Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of Zarif Design

Her name is Zolaykha Sherzad, and I had met her in New York in one of those instances of divine intervention.  Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Where are you from?
Her: From Afghanistan.
Me: What?
Her: From Afghanistan.  I'm a fashion designer.
Me: I'm going to Kabul in a week.
Her: What?

And so it was that I found myself in Kabul heading towards Zarif Design.  On the way over, I had a message on my Blackberry from my security detail with the rumors of the day.  It said, this:

INS are using vehicles that have the Red Cross agency logo on the doors. The INS are planning to enter KABUL City in order to conduct terrorist attacks. 

I typed Received and pressed send.  And then I was at the Zarif Design studio.  It was unmarked, as many places are these days in Kabul. Because you have to know, to know.

In a series of rooms,  the cutters, the embroiderers, the tailors were making Zolay's designs.  

I had worn a burqa before - that pleated tent-like garment donned by so many Afghan women.  From the burqa's netted window, the world was filmy, and I had no peripheral vision.  

There was none of that at Zarif Design.  

Not shapeless but shaped.
Not minimized but maximized.
Not anonymity but rather identity. 

 An oasis of color, of pattern, of beauty.

I walked out of Zarif Design with a shopping bag full of beautiful clothes.  But really, I walked out of Zarif Design with so much more.

www.zarifdesign.com

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Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of the Taliban and a musical interlude

Under the Taliban, we weren't allowed to listen to music, he said.

Oh, I replied. 

If we were found listening to a song, there was a special punishment, he explained.

What was it?  I asked.

The Taliban would would unravel the offending person's music cassette ribbon and wrap it around his neck and then cover his face with black ash.  Then they would tie the person sitting backwards on a donkey.  They would hand out potatoes to all the children and encourage them to pelt him with the potatoes.  The donkey would be led through the city for several hours with a loud speaker that cried out, "This is the punishment for those who listen to music!  And after that, the person would be locked up in jail. "

Oh, how terrible, I said.  And how sad to live without music.

Shall we go to the Winter Festival tonight in Kabul?  They're playing a concert, he explained.

I think we should.  Yes, I definitely think we should, I said.

Thankfully, the Taliban weren't invited.

Lives and music.  Yes, music and lives.  

And music lives on in Afghanistan.

Note:  These same Afghanistan National Institute of Music students are about to tour the US (including Carnegie Hall!)!  Read about it here. AMAZING.

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Afghanistan: and a tale of the journey beginning

I settled into the plane seat that would carry me to Dubai for my connecting flight to Kabul. She came right after me.  She used a disinfectant spray on her chair and armrests before cleaning the TV screen in the seat back in front of  her. She then snapped a surgical mask  around her nose and mouth.  For the six hours that were to come, she would watch only Audrey Hepburn films, one after another.  I wondered then about her sanitized and make believe life.  The world was so messy, after all.   

He stood in front of me in line as we boarded the plane to Kabul.  We all looked a bit rumpled, a bit weary -- our shoulders weighed down by our heavy overcoats, our pockets and bags bulging with briefing materials.  But not he.  He wore an ivory velvet suit and matching leather shoes.  He carried no coat, only a slim briefcase in one hand.  His eyes were inscrutable.  I asked myself then if he knew -- if he had any idea -- where we were going.  

After the plane touched down in Kabul, we stood up.  Then one by one, the women -- me included -- began to cover our heads, wrapping our shawls or tying our scarves, until most of our hair was out of sight.  I never liked this part; I would never get used to it.  But that's the way it was and the way it would be.  

Leaving the aircraft, a cold and uncompromising gust of air pushed me back. As I looked at the horizon, I knew that in the city beyond, there was barbed wire and machine guns.  And that a grey choking dust was inescapable.  But I also knew that somewhere in Kabul there was light and beauty and music.  And as I handed my passport to the man behind the hard plastic screen, that was the city I hoped to find.

 

Kabul: and a tale of venturing and adventure

My husband's eyes looked tired when I told him; perhaps he secretly wished he had married the girl next door.  My 13 year old son said imperiously, No, sorry, you can't go, before adding, Can you bring me back a bullet proof vest?  My 11 year old daughter hopped on one foot and then the other and simply said, Mommy, you won't miss the school play will you?

I patted my husband on the arm and told him not to worry.  I informed my son in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't be bringing him back a bullet proof vest.  And I told my daughter that I wouldn't dream of missing her in the school play.  

And so it is that I am leaving for Afghanistan.  Tomorrow.  I'm waiting to write new tales.  And I am looking back on those I've already written, like:

A tale of shopping with the bodyguard.

A tale of when the taliban came to town.

A tale of Kabul and remembering.

I'll be tweeting what I'm seeing if you'd like to come along. 

PS So thrilled to learn that I'm a finalist for Best Writing on a Design Blog.  I'd love it if you'd vote for me here and spread the word. Thank you and shoukran:-)