Reflections on Afghanistan
By Clarice Dankers
My husband, Hans, was wandering down SE Hawthorne Boulevard in Portland, Oregon, recently and just happened upon a new restaurant. It's called "Kabobi," and it features the cuisine of Afghanistan.
Unfortunately, the restaurant was closed at the time, but Hans did manage to talk to the owner, Kabir Wahedi, for a while. When he came home that evening, he was bubbling all over about his discovery. Naturally, we had dinner there the very next day.
"Why?" you might ask. Why should an Afghan restaurant matter so much to us?
Because we met in Kabul 31 years ago.
I was a newly-arrived Peace Corps Volunteer, and Hans was the co-owner of a business, Carpet Centre Afghanistan, that exported oriental carpets to the Netherlands.
We met one cold, gray evening in early December. A couple of other Peace Corps Volunteers and I had decided to attend the Happy Hour held in the upscale, three-storied home of the American marines. Once a week, they would turn their basement into a little corner of the West—replete with alcohol, darts and dancing to records.
Happy Hour not only attracted Americans, but also Europeans, Brits and Australians. They worked for the embassies, development agencies, and international businesses headquartered in Kabul.
I saw Hans come in the door.
He walked down the basement steps and crossed the room to talk to Jackie, one of my Peace Corps friends. As he did so, I heard a distinct voice in my head whisper, "That's the most interesting man I've seen around here in a long time." Once he had moved on to a seat at the bar, I asked Jackie if he was 1) married and 2) living in Kabul.
She gave me the "right" answers (no, he wasn't married and yes, he lived there), so I asked her to introduce us.
Two weeks later, Hans proposed to me, and 10 months later we were married in Kabul.
My parents and twin sister came from the States for the wedding, and Hans' parents came from Holland.
The wedding took place in the Catholic church at the Italian embassy and was presided over by Father Panigoti, a big-hearted, small-statured (5') man who had spent his life serving in third world countries and who would marry anyone as long as they loved each other.
That evening, we rented an Afghan restaurant, hired a live Afghan band, and invited 150 people to celebrate with us—Hans' business associates, my students, Peace Corps friends.
I still remember the tables piled high with Kabuli palaw, lamb, bolanee, borani, pomegranates, green salad, cucumbers, vine-ripened tomatoes, yoghurt, nan—all redolent of cardamom, cinnamon, cumin and saffron.
Obviously, the world has changed tremendously in the last three decades.
And the proud, creative and vibrant Afghan people—the best language learners I ever had in 12 years of teaching English as a second language to people from around the world—have suffered through decades of endless war.
I look at the wedding pictures of my students surrounding me, their faces smiling, happy, hopeful, and I wonder where they are, how they are, if they are even still alive.
Afghanistan has left an ache in my heart.
And it has tied my husband and me together through the challenges and uneven years through which we've lived. So when we discover an Afghan restaurant in our own backyard, something lights up within us.
We ordered Kabuli palaw (mounds of rice topped with raisins, carrots and almonds) served with a meltingly tender lamb shank; bolanee (lightly-fried pastry shells filled with leeks, potatoes and spices and topped with a yoghurt sauce); aushak (boiled leek pastries), and nan, the thin, unleavened, snowshoe-shaped bread that is unlike any other I've tasted.
We washed all of this down with dogh—a drink made from yoghurt, ice cubes, mint and fresh slices of cucumber—and with endless cups of milky, cardamom-laced black tea (you can help yourself).
I'm happy to say it was all delicious. We will return again. Soon.
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