Come to my house, have some tea!

It's been a while since I wrote. Seems my eternal problem with writing rears its head again. So many times in my life, under the influence of strong emotions looking for a way out, I started a writing project, whether it was a diary, a blog or a novel, only to abandon it shortly thereafter, not because my emotions are gone, but because they found other outlets. Other times, I simply can't find the right words to express how I feel or what I've just experienced, so I don't even try.

Anyway, today it seems my writing mood is back, so here it goes:

I want to talk about hospitality, because the Afghan's approach to it has often left me humbled. In my work I sometimes travel to villages and meet some of the poorest people living in one of the poorest provinces in one of the poorest countries in the world. Lots of poverty, it seems, but not in spirit. 

So I visit the houses of these people, who rarely eat anything besides bread and tea, and I am offered a wide array of food: almonds, sweets, pistachio, yoghurt and vegetables. The hosts don't eat, these are probably the treats set aside for that honoured king or queen who is the guest, but they keep insisting that I do.They ask me if there's anything else I want; I'm sure if I had asked, they would have provided, even if it meant indebting the family to the neighbours or the local shop-keeper for months.

It was a very hot month of Ramadan, as it fell in August this year; it must've been extremely difficult for people to withstand those long, torrid summer days without so much as a drop of water. And, while urban Afghans often reason themselves into breaking the fast under the pretense of sickness, pregnancy, menstrual cycle or simply promising to make up for those days by fasting later in the year (preferably when the days are short and cool), most people from rural areas don't know enough about Islam to find such excuses. They only know what the (often little more educated) mullahs tell them, and this means fasting no matter what. I met a pregnant woman, already weak from a deficient diet, fasting while working 14-16 hours per day in the garden, fields and around the house. I met a woman who could barely stand up and was complaining about sickness, but insisted on fasting out of fear of God (just what has that mullah told her?!!).

And yet, all these women were constantly inviting me for tea and food, knowing enough about foreigners to understand that I wasn't fasting. This moved me in a way that's difficult to explain. Here were sick, physically weak, starving women who weren't allowed to have a drink of water in 40 degrees Celsius weather, but who were inviting me to drink and ear in front of them. 

I was touched, impressed, sad and angry, all at the same time. Impressed by the strength and kindness of these women, sad because they have to go through life with so many restrictions imposed on them by men who don't understand the rules either, only apply them and, finally, I was angry at people who take a religious requirement meant to promote better understanding between people and turn it into an instrument of torture. 

Talking to friends and colleagues who have studied Islam for years, I found out that the purpose of refraining from food and drink during Ramadan originates in the Prophet's wish that people understand the misery of those who live in poverty and go hungry every day. It's ironic, then, that it's especially these people who are forced, taking advantage of their ignorance, to perform this ritual, while the people it was initially directed at can afford to break the fast at sunset with an abundance of food. 

Makes you think, doesn't it?