A bundle of anecdotes

I have made the momentous decision to leave Pakistan, and will be back in the UK in time for Christmas. It was a very difficult decision to make, and I will miss everyone here a huge amount (particularly all the wonderful people at MIED). But I won't say any more about that now or I will start crying (again). (Although I am very much looking forward to seeing everyone back home!)

So now I know I am leaving soon I am becoming nostalgic and seeing things differently. Here follow a few anecdotes that have struck me recently. The main themes about these anecdotes are goats and travelling (puzzled?!) Read on

I travelled by Pakistani bus between Chakwal and Islamabad the other week. It was an experience, to say the least. When I first got on I really didn't see how we could fit as I had to squeeze past quite a few Pakistani men and then was confronted with a whole bus load of bearded men staring up at me. But as I was a woman and clearly a foreigner I was given a seat at the front. Five minutes later we stopped again and I thought it must be to drop people off - no more people could fit. But I severely underestimated the capacity of Pakistani men to squeeze (and the bus to expand?). More and more people got on until the men standing around me formed a little tent above me - it was rather claustrophobic and if I hadn't been sat close to a window I would have had a full blown panic attack. As it was, it seemed that the bus was a legacy from the British and coupled with thoughts about crazy driving and drivers on drugs I was almost ready to clamber out of the window to freedom. But I forced myself to carry on sitting down (albeit with dire thoughts about my own funeral.) Every time we stopped more luggage was thrown on the roof - they can't have had time to tie it down, gravity must work differently here. As soon as the luggage had been thrown up the bus started moving and the luggage guy clambered down the outside of the window, along the side of the bus and inside the door. The whole experience became even more surreal when there were shouts of 'bakra aa raha hai'. I know what bakra means but it didn't twig what it actually meant until a goat squeezed past me. Then jingle bells started playing on someone's mobile phone and I had to pinch myself to make sure I was still awake.

All in all it was a relief when we got to the bus station in Islamabad. It can be quite a performance entering Islamabad by road now, there are many police with guns standing behind barricades and a large majority of vehicles are stopped and searched. Often there are travellers praying by the side of the road right next to the gun towers.

Back on the subject of goats, it was Eid a couple of days ago, and there were many goats and cows tethered outside peoples houses in Islamabad. (This Eid is when Muslims celebrate the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice Ishmael). When I walked into the kitchen on the morning before Eid there was a rather large goat peering around the kitchen door. Again had to pinch myself, not something you expect to encounter bleery eyed and half asleep.

And then that night there were two more goats tethered outside my bedroom window. The next morning I was playing hide and seek with the kids and hid behind my curtain. I looked outside and there was a goats head staring back at me. But I really enjoyed Eid, it was wonderful celebrating it with the Director's family, it was like Christmas with kids running around excitedly and loads of food!

And on that happy note I will end for the moment.

One of the things that struck me in Chitral was how different people's lives have been to mine. I really wanted to hear people's stories and learn what life was like in a mountain village, particularly from the older people who must have so many interesting stories and witnessed such change in their lives. Sometimes it was frustrating not being able to ask people questions because of the language barrier, but while I was there I grabbed Asif and asked him to translate an interview with his mother. I wanted her to tell me what she chose and what she thought was important, so I didn't ask many questions at all, but just listened to her story....

She first started talking about her childhood. When she was very little she remembered playing with dolls as with many little girls, but she also remembered playing with the cattle! The dolls she had were all handmade and beautifully embroidered. When she got older she started helping her parents with domestic work, particularly cooking and sewing. Embroidery was very important - mats, coats, and even entire bridal dresses were all embroidered and then sold. The cost of a whole bridal suit was one ox. Everything was either grown or made themselves, and very little was bought in the bazaar. People did not really use money.

She had an arranged marriage, and had never seen her husband before the wedding. She made all her clothes and suits herself before her marriage. She said that she was very happy to get married, and she had a very caring husband and family with whom she got on well. One story she remembers from early in her married life was some robbers from Swat who came and stole five of their families horses. Her father in law went to meet the robbers in Swat and held a big community meeting and asked the robbers to return the horses. There was such a culture of respect to guests and her father in law was so popular that the horses were returned. One had already been sold at the market in Peshawar so they returned the equivalent price in money. But then horses were stolen a second time, and again her father-in-law went after them, but this time he met the robbers in the mountain and was fired at. A battle took place the whole day, but in the end the robbers ran out of bullets and accepted defeat. He was thanked by the police for this.

She remembers when Pakistan became independent. A national guard was formed in each village and they went around shouting 'Pakistan Zindabad' (long live Pakistan!). Some of those who were against Independence were socially boycotted - she remembers that one woman was forced to ride around the village on a donkey as a punishment. When Independence was declared both men and women came out to celebrate. She said that although people were illiterate it was celebrated with great pomp and show.

She has seen may changes in her village. When she was younger, everything was handmade, there were no vehicles but people used horses for any travelling. She used horses to travel between her parent's home and her husband's home. Then she started travelling in jeeps, then landcruisers, and now there are buses. First they were using lanterns for lighting, then gas, and now electricity. Another thing that has changed is awareness about the importance of education. Although she didn't have an education all her children are highly educated, and all grandchildren go to school.

'Now I am 71 and everyone likes me and I like everyone. People respect me because I am of a first religious family. My door is open to everyone, and they can all eat here. I like smiling faces very much.'

Life in a Chitrali village continued

Here follows a continuation of my description of life in a village in Chitral, in the mountains in the far north of Pakistan. Chitral is in the North West Frontier province, bordering Afghanistan and Swat. But I will remember the hospitality, generosity and friendliness of the people I met for the rest of my life. I stayed with a colleague for two weeks over Eid (the festival following Ramadan).

The houses in the village are mainly traditional, made out of wood, mud, water and stone. Many are built into the side of the mountain. A few times I was accidentally walking on house roofs rather than the mountain / fields, and the only way of telling was the smoke furling out of the chimney!

In an interesting juxtaposition, some houses had satellite dishes fixed to their roofs. Twas very bizarre sitting in Asif's very traditional house in the middle of the Hindu Raj mountains and watching a French film channel and German news.

The traditional houses usually have a large boundary around them, within which there are three buildings - the actual family house, a guest house and the cattle shed. The surrounding land is used for the animals. The guest house is usually a modern building, light and very colourfully designed inside. This really emphasizes the importance that Chitrali families place on entertaining guests well. Asif had built his guest house that I stayed in, and it was beautiful. In contrast the family houses were very traditional. The entrance was usually narrow, small and dark, and then you follow a small and dark corridor and enter the main room - which is the living area, the kitchen and the sleeping area. In the centre is the wood stove which provides all heating, hot water and where all the cooking is done. Around the stove is the sitting area where we have meals, and around that is the sleeping area. Whole extended families of ten people or more live in these houses. Eating with Asif's family was a real experience and very atmospheric - children, parents and grandparents were all crowded around the stove, and fresh meat, chappatis and vegetables were served on a cloth on the floor. Often we were eating by gaslight because the village hydro-electric power plant had broken.

The houses are very strongly built and withstand the frequent earthquakes in the area. Asif showed me a house that he said was over 600 years old. It was also designed so that it could withstand attacks from Nuristani bandits. Within the house the corridor was complicated, narrow and dark with sudden turns to put off any attackers:

The main room was well hidden at the back of the house.

Interesting aspects of local history are passed orally down the generations. For example, when we drove over the Shandur pass Asif showed me a stretch of land where he said that the people of his village met and welcomed a British force under Colonel Kelly. They welcomed the British because they did not like the Chitrali rulers against whom the British were fighting. I have since read that Colonel Kelly led a force of troops from Gilgit over the 12,000 ft Shandur pass in deep snow and impossibly difficult conditions to relieve a British force being sieged in Chitral city. I visited the fort in Chitral where the British were being sieged for several months. Unfortunately the fort is tumbling down now.


Two final observations remain: education was considered very important in the village. There were about nine primary schools for boys and girls in Asif's village alone, and some of the children walked eight miles a day to attend a particularly good school. And secondly, people in the village obviously collaborted a lot so that basic services could be provided in the village. Government interventions were not much in evidence in the village at all - most of the schools were community or NGO run, one road had been built by the community, and there was no electricity provided by the government. So, supported by an NGO, community members were busy building a new hydro-power plant which I visited.

Life in a Chitrali village

Imagine towering masses of barren rock stretching high into the deep blue sky. Impossibly steep slopes of scree reach from the top of a mountain to the bottom, with a light dusting of snow at the top. Fields in the valleys are brown as it is autumn and after the harvesting, but many poplar and birch trees are turning yellow. Fruit trees are beautiful hues of red and gold. There is a river running through the valley, the roar of which can be heard miles away as everything else is so quiet. Streams meander down from the mountains, the water sparkling and dancing in the sunlight. Traditional mud and stone houses, blending into the landscape, are scattered between the fields and golden trees. There are no roads. At night it is pitch black, the sky is a carpet of stars, and the absolute silence is all-enveloping. Snow leopards, ibex and bears prowl in the mountains. Welcome to Baleem, Chitral.

People in Baleem are almost completely self-sufficient – they grow their own wheat and maize for flour, vegetables, beans, and they have yaks, goats, sheep and cattle for meat. They make their own clothes, and carpets out of wool. The food is incredibly fresh and delicious. Breakfast is usually local maize bread eaten with butter, cream or cottage cheese, freshly made.

All families in the village own land used for crops, trees and pasture. Although land is divided between sons, generally all farming is done by the one big extended family, and the produce is eaten by the whole family. All the houses have big stores, where they keep food over the winter. While I was there, people were visibly preparing for the long and hard winter. Crops were being dried on the top of the houses,

yaks were beginning to be slaughtered, men were walking through the village carrying huge piles of grass for the cattle. Women were cleaning the wheat, preparatory to sending it to one of the many flour mills.

These mills are small huts built over fast flowing streams, where the water turns a stone, grinding the wheat and turning it into flour. People pay one shovel load to the worker at the flour mill for each sack of flour. Because the winter is so hard and long, families can do little more than eat and sleep, and try to keep warm! Now however, it is usual for some people to come to Islamabad. As well as owning land, many of the men move to cities to work, and many of the women work as teachers.

About 80% of the villagers are Ismaili, and 20% are Sunni – there are nine (!) Jammat Khanas in the village, and one mosque. But there seems to be quite a lot of inter-marriage – many of Asif’s family are Sunnis. People’s families are huge. I lost track of all Asif’s relatives I was introduced to, and quite quickly. Asif would say: and now we are going to visit my wife’s sister’s mothers brother in law, married to the person we met yesterday. I was reduced to smiling and nodding, although things got a little awkward when he tested me on the people we met…. It even took me a while to get the hang of all his family that lived in his house – four brothers, their wives and many beautiful children. The people I met were very proud to be Ismaili – many people said to me that the area was peaceful because it is Ismaili. And people were exceptionally friendly – everyone we met, almost without exception, greeted us with a salaam and a smile, and I was invited into so many homes and served with so much food. I really do not know how I can repay such generous hospitality. I hope I am doing so slightly now, by spreading the word at how amazingly generous the people of Chitral are.

The village is a lot more liberal than I expected. Women and girls walk feely around the village and valleys, often doing hard work. They greet and shake or kiss hands with men – it is traditional here for younger people to kiss the hand of older men or women as a sign of respect. The houses are always open for guests. Women can be the head of the household if they outlive their husband. Then they are consulted on all decisions related to the running of the household and greatly respected. But many of the girls and younger women are very shy, especially with a foreigner.

Everyone speaks Khowar, (also called Chitrali). Chitrali is spoken through the whole of Chitral, surprisingly enough, but also in parts of Ghizer, the neighbouring district in the Northern Areas (only accessible over the 12,000 foot Shandur pass). Many of the younger children and older people speak only a very little Urdu, and no English, which caused problems some times. When visiting one house, with the whole family from tiny baby to great grandmother staring avidly at me, I tried vainly to make conversation. And so I asked the old lady: apka naam kya hain (what is your name, in Urdu). She answered: ‘jam’ which is ‘good’ in Khowar, obviously not having understood a word!! The whole family burst out laughing, and conversation didn’t really flourish. The area is so isolated that the older people haven’t needed Urdu in their lives. There is only one phone in the village, electricity only at night, and seven hours in a painful jeep ride to the nearest city. Even now, for example, most of the people ignored the new daylight saving time introduced by Islamabad, and worked on the old timings.

To be continued …..

A window onto culture at the roof of the world

This entry is a brief interlude in my Chitral story. Never fear, the next stage will be written very shortly, but in the meantime one of my colleagues (Tayib Jan) has written an article about traditions in the Wakhi culture. The Wakhi people come from the Wakhan corridor in Afghanistan, which is a narrow stretch of land between N Pakistan and Tajikistan. But Wakhi people now live in Afghanistan, Pakistan, China and Tajikistan, in the Pamir region. Nearly all Wakhi people are Ismaili, and their language is very similar to Persian. The following article is about their traditons and culture, particularly within the family. I really wish he had given it to me before I went to Chitral, as the culture there is quite similar, and according to this I made some fundamental errors. But never mind....

'Childhood, youth and old age are natural phenomenon, but they are also socially constructed and mean different things in different societies. Generally, for the purposes of gauging human development, stages are classified as beginning, early childhood, middle childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, middle adulthood and late adulthood. There are not age limits as such set internationally or nationally at what age we are young and at what age one gets old. It has more to do with the cognitive abilities and working capacity or physical activeness. Some people used to say that when the hair turns gray one becomes old, but today even very young children have grey hair. Socially it can be measured against more or less experience; a synonym for being knowledgeable against being naïve or novice. When youth assume that the old people are ignorant of the demands of time, or when old people think that the youth has a little know-how of the world and its complexities, cracks can develop in society.

Many societies and families have long traditions of authority in which most decisions are made by the elders. If the tradition of accepting the elders is deeply inculcated in the youth the system moves very smoothly. Otherwise, issues of disagreement escalate and on occasions turn into serious revolt. In some cases children have tried to get rid of their elders by sending them to old age facility centers or used some other innovative brutal ways. In other cases the youth have tried a simpler way of just ignoring them despite of the age related requirement that the need to be in some company at least for few hours a day to share the wealth the knowledge they have stored from childhood through youth and to the old age. Some old people are smart and lucky enough to find their grandchildren as their friends. They talk to them and love listening to their experiences and reflect on how much the world has changed.

The Wakhi older adults are good models of vigor and zest. Some people live to ripe old age, as my own grandfather grew as old as 120 years. There are some social factors attached to energy that boost their morale because they feel honoured in the society. In this paper I am going to talk about the titles used for them, decision making, and position at home, dinning, dancing and walking. This paper will not only help the honorable visitors of the Wakhi homes rather it will also allow our own youth to remind themselves of the traditional values of our society. I am aware of the fact that their will be commonalities in other traditions such as Brushaski, Shina, Khowar, and Dari but I will focus on Wakhi so that I do not confuse people.

The Wakhi elders can be called “Mapair”, “Akabeer”, Moye Safeed” or Akhasqool”. Mapair and Akhasqool have the same meaning as old man. Therefore people do not use both these words as they have negative connotations. Akabeer (wise man) and Moye Safeed (white haired man or women meaning experienced). But the most common word used is “Puop”, which means grandfather. The beauty of this title is that it is not necessary that a person needs to be a real grandfather to be called pup. All old males are called pup and while meeting them the first time after a long absence it is necessary to kiss the back of their hands. In return the pup will also kiss the back of your hand. Old ladies are called “Kumpir” meaning old woman and “moum” meaning grandmother. Old women are normally called mum whether they are really grandmother or not and it is an obligation to kiss the back of their hands while visiting them.

The elders of the family, whether male or female, make most of the decisions at home. The decision-making process is mostly participatory and based on common understanding. In the case of marriages, Wakhis are moderate as the boys and girls decide to whom they should marry. The process is carried out through informed consent of the family, especially with the elders.

The elders sit at the most honorable and reserved place in the traditionally built homes. The man sits on the right side and the woman on the left. Nobody else can take their position no matter whether they are head of state or the wealthiest person. The guests, however, can be offered to sit in their places but it is normally considered a good attitude to let the poup or moum sit in their position and the guest sits beside them. In the same fashion the rest of the house is divided into second, third and so on ages. If a person is really naïve it is said he/ she is so simple that “does not know how to sit or stand”. One needs to be really careful in visiting a Wakhi house to avoid taking somebody’s place. The youngest (no matter how educated or having good social status) gets a place in the “burj” means corner in a fully packed house. Relaxing your feet towards somebody or sitting in a way that somebody is at your back is the rudest act.

Food is normally served at a fixed time and at particular place, called the Neekard in the traditional houses. The sheet that is spread on the floor to put the food on is called “Destorkhon”, which is the same in Dari and Persian. It is generally a clean piece of cloth or plastic sheet and people sit around it. When the food is served every body waits the eldest of in the group to start first and other people follow. One of the people takes a full roti called “Shapeek” and offers it to others to take. In such situation one takes a small piece and thanks the person who offers it. Wakhi eating style is very formal, the host will keep on suggesting taking more. Sometimes when this is done by the host puop the situation gets serious! The puop suggests eating more food and can keep on loading your plate with meat or rice. In this case simply ignoring the offer or rejecting it is unacceptable behavior which is really rude. The young are supposed to keep a speed that they finish later than then elders. One can not stop eating until the elders are finished eating. When a person wants to take water he/ she offers others to take it first. In most of cases it is politely rejected by thanks “Schobosh” or “shukriya”. After the food everyone offers prayers for the host and the family who served them. The puop prayers in Wakhi are, for example “May God fill your house with riches”, May God bless all your family” and a lot or more which will be another topic of my writing.

Wakhi, especially men, like dancing but it is very well developed social activity. If somebody wants to see the hierarchy of age in a family or in a bigger clan one should see the dancing line. The line goes from the eldest to elders and to young children. Everybody in a dancing team should follow the team leader who is the most senior person in steps, body movement and speed. The whole dancing team will salute the eldest in the audience before, during and after the dance which lasts 5 to 10 minutes. To show respect the audience encourages the dancers by clapping. Crossing the elders to take the lead, taking a longer time, breaking the row, deferring the elders’ footsteps or standing at the wrong position is really impolite.

Wakhi people like walking, and the landscape where we come from means that we need to walk. Walking in the Wakhi tradition is really difficult - there are some complexities and formalities related to it. The Wakhi elders usually lead the walking and they keep the same hierarchy while walking in a line. This does not mean that whenever the Wakhi walk they walk in a line, but it has something to do with the landscape. There are a lot of narrow walking tracks spread all over the area so people are compelled to follow narrow windings.

Some people might think these are just symbolic but there are tokens of respect attached to all these rituals. There are no certain criteria by which respect can be measured rather it is day and night. The presence of light is called day while the absence of it is night. The same is the case with this semiotic representation of elders’ respect.

Kafiristan!!

Chitral is delicately balanced between Afghanistan and Swat, in the Hindu Kush mountains. Given this (interesting?) geographical location I had a major internal struggle over whether to go with a colleague, who had invited me to stay with his family over Eid. But both the Foreign Office and VSO said the area is peaceful, so I didn’t give in to fear and boldly went to a place where many other foreigners have been before.

After arriving in Chitral, after a mere 45 minute flight, I had to go to the District Police Office so I could register as a foreigner. After that surprisingly quick process, we started on the journey to Kafiristan – the Kalash valleys. The Kalash valleys are famous because the people there are the only non-Muslims in a large area. They have their own very different religion and traditions, and it is thought that they are descendents from the army of Alexander the Great.

The journey was quite incredible – the mountains were huge, the valleys green, and the road was, well very bumpy, to say the least. I thought I was getting used to mountain roads, but at some points this one was completely gauged out of granite rock – huge tons of rock seemed to be hanging delicately over the road. Plus, we had a normal car rather than one built for such roads, which clattered considerably, so I was rather worried about the state of the tyres.

As we got closer I felt more and more guilty that I was going to gawp at people like they were museum exhibits. But actually when we got there the guy I was with, Asif, had friends there – he seems to have contacts everywhere (used to be a politician!!). So we met his friends, who made tea for us, and then we were shown around the village. Walking around the streets was wonderful. It seemed to an outsider to be a gentle and slow rhythm of life – women were walking around carrying produce, chatting in the streets, kids were playing, and everyone smiled and greeted us.

The women’s clothes were colourful, intricately designed and made, and very beautiful. But it definitely wasn’t a village untouched by modernity - there were adverts for pepsi, and signs basically saying ‘NGO x woz ‘ere’. I really didn’t like that, it was like the NGOs were taking ownership over the village, and saying ‘congratulations to us, we’ve bought these people into the modern world.’ But at the same time I was told about one Kalash woman who had started her own NGO. And the Kalash people obviously hold very closely onto their culture. When women give birth or menstruate they go to a special house where men are not allowed. If a man goes beyond a certain line he has to pay a fine of one goat.

One thing really shocked me – Asif pointed to a particular direction, and said – walk three hours in that direction (admittedly over rather a large mountain), and you get to Afghanistan, Nuristan, and Taliban central. (Behind the mountain in the photo: Afghanistan).

I couldn’t take it in that I was so close to such a dangerous area, yet the Kalash valleys were completely safe and peaceful. I assume that the nature of the villages is very similar in Nuristan and Kafiristan – remote, mountainous, similar crops being grown, life dictated by the seasons. But how can villages so close to each other geographically have people with such a different attitudes to life, cultures and traditions?

In a second village we visited we went to the graveyard which was fairly disturbing, as they used to have open graves (not any more). As much as I tried not to look, I could still see bones in some of the old graves. After Asif met someone else he knew, we started on the long drive back to Chitral, but the excitements of the day were not over. When we got back into mobile phone range I got some texts from VSO saying that Islamabad airport had been closed and all flights suspended due to a bomb scare. It must have happened just after we left. I’m ashamed to say that I had another major panic attack. But I spoke to my parents who have completely changed their tune from saying get on the first flight back to the UK, to saying: oh just enjoy it. So I will, and decided to postpone worrying about how to get back until the time came.

We stayed with Asif’s brother in Chitral. Chitral city is quite conservative – there were no women in the bazaar, so I slightly stood out, even though I had my head covered. Even Ismaili women, who I stayed with, completely covered their face when they went out, and would not venture out without a man, even though in their village they were a lot freer. I was wondering why Chitral is so peaceful given its proximity to Swat, Afghanistan and some tribal agencies. Chitral city itself is mainly Sunni, as it lower Chitral, but upper Chitral is mainly Ismaili. However, there is quite a lot of inter-marriage between the sects. A couple of years ago when there were Taliban incursions into Chitral there were large and peaceful protests. In Dir at the moment, which borders lower Chitral and Afghanistan, the Taliban are making incursions, but citizens are taking matters into their own hands by forming militia. The other week four Taliban were caught in this way. And lists of known Taliban are published and publicly displayed.

The day after Kafiristan we embarked on the six hour journey to Baleem, Asif’s village. Asi kept warning me it was going to be a long and difficult journey, and I thought I was prepared after yesterday. However, we travelled in a local form of transport, so people were packed in like sardines, and several men were on the roof.

I was lucky enough to be in the front seat, but sat next to Asif with barely room to breathe. The journey was stunning though – we could see Terech Mir, the largest mountain in the Hindu Kush range, for a long time which was amazing, especially when the sun was setting. Although Asif had repeatedly told me that Chitral was green (in security terms – it was completely safe), when we got to one village he casually mentioned that this was where Osama Bin Laden’s left hand man was killed, and it was his cousin who killed him over a land dispute. I only managed a weak smile in response to that.

When we got to the village it was 11 o’clock at night, pitch dark and freezing cold. There were no roads in the village, so we had to walk about 20 minutes to reach Asif’s house. When we got there though Asif showed me to his own guest house! I was so tired I went almost immediately to sleep, to the comforting sound of the call of the jackal.

A round up of the last two weeks

Yesterday morning I was in Chitral and there was a small earthquake – the house I was in shook slightly. Yesterday afternoon I was in Islamabad and there was a sudden huge clap of thunder and I almost jumped out of my skin. This morning I was in the office and there was a big bang and the doors and windows of the office shook. Another suicide bomber.

What can I say? A return to Surrey looks quite tempting now? But Chitral was unbelievably beautiful and peaceful. The people were so open and friendly and I was treated with such hospitality and generosity it almost reduced me to tears at one point!

But I should backtrack slightly. The last couple of weeks have been fairly eventful, so I’ll start where I left off last time. First of all, here follow my experiences of Ramazan:

- someone at the office offering to go out and get food for me, and then coming back and producing some biscuits from UNDERNEATH his (rather sweaty) kameez
- jumping about a metre high whenever someone comes into my office and I am surreptitiously trying to eat something
- exchanging a conspiratorial wink with the cook whenever I go to get some water or food from the kitchen
- being brought some toast and apple after work by the Director’s 12 year old daughter who was fasting
- getting progressively more bad tempered as the days go on and I can only manage to eat a few biscuits during the day
- witnessing the beginning of a fight between two men in a nearby markaz at the end of the day
- sitting and watching food waiting for the call to prayer so we can start eating iftar (at sunset)
- going out for iftar at the viewpoint over Islamabad and eating a large amount of iftar food (samosas and fruit) and then having to eat a full dinner of curry
- when in Chitral jumping a mile high during a siren sound exactly like the Second World War air raid warnings. After looking up into the sky unproductively I realised it was the sign to start eating
- no power cuts!! (which, after Ramazan, have again restarted)

Secondly, here follows an entry that I wrote two weeks ago but delayed in uploading it because I was away in Chitral. Be warned, I was not happy two weeks ago.

'I have usually tried to be entertaining on my blog, which has often meant I have focused on the positive things and not when things go wrong. But I am now close to despairing. The security situation is spiralling out of control. The news is getting worse and worse every time I look at the BBC website. Pakistan shooting at US helicopters, BA cancelling flights to Pakistan, the High Commission advising against all non-essential travel to cities in Pakistan…. I have never personally felt threatened the entire time I have been here, and I have met hospitality, openness and friendship that has greatly exceeded my expectations. But now the news gnaws away at me leaving a constant feeling of insecurity every time I go out of the house.

And to add to that, last week I was rather angry at the actions of certain INGOs, and now I am just completely disillusioned by the entire development industry. First of all there is no accountability of donor organisations to local NGOs – because donors have the money they have the power, so can basically act as they wish. This has led to actions which at best can be construed as highly unprofessional – decisions delayed for months for no apparent reason, reversed decisions. The rhetoric of ‘partnership’ and ‘working together for justice’ that pervades all INGO literature and promotional material seems to be hypocritical.

Secondly, the whole system is unnecessarily complicated – a lot of money comes initially from big government donors (USAID, DFID, CIDA), which is channelled through INGOs based in the developed world, which then reaches local organisations on the ground. This leads to unnecessary complications as each different donor has different reporting requirements. It also leads to uncertainty and delayed decisions for the organisations who are actually working with the ‘poor’. Bureaucracy can take precedence over actually bringing change.

And finally, the system means that organisations working in the same field are reduced to competing for scarce resources, which leads to professional jealousy and competition rather than working together to combine expertise. It is not like there is not enough work for everyone.

The one hope for this country that is spiralling out of control is education. So I am unbelievably frustrated that the un-professionalism and bureaucracy of donor INGOs who, in their own rhetoric should be ‘bringing hope to the poor’ is threatening a local NGO that is not corrupt and has a real vision and commitment. If I compare MIED with some of the horror stories from other NGOs – senior management forcing employees to return half of their salary each month, absolutely no work being done and lying to the donors… MIED’s staff is so dedicated and committed – many have told me that they are sticking with MIED through all the uncertainty, even though they have been offered much better paid jobs elsewhere. And a few have said that they will work for MIED without pay if the worst came to the worst.

But today I agreed to extend my contract until the end of December. Why? Well, the events of the last two weeks still have not entirely extinguished the spark of hope that change can occur and that justice will be done.

After writing this I went away on holiday for two weeks, but that entry can wait for next time. It will be slightly more cheerful (with a few fab photos....)