I’ve Seen Fire and I’ve Seen Rain.
We’ve “moved in” to the new apartment in one sense but not the other. We and all our stuff are in. On the other hand, very little has found its permanent place, and it may be months before it all does. About forty boxes, mostly full of books, are stacked up against the dining alcove wall. Most of them are white boxes with the green triangle logo of Cary Reconstruction, the disaster specialists who moved us. A night or two ago J cast a jaundiced eye on the stack and said, “What’s all that beer doing here?” I cracked up, because that’s how it does look, even to me, who never owned a bar.
I needn’t have worried about feeling eerily as if I was back in the old apartment. Despite having the same layout, this one feels very different. I’m somehow very aware of the different compass orientation, not only because of the sunlight that pours in on clear afternoons, but geomagnetically, or something — I can feel it. And the place has different problems. It’s pouring out today, and we’re lower. Rising streams and puddles turning to small ponds outside the window and porch threaten to creep into the foundations and over the threshold, reminding me that I just signed an obligatory renter’s insurance policy that specifically excludes flood.
The cheapness of the construction and maintenance here is both comical and disheartening. The “hardwood” floor is actually a thin, plastic-treated hardwood veneer that goes “pat, pat” like linoleum when you walk on it. It’s fine with me — very easy to clean, and far preferable to the puked-up-oatmeal-beige carpeting — but the maintenance guys installed it themselves with endearing amateurism, leaving a few scraps or screws under it that make large boils in the “wood” that aren’t fun to step on barefoot. There’s a big gap in the weather stripping of the front door through which, on cold nights, cold air pours directly into our heating bill. One of the maintenance guys patched it with sticky-backed weather stripping that came off the second time the door was opened.
Oddly, too, we seem to have moved into the tenements of our prefabricated “neighborhood.” Crying newborns, rowdy kids, and vicious marital quarrels in the breezeway are all part of the new soundscape, making our former milieu at the top of the hill seem downright genteel.
It’s still an improvement (hey, when we come back from a walk I don’t have to push the wheelchair up that hill!), and a chance to start fresh in a more orderly way. Kitty litter and cat hair show up on the shiny floor as they did not on the oatmealy carpet, prompting good new habits of near-daily sweeping. The absence of the hideous carpet, and the slow seeping-in of acceptance that, Toto, we’re not in Manhattan any more, make me more disposed to try to make this place into a home I kind of like.
But life goes on, and there isn’t time (or bookcase space, yet) to devote to an orgy of “moving in” in the second sense. As much as I would like to have a cozy home in time for the holidays, I’m going to have to content myself with doing it — as Bookaholics Anonymous would say — one box at a time.
“Now is not the time to withdraw.”
A timely read on Afghanistan from a most unlikely source:
We were a group of eight women and one man organized by Code Pink, Women for Peace, and we arrived in Kabul believing the U.S. should withdraw its troops and spend more money on development.
After eight days, our presumptions were turned upside down, splitting us into camps with conflicting opinions. Some still wanted an exit strategy, but one woman who’s spent 40 years in non-violent peace work reversed her lifelong stand, believing the military should stay and more troops might be helpful. “It shocks me to admit this,” she said. […]
[M]eeting with a wide range of Afghans […w]hat surprises us is that almost all say they want U.S. troops to stay, for security and to train the Afghan army. Even those who are hostile to U.S. policy say, “Now is not the time to withdraw.” […]
Asad Farhad, a former minister of finance, tells us that if all foreign troops are withdrawn, “This government collapses in 48 hours and we have what we had before: killing, looting, rape.”
Paul [the lone male peace activist] is perplexed. “I’d read that only 20 per cent of Afghans want American troops to stay, but that’s not what we’re finding.”
One woman, an attorney, wonders out loud whether the group ought to reconsider its call for a quick exit strategy. Code Pink cofounder Medea Benjamin jumps in, warning that believing is more important than seeing:
Medea breaks in, “Let’s not be so quick to change our thinking. In the first days you get bombarded with new ideas. At the end we’ll see what we want to integrate in our bedrock beliefs.” I ask what those beliefs are. “The military can’t defeat the Taliban,” she says. “Countries have to work out democracy on their own and women have to find ways to liberate themselves.”
So much for solidarity with oppressed sisters.
The story continues with a visit to a group of women, from their 20s to their 50s, “on fire for learning.” The stories of women’s fate are harrowing, the questions and the answers far from simple. For Afghan women, the Taliban is not the only enemy: tradition and ignorance are even worse. Can we Americans fight that?
Can we not?
I have more to say on this, but will save it for dialog in the comments.
Ambiance 