hospital. The hospital rep says, they had to turn patients away to another hospital, they were full.

Now it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I stare at my screen. Still wondering, what the fuck I’m doing here. Life and death rolls around me, and I’m here to make a movie, seems to be pointless. What can I do with my camera? Haven’t we seen this before? What can I capture and show that’s different? What difference will this make to those victims? Did I waste my time coming here? Should I have just stayed with my wife and boy?

Maybe it’s the jet-lag, maybe I just need to go and sleep. Tomorrow is another day.

The jet rumbles, as it thrusts forward and begins its run down the track. Pamir flight NR 202, ten in the morning. Sunday. We’re on time, and I’m staring at the back of the seat in front of me, the Boeing 737 must be at least twenty years old, maybe more. There’s threads loose in the seat, the interior still bears the design from older days, 70′s or 80′s. The Russian crew, wearing deadpan faces as they guided the passengers in. There’s around a hundred or so, mostly Afghans, with a few of us Americans mixed in there.

In the lounge, I watched the Afghans get ready for the flight, a mix of families, young men, kids, a few women in burqas. A little girl, maybe four, playing with her pink Pony Princess carry-on, wearing jeans and a pink top, a man in his mid fifties, wearing the traditional outfit, shalwar kamiz, black vest, and a head scarf, looking like a Haji, all eager to get home. And a few of us Americans, trying to fit in, trying not to look out of place, or nervous.

The flight last night from Atlanta, was too long, I shared a row of three seats with another American, she’s also on her way to Kabul, to start a two year engagement with an aid agency. We swapped stories for a while, and slept in uncomfortable positions the rest of the way. I got in to Dubai in the evening around seven.

Dubai is still the crystal covered paradox that I remember from last year. After checking in at the Lotus Hotel, a few miles from the airport, I stepped out in the hot and humid evening. Walking around the city is to experience a mad mix of West and East clash of culture, architecture and progress. If you took that walk, here what you might pass on your way; McDonald’s, Hardees, a Mosque, a master development company, a steel distributor, Aldo’s, Mark and Spencers, a sprawling upscale shopping mall, another Mosque, Dubai Lamborghini, Burger King, Dubai Harley Davidson, Dubai tourism operator, more development companies, a brick manufacturer, Nike outlet, Pierre Cardin store, a local hole in the wall Indian restaurant, an antiques dealer, Toyota dealership with a sign that reads “Now Open 7 Days a Week”, and Internet cafe, and on and on.

I was tempted to try the McDonald’s out of curiosity, but decided against it. I ducked into a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Out in front, facing the street, an Indian or Pakistani man, probably in his fifties, was sweating over open flames, as he prepared a pair of spits of chicken and beef. Inside, young men from the sub-Continent ran around serving the mostly labor class. I took an empty table, ordered a shawarma sandwich, and a lemon mint drink. Half way through my sandwich, an older Arab took the seat in front of me, surprising me. I had forgotten how the circle of personal space is much wider only in America, and in most of Asia, it’s perfectly normal to sit next to another man without any hesitation. It’s even “normal” for two men to hold hands, something that always makes me very uncomfortable – but only because it’s not something I’m used to. The skinny old Arab wore the traditional full white garb, but his clothing had seen plenty of wear, and some tear. He wore thick glasses, and seemed pleasant enough. I finished up, and went to pay at the cash. I decided to give the Indian guy taking my money and extra five bucks to cover the old man’s meal. No sweat off my back, and there’s plenty I’m needing to atone for – hoping the Big Guy was watching.

It was nearly ten pm, when I got back to the Lotus, and on crossing through the lobby, I decided to stick my neck into the restaurant on the first floor, from where I could hear pounding music. I pushed open the doors into the restaurant-bar, inside the lights were turned down. The music I was hearing wasn’t from a stereo or DJ, it was coming from the three blondes dressed in tight shorts, and even tighter t-shirts. The blondes were crooning Madonna’s latest hit, and gyrating to the music, the lead singer wailing the disco hit, and her two females backup singers chiming in at the chorus. The Russians were entertaining the local crowd. In the dim light I could make out about a dozen men, half of them in the traditional white garb, smoking cigarettes and hookah, booze all around the tables and bar. An Indian came up to me, guiding me to a table, I held up my hand, and told him I was looking for someone. I’m not sure why I lied, I guess it was easier than explaining that I only just curious. I turned and left.

I woke up at three in the morning, the jet lag was kicking in, I couldn’t get back to sleep. At quarter to five, I heard the Azan outside, as I got up, took my shower and decided to pray, I thought of the men in the bar, and the dancing Russian ladies from last night. Dubai is a wild world.

I caught up with my fellow passengers a little later on, at the Pamir Air lounge in Dubai airport. The airport itself is also part of Dubai’s commercial glittering sprawl, with it’s designer stores, and high end fashion boutiques. A crystal decanter was unveiled at the airport Duty Free, and is on display, designed by Karim Rashid, who I’m assuming is Muslim. A Muslim designs a decanter for the Bombay Sapphire company for consuming alcohol – as I said, it’s a mad mix. I thought about buying one, but decided that it was probably overkill for orange juice or water, oh yeah, and the price was slightly out of my price-range at two hundred thousand dollars. Did I mention, it’s made of diamonds and sapphires?

The much less to do crowd of Afghans, and I got on the flight, and left the dust a few hours ago. The meals been served, now the crowd around me is getting comfortable, and people are beginning to doze off. I decide to do the same – and ease my seat back. I look around and see the older man, the Haji, and the little Pony Princess girl, we walked on board with. The older man, with his left eye missing, and the little girl whose missing her left hand. I breathe in and close my eyes and anticipate Kabul.

Email from Rolf, July 3, 2008:

“…let me implore you not to take this trip right now. It’s one thing to make an interesting piece in a somewhat dangerous area, I have traveled there myself. It is another to misjudge the severity of the situation and I think this is really not a good time to go right now. I think it would be much better if you could go in a little while when things have cooled off just a tad. If it was my judgment at this point, and I have been known to take risks, this would not be a risk I would take.
Remember man, you have a family, wife and kid and all. You bear a responsibility for them.
God takes care of those that take care of themselves I have learned when I was little. I am pretty sure the Qu’ran says something similar.
Delaying it a bit is wise, not cowardly.
Whatever you do, be safe.”

I arrive in ATL, I wait for my connection, Delta flight DL8, a Boeing triple seven. We’ll leave here at 9 pm, and get in to Dubai at 7 pm, minus the time-zones, it’s a long haul, no matter how you cut it. The giant metal bird sits outside the glass wall in front of me, they’re prepping her, cleaning out the left-overs, spilled drinks, crumpled magazines, and left behind cell phones. They’ll bring in the airline food, including a half dozen Halal meals, for me and the hijabis in the lounge. She’ll be vacuumed, cleaned and restocked for another hop over the Atlantic – and when she lands, lather, rinse and repeat again.

I’m thinking about Rolf’s email, and everyone else’s echo, Sonia, my parents and friends who found out my plans to return to Kabul. I smile at the irony of Rolf’s email – an atheist quoting the Quran to a Muslim, I’m touched by his concern. Things have gotten much worse since last year. A couple of months after I left last year, a co-worker got his brains splattered on the sidewalk in front of the Serena hotel. I’d been to that place on several occasions. They weren’t aiming at him, the scope was aimed at a government official, the co-worker just happened to be in the way at the wrong time. Bad timing. Bad luck.

My Google alerts don’t read too well either;

“In Afghanistan, Taliban grows stronger
People’s Weekly World – USA
On June 27, nearly seven years after United States and NATO troops ousted the Taliban government of Afghanistan, the Pentagon issued a comprehensive report …”

“Bush Acknowledges Tough Fight In Afghanistan
By Human Security Report Project
EXCERPT: “June was the deadliest month for US and NATO forces in Afghanistan since the US-led invasion in 2001. It was also the second month in a row that coalition troop loses in Afghanistan were greater than in Iraq. …”

I’ve asked Sonia to turn the alerts off on her laptop, and try not to get caught up with news of the region. It’s too easy to let your imagination get the best of you, I think this will be tougher on her in many ways, than on me. I’ll be too busy to sit and think about any of it, at least until I get back that is. I’ve shut out the voices of caution, not because I’m hard-headed, but because I’ve spoken to my contacts there, and while they agree it’s gotten worse, it’s not quite as bad as the headlines – as usual. I just have to work smarter, I don’t know if I’ll go through with my plans to meet with the Taliban, like I did last year. I’ll rendezvous with Jonathan, the school teacher from Vermont, in Kabul in a few days – he’s been on edge, more than usual, before going this year. If I do venture into Taliban country, it’ll be without him. I’ll have to have some serious conversations with my fixers, and figure out, if it’s safe. Play it smart.

Yes, I’m going to film a documentary about Jonathan and me building two schools for village kids – but somehow it feels like I’m using that as an excuse to go back. Something under the surface is calling me back. Since I got back last year, I fell into a depression, I put on ten pounds, and have found it hard to focus on anything. Maybe my return will be healing. I remember hearing about a European photographer who took a world renown picture of a little boy during the Ethiopian famine, vultures crouched behind him, waiting for the sick and dying child to fall over from where he sat. The image is still burned in my memory. The photographer committed suicide some months after he got back. I’ve been asking “how” and “why” many times since I got back.

In the lounge, families are gathering for the flight, next to me, two girls are eating ice cream and playing. Across from me, three guys from Blackwater are sitting on the lounger chairs, one of them’s reading the Lonely Planet Guide to Afghanistan.

I’m on my way back, where the silk road and the spice road cross, I don’t know what I’ll find, but beginning the search feels good.

God – grant me speed, God – grant me courage, keep Sonia and Zak in your embrace.