Two Books

This blog is about two not-so-new books that I have just gotten around to reading: The Forever War by Dexter Filkins, and Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and Oliver Relin.

I read The Forever War first, determined to gain at least a rudimentary knowledge of the war in Iraq and Afghanistan and the troubled region that surrounds them. I wanted to be able to watch the news without glazing over in confusion, ignorance, and yes, even boredom, when they talk about the numerous insurgent groups and the areas they control. Above all, I hoped to learn more about the root causes of the extreme hatred of Americans in that part of the world. I sat down with my map, highlighters, and index cards and began what I thought would be a difficult read.

I whipped through The Forever War like a dime store novel. Dexter Filkins, a foreign correspondent for The New York Times in Afghanistan and Iraq, is a master storyteller who has been in the region for over 20 years, and has witnessed first-hand the rise of the Taliban in the 90’s, the aftermath of September 11 and the wars in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Much of that time he’s been imbedded with the Marines, in as much danger as they were but without a gun. From his book, and with a little help from Wikipedia, I learned or clarified the following things about Afghanistan:

• The social scene in late 1960’s Kabul resembled that of any modern western city. Women wore mini-skirts, men were clean-shaven without turbans, liquor was served and music and dancing were very much enjoyed.
• The 70’s were a decade of coups, reprisals, and the Soviet Invasion in 1979, which actually came about at the request of the Afghan government. They needed help to overthrow the Mujahideen, who were trying to take over the country. But the Mujahideen (with covert support from the US CIA) drove out the Soviets, and proceeded to carve up the country and rule it like war lords.
• In the late 80’s, the mujahideen fought each other in the subsequent Afghan Civil War.
• The Taliban were a group of Afghan Islamists, many who had studied in madrasahs in Pakistan during the Soviet occupation. They expelled the mujahideen and ruled Afghanistan from 1996 to 2001. They restored order to the country, but replaced it with extreme Fundamentalism. Their agenda is strictly concerned with Afghanistan, and they have never had a global terrorist agenda.
• Al-Qaeda is NOT the same as the Taliban. It is compromised mostly of Arabs or Islamic militants from countries other than Afghanistan. They are more of a globalized, anti-imperialist movement focused on jihad against the US, and they (NOT the Taliban) are responsible for 9/11. They are funded largely by wealthy Saudis like Osama Bin Laden.

Keeping all of that in mind, it is still difficult to understand who’s fighting whom and why in Afghanistan. Dexter Filkins compares it to a game of pickup basketball. “On Tuesday, you might be part of a fearsome Taliban regiment, running into a minefield. And on Wednesday you might be manning a checkpoint for some gang of the Northern Alliance. By Thursday, you could be back with the Talibs again.” Filkins explains that war is part of everyday life for the Afghan people, and it’s like a job. Only the civilians seem to lose.

In that region of the world, many tribal traditions dictate that each tribe must take revenge for the death of one of its members. Every time a citizen is killed, we create another family who needs to take revenge. They see daily footage of screaming women carrying their dead children out of bombed out buildings, and hear them repeatedly referred to as “collateral damage.” For this, we will never be forgiven. The campaign to influence their hearts and minds is a folly.

In 1989, I took a class at Harvard Extension School that focused on terrorism, which was something that I thought of, at that time, as a hardship endured by other countries not my own. The professor assured me and the rest of the class that terrorism would be coming soon to our own shores. I remember him saying that every time a plane is hijacked, the hijacker never expects to get what he demands. He may say he wants a bag of money and an island in the Caribbean and the release of many prisoners, but all he really wants, if even for one brief moment before he is gunned down on a tarmac, is to be powerful, respected, and most of all, to be heard. I thought about that when I read about a Taliban leader that Filkins interviewed who expressed his deep frustration that, after conquering 90% of the country, the UN would not extend them formal recognition.

As far as trying to discern what the people of Iraq and Afghanistan think of our country, my impressions after reading this book were perhaps the most sobering thing I learned. Regardless of their religion, tribe, ethnic background, education or socio-economic class, the one thing they can agree upon is their hatred for America’s occupation of their countries. While on an individual level, they are generous, loyal and respectful of Americans they know and trust, they feel insulted and betrayed by the US, and every day we remain in their country makes it worse.

Like Dexter Filkins, Greg Mortenson, author of Three Cups of Tea, is a trusted American. After becoming injured during a failed attempt to climb K2 in 1993, Mortenson recovered in a Pakistani village, where he observed its 84 children sitting outside, scratching their lessons in the dirt with sticks. Three Cups of Tea is an inspirational story, beautifully written, about how one extraordinary man, with no money or construction experience, returned to that village to build them a school, and over the next decade built 81 schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Mortenson’s efforts stand in sharp contrast to the millions of dollars our government is pouring into Afghanistan to help rebuild the damage we have done. He has said, “By building relationships, and getting a country to invest its own land and labor, we can construct and maintain a school for a generation that will educate thousands of children for less than 20 thousand dollars. That’s about half what it would cost the government of Pakistan to build the same school, and one-fifth of what the World Bank would spend on the same project.”

Mortenson’s volunteers come from all the warring sects of Islam. Illiterate high-altitude porters have given up their good jobs to earn paltry wages assisting Mortenson to provide their children with the education they never had. A taxi driver who happened to pick up Mortenson at the Islamabad airport sold his cab and became Mortenson’s “fixer”, protecting him from danger, assisting him with language and customs, greasing the skids wherever necessary. Over and over, former Taliban fighters have renounced violence and oppression of women after meeting Mortenson.

Syed Abbas, the Supreme Leader of Pakistan’s Shia is one of Mortenson’s biggest supporters. “Our Holy Koran tells us that all children should receive education, including our daughters and our sisters” he has said. Greg Mortenson is attacking the root cause of terrorism every time he offers a child an alternative to an extremist madrassa.

Because of his vast knowledge of the people, their customs, and the geography, Mortenson is often consulted by our military. In one such session, he lamented the hundreds of $840,000 cruise missiles we have launched into Afghanistan, pointing out that for the cost of one of them, we could have built dozens of schools and educated tens of thousands of students. And he asked them, “Which do you think will make us more secure?”

These two books make it clear that if our goal in the middle east is to achieve peace in the region and safety for our country, then our current strategy is all wrong. We will never find and kill every insurgent, but by providing impoverished children with an alternative to fundamentalist madrassas, we can prevent the creation of new insurgents, and those educated students can help make a dent in the crushing poverty that created the environment that nourished the old ones.

Further, we need to educate the citizens of our own country to understand the complexities of the numerous religions, ethnicities and tribal customs of the people of middle east. They are not all guilty, we are not all innocent, and we need to be able to say that without having our love of our country questioned.

The Oy of Cooking

I don’t love to cook. I can get a meal on the table, but I have never experienced “the joy of cooking.” At the age of 11, my daughter became a vegetarian who didn’t eat vegetables, or onions. My husband, on the other hand, is an easy-going guy who loves Spam, especially when it’s fried. He and our Golden Retriever of 16 years had similar palates. If I’m not careful about cleaning out the refrigerator, he’s been known to eat moldy cheese, rotten fruit, and green, fuzzy casseroles.

Menus became less challenging when our vege-terrible moved out, and yet more complicated with concerns about trans-fats and pesticides. Farmer’s Markets seemed like the answer, and I gave them my best shot. I cheerfully stuffed my old-lady shopping cart full of reusable bags and dragged it across bumpy, muddy, stadium-sized fields in search of *healthy food*. I found farmer’s markets to be utterly bewildering. It’s like having 15 different produce sections at randomly opposite locations in the supermarket, as well as numerous sections of dairy, bakery, prepared foods, honey products and flowers. I know I should walk through the entire market and look at everything before I start making my choices, but after about 5 minutes of getting trampled by herds of running children and dogs, swatting at swarming bees around all the fruit samples and signing a petition for chicken’s rights, there could never be enough lute players dressed in Renaissance clothing to put the fun back in those fairs for me. I wind up grabbing whatever looks good on my way to the car, and consider myself lucky if I haven’t wheeled my cart through dog poop on the way there.

But I’m happy to report that in the last six months, two great things have happened to improve my relationship with food. (And no, one of them is not Julie and Julia. Don’t kid yourself; those women are sick.) I’m referring to Irv & Shelly’s, a smart, green company that delivers local, organic, in season produce to my door, (http://www.freshpicks.com/ for my Chicago area readers) and a cookbook entitled How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman.

Every Wednesday afternoon, a giant box of gorgeous produce appears at my door. I spread it out on the kitchen counter like Halloween loot while feeling, I confess, both excited and a little panicky. Since I allow them to choose for me from the best that they have every week, I don’t know what I’m getting until I unwrap it all, and even then, I’ve never seen some of this stuff. Last week there was something called garlic scapes, which look like those curly fireworks that you light on the sidewalk. A flyer with ideas comes with my shipment every week, but they’re not exactly recipes.

“Try making a pesto with these!” Irv & Shelly suggested. "Roughly chop your garlic scapes and toss in a food processor with grated parmesan, pine nuts and olive oil." Without knowing how to clean a garlic scape, much less what part to use and what quantities of the other ingredients I needed, I guessed at everything and kept tasting until I had something that even my daughter the vege-terrible liked. Every time this happens I feel like I’ve invented electricity.

I’m approaching the whole “what the heck am I gonna make for dinner” question from a different perspective. Instead of menu planning first and then making a grocery list, I look at everything I’ve got and say, “What can I make with this?” It’s like Scrabble with food. And I owe this current reckless, creative streak to my new best friend in the kitchen, Mark Bittman. I heard him on NPR one day, talking a caller and her pie crust off a ledge, and I liked his vibe. I picked up his big, red doorstop called How to Cook Everything, and I’m suddenly cooking a variety of grains and vegetables I never knew existed. I don’t recognize the inside of my refrigerator. Bittman’s book is more about the basics of cooking certain food groups than it is about recipes, although they are certainly included, too. But it’s much more conducive to my new approach to cooking, and using what I have.

My mother always used what she had, and she was a pretty good cook for her times. But there was one meal we all dreaded, and when we saw the meat grinder come out of the pantry we knew what was coming: Hash & eggs night. Every morsel of leftover food from all the major food groups went into that hash, and it reminded me of plastic vomit.

Never a fan of recycled leftovers and about-to-turn produce, I find with the help of Mark Bittman and his short, simple instruction on “How to Improvise a Soup”, I can make a tasty meal using almost everything I’ve got in the fridge on Tuesday to make room for my new shipment of food the next day. I think my soups are infinitely better than my mom’s hash, and Charlie loves them. Which is, now that I think about it, a bit like saying, “Even the dog eats it.”

Never mind.

Last Wishes

Charlie and I happened to be in Seattle last week, and decided to take the car ferry over to Bainbridge Island. We found two comfortable seats with a table between them at the very back of the boat, where we could watch the Space Needle disappearing slowly out the huge picture window . It was a cold day – normal for Seattle – and very few people braved the deck. By the time we were ten minutes offshore, it was empty. We sipped our coffee and stared at our large wake and the seagulls following us. We were the only ones sitting in our small section of seats. It was lovely.

Suddenly a small group of people with a large shopping bag appeared on the deck: A gray-haired, sturdy-looking woman in her 70’s, and two younger women and a man in their 40’s. They were all fussing over the shopping bag. Each of them removed a long-stem pink carnation from it, and the man removed a very large plastic bag. It appeared to be heavy and awkward as he struggled to hold it over the stern. A puff of white dust rose up and back for several seconds as the bag emptied. The group had a long, four-way hug, and then took turns casting their flowers into the sea.

I had the feeling of being somewhere I shouldn’t be, of invading this family’s private sorrow. Charlie and I looked at each other. “Do you think it’s a dog?” he whispered, though there was no way they could have heard us. “Way too many ashes,” I said, shaking my head. We were both mesmerized; we could not look away. A bottle and four shot glasses came out of the shopping bag. The glasses were filled, raised, and thrown back – twice. “They’re toasting the dead guy,” I whispered to Charlie. “How do you know it’s a guy?” he asked. “Women don’t want to be scattered a sea,” I said, and immediately regretted it. I would jump all over him if he said that.

“Remember Duffy’s memorial service?” I asked him, and we both smiled. We’d scattered our Golden Retriever’s ashes in the pond at the edge of our property in Cape Cod. It was where he’d spent the happiest hours of his life, thrashing around in the shallow water after schools of tiny fish, his heavy, sopping wet tail wagging a constant spray of fetid water. After we scattered his ashes, our daughter, Becky, Charlie and I each said a little something. Me: “There won’t be any thunder storms where you’re going, Duff.” Becky: “You’re allowed on the sofa and you can get someone to scratch your tummy all day long.” Charlie: “Lay off the Burger King wrappers, Buddy.” Then we each threw him a Milk Bone.

There had also been a lovely service for our cat about ten years earlier. We buried him in his favorite place on our property where it met the woods and the mouse hunting was especially good. It was the day before Thanksgiving, a light snow was falling, the sky was gray, and several of the neighborhood children joined our family for the service shortly after the school bus dropped them off. Becky recited her favorite cat poem entitled “Sandpaper Kisses”, and then proceeded to read the entire Puss & Boots. She did not seem to notice that most of the shivering mourners, including Charlie and me, had begun to drift off. Her best buddy from next door hung in there with her until the end.

My thoughts turned to my own wishes, which have been a work in progress for many years. I’m of the opinion that it’s never too soon to start planning your own Memorial Service, and had long ago discussed with my friend Carlene, gardener extraordinaire, being scattered in her compost heap. It occurs to me now, however, that since Carlene is older than I am, I’m not sure what will become of her compost heap if she pre-deceases me, so I should probably revise that plan. I still love the idea of my cremains getting folded in with all that rich organic ooze, and coming back up the next season with the flowers and vegetables. Then I remembered that my daughter and the families of my beloved step-sons all have compost heaps. Right then and there, I instructed Charlie to divide my ashes between any or all of them who didn’t find the idea too creepy. He promises to do this, but I’m not sure I trust him to remember. I’m considering a website for my instructions, so I can be sure they won’t get lost. Something with a catchy URL, like http://www.joansdead.com/. I think they can remember that.

I'm Back!

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Well, I’m back. Sorry I got distracted there for a year and a half. I should explain that there’s a very fine line for me between having enough to do so that I don’t get bored, and having so much to do that my anxiety disorder kicks in. All of my previous blogs were written while we were in Florida for 3 months and I wasn’t taking any classes.

Shortly after I wrote my last blog, we came back to Chicago, bought a house and moved within four weeks time. Concurrently, I resumed my usual back-breaking schedule of one class a quarter at Northwestern, where I’m working on a Masters in Creative Writing. So, the combination of those activities along with my regular full-time job (Worrying), had me putting certain activities like my blog on the back burner.

I’ve been trying to quit my Worrying job for years now. It’s tough, because my philosophy on life has always been that the more I worry, the safer my family will be, the better my essay will be, the better the chances are that everyone attending a gathering at my house will have a good time, etc.

I’ve always believed that if I worry enough, I can prevent myself and my loved ones from ever experiencing a single moment of pain or unhappiness. Every second that my mind is not otherwise occupied, it sifts through all of my past and present activities and conversations to determine what can be done to make the future perfect, and what I could have done/said to prevent imperfections of the past. And in those moments, I sincerely believe that I am that powerful (no cape required.) Right now I’m worried about you, my reader. Are you having a good time? Are you bored?

I’m really worried about all this worrying. I can clearly see now that it gets in the way of my own happiness, and, truth be told, I don’t think my efforts have made a dent in the GHP (Gross Happiness Product) of my family and friends. So I’ve given my notice at my full time worrying job. I’m cleaning out my desk. This time I really mean it!

And I’ve started a new full-time job at the Institute of How to Help Joan Get the Most out of the Rest of Her Life. We’re still in the early stages of discovery here at The Institute, falling back on our previous work with the study of Buddhism, diet and exercise, but with increased vigor! We’re currently working with two good books: The Anxiety & Phobia Workbook, by Edmund J. Bourne, PhD, and 8 Minute Meditation, by Victor Davich. (More on this later.) The latter book uses a mnemonic “ABC” which stands for Always Be Calm. That’s funny, I thought when I first read it. I always thought it stood for Always Be Closing.

As you can see, I’ve got a long way to go.