Kabul Bulletin

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Last Summer

Things went well last summer. I ran the kid's program and supervised the facilities. Probably for the last time. I did not get to focus on language as I should have.

New blog:

year2inktowm.blogspot.com

Monday, May 22, 2006

The Attempt

Touba’s visit made me think about the calling He has on my life. My first impression was that this relationship could never work. Riding together from the airport we were struggling to communicate basic things. My Dari was stronger than her English, which is an indication of how hard things would be, since I have been speaking English all day long every day since I’ve been here (she speaks Iranian Farsi, which is similar to Afghani Dari). But we were committed to give the relationship a fair chance.

It was truly amazing how much we were able to understand of each other by the second or third day. I had a grasp of her life story and some details about what day to day life in Tehran under the Ayatollahs was like. Wondering and discovering things about each other was enamoring – we certainly had lots of, “secrets” to be drawn out.

Exhausting would describe the turn that things took for me. Touba did not feel comfortable at the English only environment at ISK and would stay home during the school day. She would spend the mornings at the guest house and immediately after school be ready to begin an intense time with me. That left little time for me to gather my thoughts between class time (which has its own type of intensity) and the time for overcoming the curse of Babel to discover if we were in love. Or was this “exhaustion” just my own unwillingness to give my thought life over for someone else?

The daughter of our computer teacher is a High School Senior is fluent in Farsi. She and Tuba became friends quickly. It was a very difficult thing to figure out what Touba wanted by talking to her; the easy way out was to ask Gina what Touba was thinking. This was mostly a linguistic problem, but does it not often happen that third persons are brought into a relationship to facilitate communications even when everyone speaks the same language? It’s Middle School Deja Vu. All men struggle to understand their partners, but I had the “language barrier” as a built in excuse.

Touba may well be the world’s most devoted Christian young lady, but I could not pick up on that. Her actions I could see and her sweet attitudes were apparent, but what motivates her? What fills her heart? To that I remain clueless. It would not have been fair to Touba to hold out a hope that I would soon understand her well. I felt that we could not, for the time being, build on the relationship that we had established during those weeks

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Old Pix Just In II



These are the two apartments between the marble mansion and the street. Our employee (called a chokeedur), Showali stands vigilant.













Construction worker level off our soccer field. The kids would stay here 24/7 if welet them. There is nothing else going on for them in the city. I am standing in the far corner, looking diagonally across the entire field.














Construction is going on everywhere ion the city. These piles of materials are for other projects in our neighborhood. ISK starts about where the man in the street is and continues behind him. Our security had not yet been set up in the street.









K-Town trash disposal team is arriving. Garbage to meat conversion on your doorstep.

Old Pix Just In



This is the front of the men's house.


I live on the second floor, right window.

The dining are is on the first floor center and left.








Before rooms were assigned, the construction crew made a home in one room. This room became mine from September until November. Omnipresent tea, nan (bread) and a bag of yogurt are being shared.













In August, this was what would become the High School building.













The work crew is taking tea.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Costa Rica Early Years (Retro-Journal)

Emboldened by what had happened onboard the Daniel Webster, what was left to transform but the ends of the earth? Elizabeth and Thomas Brewster had written a number of articles, and, "Bonding and the Christian M Task" stands out. They make a birth analogy - after child birth the infant is very responsive and alert for a few hours. But after that first nap, they do not gain the same level of awareness for months. Bonding to parents (or to surrogates) happens during that time period. Likewise, the person entering a new culture is ready to bond with people from the new culture - at the time of arrival excitement level peaks. The problem is that other expatriots often are there at the airport to start an "orientation" period, during which time the potential new community member is bonded to the expatriot community. Possibilities of adopting the world view and problem solving techniques of the native land are lost during the first two weeks.

On a short term mission trip to Mexico the year before my second enlistment was up - the three weeks were spent with people who could not speak English (on purpose). I had gotten a "C" in College Spanish - and that, together with an attitude of flexibility, was enough! Since the Navigators in Latin America function by building one on one relationships into cell groups, this was a great introduction into that style of ministry.

So, the plan was to go to "The Instituto" - a language school in Costa Rica for a year to learn Spanish, then maybe return to the USA to use my military educational benefits to finish off a degree while doing Nav-style ministry with US Hispanics. I found ways to politely avoid much contact with English speakers. That left me lonely at first. About two weeks in I found, three long blocks away, a semi-secret ping pong table where young men gathered to play, chat, eat and watch soap operas. Jehova Jireh. The Costa Rican family that the Intstituto had arranged for me to live with seemed comfortable but unreal and insincere. Luis, one of my ping pong buddies, said that I could board in the home of his parents.

Now you've got to understand Costa Rican construction. It is very well done. There where three earthquakes 6 or greater on the Richter scale while I was there and not one building fell. But they put a lot more wood and paint into the front - the facade - than into anything else. The warm temperatures year round mean that the roof and walls do not have to serve as temperature insulators. They only need to keep the tropical rain off (outdoors, umbrellas do not keep you dry - they are essential to give you a space to breathe). Walls and ceilings are not necessarily designed to meet -open spaces are not a problem. The most common construction material is thin sheets of zinc. As you look out over into other neighborhoods, you see pathetic rusted zinc squalors all over. But as you walk into the next neighborhood they disappear. Rusted zinc is only visible when you can see a house from the back or sides. From the street (facade) side everything appears very middle class.

For two years I lived in Luis' parents house. They had the last house down a steep hill that ended in a calm, tranquil little river. Calm in December when the rain had stopped. Roaring, dangerous, carrying whole trees, each year the cause of several deaths in July when the heavy rains returned. I moved in in December. For the first few months, I lived in a room with wood floors and zinc walls and roof that had a door that lead into the kitchen area. The family rooms were on the other side of the kitchen. Unbeknownst to me, the room had been built after I had agreed to live there. They used my presence as an opportunity to add a second floor on the house. As they were building without plans or approval, as soon as the municipal inspector showed up they would be required to stop, the condition of the house would be documented and they would be heavily fined only if they continued on from that point. So construction started on Holy Thursday, when all of the inspectors had a long weekend off. When he showed up (first thing Monday morning after Easter) all that was missing was the stairway. For the next year and a half, to access my luxuriously large room, you had to stand on the porch, grab the branch of a mango tree, swing up onto the roof (river swirling at the base of the tree) and open a hatch on the river side of the house. I would wear sweatpants down to the shower. When I get nostalgic for Costa Rican living, it is for this living accommodation that I get nostalgic for. It's in the same neighborhood, yet on the other side of the world from the place where the Instituto had placed me.

For one year, studying the Spanish language was my, “day job”. I was using my own savings. But classes ended early - gave the others a chance to suffer through cultural adjustments. I would make the rounds in the neighborhood and downtown, talking with people, playing ping pong, trying to understand that stupid soap opera. I got myself into the most advanced class at the Instituto and was struggling. One classmate had been a bilingual secretary in the Dominican Republic for six years, another was already teaching at a seminary – in Spanish- and I was far behind, but responding to the challenge. Until December. There was a long 5 week Christmas break that year. Most of my classmates neglected to speak Spanish during the break. I had neglected to speak English. Really – I had slight trouble with my pronunciation/finding the right words in English when classes started in January. The fellow students at the Spanish classes were the only people I knew who spoke English. January found me more in the middle of the pack of the advanced class – still responding to the challenge.

And so I became useful to the local Navigators. Years before I had arrived, a thriving Navigator ministry had existed in the Universities of the capitol. As time passed, that had become a community ministry that spread across all four major areas of the Central Valley and into some of the outlying villages. But nothing much was happening at the Universities, which had been the starting point. When the new school year started in March, I abandoned the rounds that I had been doing and started going to the Universidad Nacional in Heredia. I got permission to sit in on some classes for free, made friendships and established several seekers bible studies.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Submarine (1980-1988 Retro Journal)

I' m on my fourth call; it would make no sense to explain how He lead me here without going through how He lead me in the other three epochs. Not having much hope of writing it all in one letter, I'll at least make a start.


For two years the US Navy put me through a series of schools so that I would be qualified to operate a nuclear power plant onboard a submarine. Sort of like an Associates Degree in practical nuclear engineering. The first of those two years, I began to follow Jesus. So when I arrived at the sub, I was a new believer.


The sub had two complete crews. Every three months (twice per year) we would fly over to Scotland (from CT) and relieve the other crew for a three month patrol. My off-crew time I spent with the Navigators, on the sub there were maybe two other open believers. In the off-crew, I would often spend free time at the submarine school, where the newcomers would show great respect. Usually, I would invite a group of them out to a pizzaria and share the good news on a napkin. Many would pray the prayer. On board, fellowship was scarce. After a season, I found that most of those who had said the prayer would later forget and deny Him in the fleet. They all had the same problem as I - no nurturing fellowship once onboard. Most of my friends from other ships would have to, "come up to speed, spiritually" after coming off patrol. I started to memorize whole bible books at sea.


A few years in, I reenlisted and had the opportunity for duty on shore - positions were opened at the submarine school where evangelism had been so easy. But how could I send believers out to be crushed in the fleet? I made the unusual decision to stay onboard, and asked Him to change my boat. And just around that time, He did. A newcomer from nuke school heard and believed. Another who first believed in sub school was assigned to our boat. Another hot believer was assigned to us. A group formed on the sub itself. Others saw and joined. It got to the point where the Captain or the 2nd in command would come to every meeting- just so that they could put an ear into what was going on. A new source of authority was onboard. I knew things were turned around completely when a crewmate, who attended a good church, towards the end of a patrol did not want to go back. He was afraid of losing the "spiritual momentum" he had gained at sea.


The sub had seemed to me a monolithic satanic tomb inside of which one might, by grace, survive, but certainly never thrive. It had become a spiritual garden under His grace, planting seeds and nurturing new believers. In the other epochs it became easy for me to believe that He could turn around ANY situation, for hopeless that it might seem at the outset. I had slain the lion and the bear - any uncircumsized Philistines that might loom would just have to suffer the same fate.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Without Money, Not Snow

There is a saying, "Let my town be without money, but not without snow." Winter moisture is essential for crops in the dry long summer. Having been here for just over half the year, I'm starting to get a feel for what the weather is usually like. The summer was desert hot and dry. Lots of bugs and a cripplingly incendiary sun. When the temperature went down, it never seemed to rise again - it just dropped for the year. This winter was slightly colder than a typical Philadelphia winter, but not quiet as cold as one in Connecticut. The problems are that the houses are not well built - the temperature inside drifts towards the temperature outside (electrical power comes and goes daily). And that the snow does not go anywhere - no snowplows and very little shoveling. The sun is strong enough to turn it quickly to ice, but it takes a long time to melt. The temperatures have gone above freezing, and if the pattern stays the same, they will not return there again until next winter. Temperatures change for the year, not for the passing weather pattern. We have ice on the ground and a blazing desert sun in the February sky.

The cable for my camera was brought in from the USA and it does not work. Hence the lack of digital pictures posted continues.

Today was the closest thing I've ever had to a bad day, and it was enjoyable. I had time to grade some tests before school, until a sick friend asked me to take his morning duty. I had lost a clipboard with my attendance data on it and report cards went out today. The admin, to my chagrin, was insistant that I write in the attendance data. The report cards were delivered to me and taken away again two or three times - the office wanted to hold those who were behind on tuition and apparently could not make up their minds exactly who those people might be. I found the clipboard during lunch with the missing two weeks of attendance data. MEANWHILE the kids just followed the routine in my, "one room schoolhouse" of differentiated instruction. Got the data on the computer, then onto the report cards (at least those I was holding at the time). Those tests were graded about 30 minutes before dismissal, and the kids were done all I'd asked of them about 10 minutes after dismissal time (ooops). Ready to do it all again tomorrow, but that will likely be a quieter day. The Super Bowl is tonight (3:30 A.M. kickoff our time). (Rememeber our weekends are Thursday/Friday here.) We are having a big get together; we've got permission to run the generator since power will likely be off. Mike reminded me this morning at prayer that the pre-Thanksgiving Day explosions also happened at 3:30 A.M. (see photos). Steelers or sleep? Steelers or sleep?

Monday, January 16, 2006

New Year

Three teachers were coming back through Turkey. Many folks from this region were flying to Saudi Arabia for the Hojj Festival. The airlines, apparently not too good at planning, diverted all flights from Turkey to Saudi Arabia at the last minute. We opened school down three teachers.
Quite a bit of snow is falliing - a good thing for a desert area. But it makes things tough in a land where snowplows are unknown. We've got a total accumulation of well over half a foot, ice now on the bottom.

One of the missing teachers is bringing back a cable that I need for my digital camera. All pictures posted thus far are those others have shared with me. I intend to journal through photos more in the coming year - that is what this blog was originally for. I've got a new (third) blog for inspirational poetry.

poemsthatinspire.blogspot.com

Two poems are there, and when the Spirit moves I intend to add more.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Winter Break

I stayed behind to learn Dari but....

I also took over the administrative functions, since we were shut down.

I also decided to spend time doing some extra running.

I also decided to get some extra rest.

I also decided to do some extra reading, and internet posting, writing see a few movies.

Not only that, but a big cold snap came and started to break pipes, break pumps (we pump well water) etc. Guess who is responsible?

I have learned (a little) extra Dari. But I'm ready to get back to teaching, too.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Open Letter to the Wissinoming Dog Lovers

You would not believe the bad treatment dogs get here. Then again, you would not believe the bad treatment people get here.

We brought in a puppy from the street and the teenage daughter of a teacher fell in love and adopted her. Perfect situation? for a little while - We kept her for over a month, but some others objected, and since we all live together in the same housing....

Any dog you see in the street (there are tons of puppies and a few stray dogs) will put it's tail between its legs and whimper as soon he recognizes you as a human. Everyone, from tots to old "white beards" kicks at dogs (even from behind burkhas). Our own school employees would kick at OUR puppy in OUR yard. I did not win this battle but......

I'm teaching the kids to think. Indoctrination is what has always passed for education here. So it's cause and effect, compare and contrast, reasonable inference, logical analysis, all kinds of critical thought all day long in every subject. The kids in my sixth grade love it - challenging what the teacher says? Questioning what was written in the book? UNHEARD OF!!! If you repeat back what I teach - you fail. Questioning the status quo: just the thing the pre-teen brain was designed to do. If a generation of leaders grows up thinnking here, well, this region will never be the same. Thinking leads to feeling, and thinking and feeling together can lead to Life. But it will take time, we will have to persevere over the long haul.

Stick with me, its worth it.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Epilogue - Romulan Plot I

Having had time to consider the early morning explosion, it seems that in the grand scheme of things not much happened. A single tremendous explosion destroyed a structure that housed 18 people, a vehicle, shattered glass over a wide area and no one was seriously hurt. Most of our friends living in the US have the attitude, "well, what do you expect, living in Kabul?". Yet we who were called to live here refuse to accept great explosions at a short distance as the routine. Perhaps that is why we can live here happily and most others could not. Counselors were called in and we were required to attend an emotional debriefing session before the lockdown was lifted. That bothered me, as my desire was to run my normal 15 mile workout - when I was finally able, running was what, besides journaling, helped me to assimilate the events into a logical perspective. Nevertheless, it was enlightening to learn what others were feeling and thinking during the hours of the crisis.

The blog piece posted on 11/22 will remain without further editing. Written from a position of shock as a means of reflecting on my own transient perceptions, it communicates the confusion that I felt by simply describing what I thought was reality at different points in time. Those perceptions were morphing moment by moment as more information - and misinformation - came in (the explosions were probably not caused by flowers, EVERYONE denies having told me so). To this day we do not know exactly what happened. The preliminary reports have information we know to be false and no final report has been issued. It was not a rocket attack. It was probably not aimed at ISK... No one else felt the tremors that afternoon, though others saw MY COMPUTER shaking as they passed by and warned me to get out of the building... My class is still without windows.

Much about the man I have become was revealed as a result of the event. My behavior, in a crunch, is still very much like that of the Engineroom Supervisor I was trained to be on a nuclear submarine. We did not know that until the ISK emergency occurred. On the sub, we simulated about 10 disasters per week in a very realistic fashion. If gas masks were used, they were covered to blind you, and you had to operate the sub blindfolded. If the reactor was scrammed, the control rods really went to the bottom and no power could come out, all while the sub really was under water. In the space of a half hour to forty five minutes, you would either save the day or be responsible for the death of the crew. Drills were designed for success, so you usually saved the day. Being Engineroom Supervisor meant that my action, or inaction, would often be critical. But either way, an hour later we'd all be joking about it. If things really started to go south, they'd terminate the drill. As Protestant Lay Leader, I was, on occasion, called to the torpedo room afterwards to "perform funeral services".

When the ISK blast happened you knew that something was dramatically wrong, but could not know what. The light flash, the noise blast and the percussion wave woke everyone from a dead sleep and each was left to their own misinterpretation of events. Others had assumed (some for long periods of time) that loved ones had been lost; the not knowing became traumatic. In retrospect, it was evident that I was simply going around to save the day (or possibly ruin it), hoping to follow the correct procedure. The assumption that in an hour everything would be "normal" again and we would be laughing about it all pervaded my attitude. This stood in stark contrast to those who had assumed the worst and needed to speak to each person on staff to be sure that they were not dead. My naive attitude would have been shameful had anyone been seriously injured or killed, but since they weren't, it was exactly right. The sobering fact is that the absence of any human casualties sustained was totally beyond our control. Hence I did not experience anger until the realization set in (about 15 minutes after the lights went on) that ISK would not be capable of receiving students that day. Until that point, I thought that the Director had been over-reacting. A sense of normality would take considerably more than one hour to achieve.

Friday, November 25, 2005

PIX- II Rocket


Left: Toshaks below a window in the room next to mine at the men's house. We were awoken from dead sleep at 3:29:54 in the morning - no power, no lights, and no one even cut their feet finding shoes.


















Below: Demonstration of what blast strips do. A wheelbarrow is filled with windows that shattered in place. In the background is my former classroom (pictures of the inside are posted in September) with shattered windows still in place. My new classroom in the High School building had no blast strip protection. The contrast between regular and blast strip protected windows is striking. The frames of my classroom's bay windows were bent so much that replacement glass could not be installed.


















Left: A window with no blast strips on the ISK compound. Many were sleeping directly below windows and the shards were big enough to do serious damage. No one was cut at all.

Pix - VI Rocket


The back of the room in my class had two large windows. When the lights went on, we found that shards covered the floor and nine students desks. If you think that those window frames aren't straight, your've got a good eye. Replacement glass could not be placed in those frames.
















The clock had its battery blown out.


















The front of the High School building. If you go up 1/2 flight of stairs, my room is the only one on the left. Its windows which face front (North), along with the windows directly above on the second floor were blown in. The windows on all floors of this stairway were blown out. Piles of glass left on the roof by workers the previous day were still unmoved,in spite of the fact that the roof is the only part of the building from which you can see the rocket impact sites.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

PIX - Rockets VII

Below:  The Dining Room table on the first floor of the men's house.  The generators were turned on to provide light and heating about 1 1/2 hours after the strike, which was about 1 hour before sunrise.
 
 
 
Sideways shot of the front, right corner of the men's house after sunrise.  My room is just above, on the second story.  The blast should have hit the second floor more directly (another building stands in between on the first floor level), yet only one very small window was broken inmy room.
 
 
 
 
Below:  Glass was everywhere; except for camera flashes, there was no light anywhere for one and one half hours.  I cleaned shards for one hour before we found work gloves.  Not one glass cut was reported. 
 
 

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PIX- Rocket V

People file in (from street) past an impact crater that destroyed a car and opened a breach in a bedroom wall. Parts from this car were found around the neighborhood.



Below: ISAF forces in the street in front of ISK, behind them is the impact zone where three explosive rockets fell. To the right, you can see small blue doors that have been blown slightly into the street; they used to lead to the alleyway where the car is.


.
Below: Eighteen people were present in the houses that fell - no one was hospitalized. The things seen here were easy to recover. Hours of digging did not unearth all that had bee buried - the homes had basement storage areas. On the top right are houses that, like ISK (behing the cameraman) suffered severe window damage.


PIX - Rocket IV


Above: This home is adjacent to the marble mansion. Besides the broken glass, notice that frames of the door and windows are not straight. I used to criticize the carpenters here because nothing (not even locks) lines up in new buildings. Now I have more of the idea that it does not matter, things will get crooked sooner or later anyway.


Below: You can not use shovels for the dig out - too many bricks. Possessions were buried among brick, dirt and wood. Everything was scavenged, wood was reused or burnt. We recovered everything, including the Teddy.



Below: Pretty good view of about half of what I've been calling "the dig area". Alleyway leads to the front street, where ISK security roams.




Wednesday, November 23, 2005

First PIX - Flowers from on high

View from inside a home to the car outside. There was an impact crater directly in front of the car, which was driven the day before. Tire and engine parts were scattered in the street (off screen to the left) and to the "dig zone" (off screen to the right).

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

The Romulan Plot Unfolds

Started 11/17
One of my Afg. students whose family returned from New York City (the one with a makeshift bandage on his arm as he's raising his hand in the September pix) put it something like this: "In the US there was always something to do, karate, soccer, basketball; I was always doing something. Here there is nothing to do. You just go home and sit. It's boring. Could you give me more homework so I won't be so bored?" He spoke, not only for himself, but also for the adults here who were used to life in the USA. People expect us to have so many stories to tell, but in fact not much happens here. The crazier things get in the street, the more people stay home and.... well, do you want to hear about the helicopters you can see flying around the city? How about the power outages? I had to take the shower head off yesterday after I ran because the water pressure was so low (please don't call CNN with the news).
The social event of the fall season, so far, was "Marble Mansion Mamas" putting on a "'tude" party (that's for Attitude of Gratitude) Thursday night (since Fridays are holy days, Thursdays are sort of like Saturdays). Not only did folks from other NGO's (Karte Seh/Char) come, but also some down town people (ISAF) were in attendance. ISK's female teachers, residents of "the marble mansion" (see pix posted in July) really know how to put on an event! Dancing and food galore, space for deeper conversation, it was delightful.
Then back to the (also delightful) grind....The generator was down and my class is the only one with NO WINDOWS on the south side. Weeks ago I had asked for candle stands for just such an eventuality; today word came that that request had been discussed and denied. I complained again, and was offered the option to move to a better lit room for the morning. So when the kids came in, it was time for thinking over (for the first time) what a temporary move would entail. The most important subjects would be reading and math. In reading, the class is on a sixth grade book, which has supporting books with exercises, but those who are struggling with English are on an easier book, which also has its own supporting exercise books and handouts. In Math, I have 14 students ready for lesson 5-6 on changing fractions to decimals (in the Level 1 book, just ahead of where sixth graders are supposed to be) , three students ready for lesson 5-6 in the Level 2 math book and three others had studied to take the test on Chapter 5 in the Level two book. It struck me that I was not running a sixth grade classroom, but rather a one room schoolhouse. Temporary moving is just not an option. The kids made me so proud as they maneuvered around the room, copying things from the board, finding nooks where the light was better for reading, everyone more on task than usual because being on task was such a challenge. Impressive.
Sunday (the 2nd workday of our week) while running, as usual, on the U of K campus around sundown, I saw a plane dropping several loads of lit up devices towards the ground - a strange sight. Monday our cook was out so we went downtown to a restaurant called B's for dinner. Most people enjoyed really good steaks, but I chose the chicken. All of that had made me good and tired. So after a chat back home (we've got new furniture to sit on now at the men's home), it was time to settle in for a good night's slThe explosion happened right next to my bed, a single and simultaneous loud noise, pressure wave and blinding flash. But I woke up, first indication that everything was A-OK. No hole in my floor, no hole on my wall or roof, not even any windows blown out. If I was alright after taking that hit, everyone else must also be safe, but I got up anyway, just to calm the others down. When putting on my pants (the ones I wore yesterday to school and the restaurant), after fastening the belt, there was no need for zipping the zipper nor buckling that pants themselves, since we are all men and I was going right back to sleep. Everyone was up in our (the men's) house, but no one I called on the telephone would answer. We were being quiet, not knowing exactly what had hit where, but slightly afraid that whoever did it might still be wandering around outside the house. Finally, my phone rang; Byron was calling me. We arranged to meet in the street out front. Cell phone said 3:40.
The choquedor (employee) was there before Byron, and he answered my questions by referring to a flower that hit, four flowers that hit the house. Speaking the Dari language between three thirty and four in the morning takes more practice than yours truly has put in. Though our computer teacher and his family had trouble opening their door, everyone at ISK was healthy and accounted for. Glass crunched on the ground wherever you walked. Our security was all over the street. They confirmed to me (in Dari) that three flowers had hit a neighbor's house. As a result, two people were taken to the hospital, but miraculously no one had died. When I repeated all that in English, the correction came immediately - no one had been hospitalized. No one corrected the "flowers"; no one so much as batted an eyebrow at the word all morning long. Candles glowed on the table around which the women were huddled as Mike and I entered the marble mansion. The "secure area" needed some glass clearing before it could be inhabited, but we gave up on that task due to the darkness. The only thing left to say found its way to my lips, "where are the brownies?"
Foolishly following ISAF detectives into the neighbor's yard, two of the three impact craters were evident, one in front of what had been, moments before, a car and one inside of what had been a bedroom. The lights at ISK remained off so that we would not present a target. Not even the little boy who had been sleeping in the bedroom had been hospitalized. A explosion six feet above him blew out windows hundreds of yards (as it turns out- even blocks) away , and not even his eardrums ruptured?
In the past, rebel groups have fired mortars and "dumb" (unguided) missiles from behind the mountains located southeast or from behind those located northeast of our area. They usually launched them at the downtown area. Never have they had the technology to target precisely. After unloading from a car or van, they fire across the mountain and leave. More than an hour after the flowers had hit (perhaps the bright tail that trails rockets makes for the "flower" description - no one has yet explained it to me) ISK put her lights on...
The ISK math teacher and I toured the grounds to document the damage. As we did, we tried to describe the explosion phenomenon based on the evidence found. In the end, it was inexplicable. Every ISK building had suffered window damage and many doors and windows would not open or close properly. Where installed, blast paper held together windows that had shattered in place. In the High School building, the windows at the rear of my class (1st floor north side) and those directly above on the second floor had been blown in. In the stairway, four large pains were blown out. On the directly exposed roof (from which I later viewed the blast area -read on), three foot long pieces of glass that had been left neatly stacked as trash by the employees the day before were still stacked neatly, unmoved. My classroom clock had been blown off the windowsill, losing its battery at 3:29:54. In the men's living quarters my room was the most exposed. One small window (which I had not noticed at 3:30) had indeed been blown in. All of the other (less exposed) rooms suffered far greater window damage - go figure. (I reckoned that the bomb impact must have caused me to exhale quickly. Since I am in such superb physical condition, that equalized the pressure on most of my window panes. The Math teacher isn't buying it.)
Different people have different ways of reacting to stress. Our director prepared the script to be read over the telephone to parents canceling school today (Tuesday) and tomorrow. Thursday starts the weekend (besides being Thanksgiving). Six teachers made 20 calls each to our students' families, and the secretary sent out e-mails. The music teacher and I cleaned the glass from the basement of the marble mansion, getting the TV room ready, "so that, as the day wears on, the others can forget about the blast". Afterwards, we returned to the High School building and cleaned up more glass. At 8:00 there was to be a briefing, so we decided to knock off at 7:30, for a shower and breakfast, respectively.
At the briefing, it was agreed that we were on lock down (no running for me - and that is my #1 defense against stress!) and would meet again at 10:00 to begin cleaning up glass. I took a cup of coffee to my classroom and relaxed by continuing a previously started journal entry (this one) up to the word slThe. I also did an internet search for news on K-Town and came up with an article that started (editing mine):
"Attacks On K-Town Resume
U.S. Makes Progress In Key Strategic Location
POSTED: 11:39 a.m. EDT October 12, 2001
UPDATED: 7:42 p.m. EDT October 12, 2001
K-Town, Afgh. -- According to CNN, the U.S.-led air campaign has commenced on the Afgh. capital of K-Town early Saturday morning, Afghanistan time.
Several planes streaked over K-Town and large explosions were heard in northern areas of the city early Saturday, rattling buildings in the heart of the capital..."
My mind raced in several directions, one towards the plane I'd seen while running the other day, dropping the lit up devices, two towards why the US would be bombing the city when ISAF controlled the ground, and three towards how many days a Tuesday here (that, being the fourth day in the work week, still seems more like a Thursday) would come after a Saturday in America. Fourthly, the date posted came to mind, reintroducing my previously held low opinion of internet news searches. Bombs in K-Town that do not even rupture ear drums do not make international news - 100 to one you would never hear this story unless I told you. But I'll get it out quickly anyway, on the odd chance ISK comes up on someone's news, and because we have the days off and writing is a good way to reflect on, assimilate and come to accept reality.
During the cleanup, we returned to the roof of the High School building (where the picture one of the three undisturbed glass shards and I was taken). From there I could see the neighbors, whose homes had been flowered, digging out. Three minutes later, I was there digging with them.
It was not one family, but several, digging out. Discussions happened as to which direction to pile the rubble; each house had rooms that were buried, full of possessions. There was no space to put rubble that would not block some one's excavation efforts. As we dug into a new room, a chain of people would pass boxes, suitcases, whatever we found towards the remains of one home or another. About a half hour into this, it dawned on me that ISK was on lockdown and that I had left the compound. After an hour's work, it dawned on me that I had not slipped back into bed right after 3:30; my zipper was still down and pants not buckled, a long, untucked shirt was all that stood between me and humiliation. About an hour and a half was enough time for the light to finally dawn that yesterday at this time I had been complaining about the lighting in my classroom. (As I write this, sitting in my windowless classroom at about 4 P.M., there is a slight earthquake, maybe 2 or 3. Remember that Kashmir is not too far away. Though the windows that have shattered in place in the adjacent building are shaking, I have not bothered to stop writing - yet. Assimilating the reality I've been called to is anything but drudgery!) Still digging when lunch time arrived (also, loose jewelry was turning up in the dirt) I was thanked and politely asked to leave. Arriving late at the ISK lunch, Byron had praised my volunteerism (instead of condemning my rule breaking). He later arranged for us to help more significantly tomorrow. I escorted some lady friends around the neighborhood (who needed to check on unoccupied housing - that's when I saw that homes a block away had also suffered window damage), and returned to the High School building. From that vantage point of the roof, no one could be seen digging. Looks like I wore them out. That's when I came here and started writing this again.
The, "little boy in the bedroom" turned out to be the man digging opposite me in the pit - about 18 years old. He's got no hearing problems whatsoever. His hair was still covered with dust as he offered to give several interviews. My Dari (as you may have gathered) is not reliable, but it seems that we (ISK) are being blamed for the explosion - some are convinced that ISK was targeted. But the fact seems to be that the enemy is unable to target anything more than a certain section of the city. We want to respond as neighbors, not setting a bad precedent by taking responsibility for the actions of others. Perhaps a fund will be set up (Ooops, we're shaking again, or should I say still?. We've really been rolling, though lightly, for a long time. I fear that something powerfully awful might be happening, maybe, 200 miles away. By the way - got an e-mail the other day from a relief group and it looks like I might be able to personally help out in Kashmir over the Winter Break.) and a schedule for volunteering help will be put in place so that we, as a group, can offer comprehensive assistance to our neighbors without favoring one family over another, nor promising to always fix damages that others might cause.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

The Truth

Teaching critical thought is a high calling. Beginning students believe that the truth is a group of facts that can be known. Later, they perceive that those facts must be applyed, the truth is something that must be done. For those with the inspiration to go on, they discover algorithms or patterns that application of the truth seems to take. If one is willing to put aside his own will for the sake of doing the truth (i.e. abides in His Word), one discovers a personality behind the pattern, walking in the truth leads you to realize that the Truth is a person to be known and enjoyed.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Year of Indecision

Entering a new culture means a passing through a time of disorientation. You think you know what you're doing but do not accurately perceive things as they are. Communication clues are missed - even in your native tongue. So I made a commitment not to make any important decisions for at least one year. Making up my mind to come here, teach sixth grade and learn Dari was enough decisiveness for the whole year. In the summer of 2006 a re-evaluation can occur. That leaves freedom to make mistakes; almost like a year of return to childhood. That is what entry into a new country should be like; not halfway through the year the commitment seems to bring life, not death.
Within 48 hours of arrival there was a temptation to start a romantic relationship. But I did not act on nor even dwell on that, just figured since I've waited this long, I can wait another year (never even gave her the idea). The overseas m field is a great place for a man to marry some one out of his league (when you consider westerners). There are so many sincere and strong western women (they come across as 'Oh, so sweet', and can also fight their way out of dark corners with overwhelming ferocity) who come but so few men. Hence, the immediate temptation (wisely put off). Then, there is also the Persian possibility. It would be an insult worthy of death for me, a Ch. male to wed an Af. woman. Yet an Iranian or a Tajik woman would not provoke the same local ire. I do not have this figured out and will not even try too hard (at least not until June approaches).
Because of my year of indecision, today, our Friday meeting was relaxing freedom for me. In the USA there were so many well defined responsibilities - Sunday was another work day. Here, we sometimes meet in the "big building" as one group. (it's Christy Wilson's old place. I'll get that story out at Christmas time if I'm able. Its a sad story that explains how we got from the Shahs to anarchy in Persia.) Other weeks we break into several small groups around Karte Seh/Karte Char. One time I spoke at a group, and there was a call for me to repeat, but I had not tried my hand any of the other jobs that make things go smoothly. So, today I taught my small group's older kids (not having made a commitment to any of the groups, but having drifted into one). This group is more European in flavor, and our oldest kids are first and second graders, so that was a slight reach for me, but things went pretty well. Afterwards, I offered to do every job once, than thought for a second and added, "except singing". Will you do the toddlers?..... "Well, I'd rather do the older kids again sometime"..... How about refreshments? ...... "Hospitality isn't really my gifting".... I'm signed up to speak again (they were being so polite - we need another speaker like Massachusetts needs another liberal Senator) and also for refreshments. Glad Dad has more patience than me. If our roles were reversed, I'd be singing.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Critical Thinking in a New Room, Better Diet

The new High School building was finally ready and the sixth grade was invited to move in on Tuesday (Thursday and Friday are weekend here). The new class structure includes six student work teams (Tigers, Crazy Boys - after the Wright Brothers, Angel Kitty Power, Why (because), the Af Backups and the Jungle Boys). Each team has a large toshak in front of their seats. (Asians enjoy sitting on the floor much more than westerners and toshaks are the traditional cushions that accommodate floor sitting). The huge concrete beam just off center in the room was transformed into a paper tree. Each team owns a wire branch, to which a green paper leaf (with the student and book name written upon it) gets stapled every time they turn in a mini book report. Leaves are sprouting everywhere; kids are taking books to lunch. It's fall on the outside and spring on the inside of the new room. There are no windows on the south side of the building, which will become a problem since we are a Northern Hemisphere classroom with cold winters. The kids know all about the ecliptic line, the building engineers apparently do not. On one side wall each student (and I) has an area to display writing. On the opposite wall, the class made a 15 foot long representation of the earth's crust sitting on top of the mantle, and the five things that have been observed to happen when the plates on the crust move.
Oh, yeah, the science materials came in and the kids were given the chance pick which unit we started on, since they had been tortured so about the earth being in the middle of the solar system. We have just felt the severe earthquake centered in Pakistan (many of the children were raised there during the Taliban years and so have friends and family in peril as winter approaches) and interest is high for the section on plate tectonics. So now, they have to put up with the book dating things one way and the teacher dating things a different way. There is general agreement about what the evidence, to date, is, but disagreement on how to interpret the evidence (did the dirty shoes mean the man ran on the mountains or that he used to leave his shoes out overnight?). The way critical thought has been bound up in the science curriculum was accidental this year. Next year I plan on doing this on purpose. Following the curriculum in reading, we're on a story about a couple of bicycle repairmen who, a century ago, decided to disregard everything that was "known" and published about aerodynamics (they had studied it, but couldn't make a flyer based on it); they used their own wind tunnel to discover how air really flows in order to make a flying machine (you have heard of the Wright Brothers?).
Just got back to Dari speaking and reading when sickness came upon me. (Well, I drank some of the local tap water on purpose to get my immune system used to it.) Didn't miss any work time, but stopped reading Dari in the after hours. Even skipped a running workout - the most serious effect of sickness I've had to endure here (thank Dad for all the good health). After recovery, I decided I needed to start eating better. So much of the food that "normal" people eat has problems. Red meats are over used as source of protein, or if chicken, tuna, or eggs are featured, mayonaise is often mixed in. The all too common practice of removing the grain from all grain sources is as prevalent here as in the US (leaving neither fiber nor protein). Many nationals in the capitol also have a terrible diet, due to the bread, which they call "nan". In the farmlands they have good bread (whole grain "nan"), but the stuff they eat here has had the grain removed (they import the enriched wheat into the cities), and as this is their staple, well, they often aren't getting anything but fiberless calories with "enrichment". The World Health Organization should speak up on issues like this. We hired a cook for the teachers, but I've started doing more of my own cooking.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

No Dari Progress

Work stress here is non existent. At Stetson Middle School, every day would open with a burst of energy; no one could pass near my room without some interaction (you Stetson teachers probably remember the repertoire of choreographed hand shakes, whispered secrets like "good morning" or "today is Wednesday" etc.). Mornings always lifted off enjoyably. Eventually, the problems of youth from severely troubled families would wear on us all and by the end of the day I had sometimes pretty much given up on spirited learning and was striving to maintain an educational routine that would keep the kids safe from each other. The day starts here much as it did there. But at the end of the day, you can find me standing on the playground, playing with the kids much in the same fashion that I used to interact with the North Philly kids as they were entering the building . It is as if the stress of the day never occurs here.
I have not been able to get and stay on any kind of a language learning curve. From July to August things were going pretty well - ISK responsibilities would be occasional interruptions in days devoted to Dari. Then, in September, Dari became the interruption in days devoted to teaching. Now, less than 5 hours per week are spent in Dari, as other things draw my time and energy. Dad and I had discussed something different in our planning sessions. Perhaps during the Winter Break the opportunity will arise, for the first time ever, to devote the entire day to Dari language acquisition.
One of the activities that gets done instead of learning Dari is the production of this journal. At first, e-mails were being written and sent just about every day. After a while, entries were copied and pasted from my e-mails to form a single document, saved as "journal". Then it became more productive to chronicle in the journal and copy and paste the results into e-mails. The later writings were less frequent but the product of deeper introspection. The journal that started as a daily diary was gradually transformed into a topical forum. But always, journaling has been an activity done instead of conversing in Dari. That is the paradox of "m" work: the better I communicate, the more work folks in the US think that I am doing, the less I am really accomplishing. Please think of that in a soon-to-come future epoch when communications might become more scarce.
No one seems upset by my recent lack of progress. I retain the ability to converse on a superficial level, and a limited ability to read and write (the envy even of some long-timers). My teachers are able to offer fewer hours due to the daylight restrictions (electricity is not dependable) and they notice my recent lack of preparation for classes. And Dad also knows. Yet I do not get the impression that anyone is upset. Another epoch is coming when a refocusing will occur. Maybe that epoch will start tonight.... (I tried to start it last night)....Dad is ultimately the One who controls the times and epochs.
This is so different from the intensity with which I learned Spanish. For my first year in Costa Rica, no one who spoke English would get much more than a polite greeting from me. Learning Spanish was not just my day time job, but also my life environment. Here, my day job is in an English only school (children speaking Dari can be accused of cursing) and there has been no success in establishing "a life" outside the compound after hours - "after hours" has a different connotation in a war zone. You can count the hours (and they are not many) spent in Dari.
Then, "add on" challenges abound. Pashto and Urdu are frequently spoken here and mix into the Dari. Hezarat Dari has an accent distinct from standard Dari. Tajik and Farsi are, like Dari, Persian dialects and are also often encountered. In fact, reading and writing happens only in Farsi, so that literacy is one thing and conversation something else. Some people translate the Farsi words into Dari as they read; this is not necessarily considered incorrect (as if, in English "t-h-e-e" was written but pronounced as "you"). The writings have a different alphabet and go from right to left (perhaps dyslexia would be an advantage). They are phonetical, but usually vowels are missing. Outside of these details, (and the fact that the ancient Greeks are the bad guys here), its just the same as life in Philly.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Sexto Ano como Debe Ser

Mientras uno corre dentro de las murallas de la Universdad de K'toro (sic), se nota a un numero veraderamente asombrante de estudiantes andando errante, nariz pegado a la pajina de algun libro. La memorizacion es lo que se pide. El pensar independiente y la capacidad de solucionar problemas no les son tan avalorados. Les enseñan a estos alumnos Asiaticos a respetar a sus mayores, a sus adultos, a sus maestros. Las creencias son recibidos desde los labios de los llamados "barba blancos", los ancianos sabios. Cada cual que nace aqui es de una fe por decreto legal. Los estudiantes esperan que alguien les diga que deben saber y que deben creer. Excelentes son para repitir las respuestas correctas. Alguien debia haber sido preparado para enseñar algo totalmente diferente...
(sic) toro quiere decir bull, pero el nombre de la ciudad no se debe mandar por e correo.
Cuando comenze a enseñar en las escuelas publicas en 1997, ya habia cierta capacidad intelectual mia alistada, cualquier examen estandard llevaria un resultado del noveno percentil. Y aquel "personalidad para la presentacion" ya habia sido desarrollado, pudiera yo hablar sobre cualquier tema, sin importar si tuviera conocimiento o no. Mantenia una buena relacion con algunos jovenes atravez del program RICY, que estaba en el mismo vecindario. Listo para hacer una obra profesional enseñando toda la materia de mi repertoirio, los alumnos en mi cuarto deberian ser aprendizes profesionales serios, sino la disciplina, consistente y justo, seria aplicada. Nada de esto serveria por nada en Kensington. La buena materia que llegaba en una forma interesante captaba el interes de la clase por poco tiempo, quiza diez minutos. Despues de viente minutos, la revelacion de que niños quienes maldicen a sus propias madres en la cara sin consecuencia no responderia a la disiplina como uno que fue criado en un ambiente mas civilizado, alumbro en mi corazon. Tanto debia sufrir y tanto debia aprender yo.
Siendo yo el unico que no fue Hispano dentro el Departamento Bilingue de Stetson Middle School, la seleccion de mis alumnos fue algo especial. Al inicio, enseñaba al nivel de principiante. Muchos alumnos con problemas graves de comportamiento nunca serian evaluados como proficientes en Ingles, asi que el grupo de ellos llegaron a ser mios. Mas adelante, enseñaba clases bilingues mas avanzados. En aquellos años los jovenes que se portaron malos fueron evaluados como mas proficientes en el ingles, de modo que de nuevo llegaron a ser mios.. Aprendia a comunicarme con los estudiantes corazon a corazon, en vez de decirles que habia que hacer. Los involucraba en la clase por la rutina o por el interes personal en la materia. Coercion y castigos, sin importar como se administraba, nunca producia resultados positivos. Notas satisfactorias no fueron necesarios para aprobar el año, una detencion seria una oportundid de no ir a una casa destrozada (prefirieron la clase a la casa), y suspensiones, tal y como la administracion los asignara, eran eventos inevitables que uno recibia al azar, unos dias en casa, como unos dias de enfermo que la escuela misma iniciaba. La pregunta que predominaba en el alma de los alumnos fue, "¿Hay alguien que se preocupe por mi?". Asi que mis clases siempre comenzaba con tiempo para chistes, conociendo y saludando, dando la mano en forma creativa y muy movidiza, la cual dio campo a las rutinas bien establecidas. Todo se centro en la motivacion estudantil. Los niños de once y doce años no se portan profesionalmente por nada, hecho que llegaba yo a disfrutar.
El termino "aula con la puerta cerrada" fue inventado para describir a mis clases. Por lo general, no mandaria yo a ningun alumno mio a ver a un administrador (los niños se portaron con mas respeto delante de mi que delante de los principales, y las suspensiones, como explique, nunca ayudaba en nada). Los problemas de mi aula fueron solucionados (o no) por mi, asi que la puerta fue cerrado desde adentro. Ninguna nueva estrategia "de milagro" (lo que fuese en algun momento) para solucionar todas las problemas educativas en la ciudad fue bien adiestrado en mi aula. Los administradores sabian que habia que visitar solo las aulas donde se ponian los alumnos buenos cuando la gente importante visitaba (la gente impotante fue muy interesada por ver milagros y muy poco adiestra en identificarlos cuando estaban frente de la cara), asi que la puerta de mi aula fue cerrado desde afuera. Del lado administrativa, ninguna evaluacion formal habia sido escrito de mis clases por muchos años (¿Quiza no se encontraban el llave? Tenian que haber hecho un minimo de dos evaluaciones por año, mas en elcaso que hubiera problemas). La administracion no se jactaba de mis clases, pero tampoco querria dividir mis alumnos por los demas maestros. Y en mis relaciones con tantos jovenes bien problematicos, ¡O lo que aprendia yo de los pre-adolecentes! Los grupos que se forman tienen un poder semejante al poder de la Palabra de Dios. Pueden llamar a ser las cosas que no existian, aunque en vez de dar vida a los muertos, con frecuencia dan la muerte a los vivos.(Romanos 4 17 b)
Finalmente, llegaba yo (tres meses antes que las materias de ciencia para sexto grado) en K'toro. Decidi apoyar la creencia que todo en el cielo se mueve alredador de una tierra estacionaria, asi que es lo que se observa cada vez que se pone a estudiar los movimientos celestes personalmente. La cienca es el estudio de lo que se ve, lo que se mide, lo que se comprueba. Firme, de verdad, fue la tierra debajo de mis pies cuando ofreci una "A" en ciencias para el año por cualquier alumno que se probia, con observaciones personales (los libros pueden equivocarse tan facilmente como uno), que la tierra se mueve alredador del sol y no visa versa. (El clave de la prueba es el movimiento relativo retrogrado de los planetas exteriores cuando la tierra los sobrepasa. Los modelos algebraicos en tres dimensiones, basados en observaciones tomados en tan solo dos dimensiones, tienden a probar que el modelo con la tierra en el centro es el mas acertado. El calculo diferencial y integral tenia que ser inventado y aplicado en tres dimensiones para probar que el sol, y no la tierra, ocupa el centro de nuestro sistema solar. Nada de esto va a suceder en mi aula de sexto.) Ahora, mis pobres alumnos tienen que enfrentar a un profesor quien, dia tras dia, insiste que la tierra es el cento de la sistema solar, pero quien es dispuesto a escuchar a cualquier evidencia al contrario. ¡Que polemico mas dinamico! Ante todo, los alumnos de sexto año son muy requete orientados hacia sus semejantes, asi que el poder de la presion que se pone uno sobre otro, y el poder que tienen cuando estan de acuerdo es mas real que los hechos adornados en blanco y negro, mas cierto de lo que se ven y se toquen. Ninguna evidencia que ningun niño pudiera describir pueda convencerme a mi, pero cualquier joven que avanca a un argumento publicamente llega a ser un hero instantaneo delante de los demas. Ellos son listos para aportar de cualquier modo, logica o emocionalmente. Asi que mis alumnos (mayormente asiaticos) tienen la confianza de discutir publicamente con el profesor, con su figura de la autoridad. Y como es muy poco probable que ninguno de mis evidencias de una sistema solar geocentrico, por mas frias, logicas, slam-dunk, o blanco y negro que sean, seran tragados por mi clase ("saben" que el sol yace en el centro), la discusion sigue sin fin, de una forma bastante saludable. (Si la tierra se movia en el espacio, los vientos generados por la friccion serian de tal magnitude que ningun ave se podria mantenerse en su nido.) Los libros nuevos acaban de llegar. Quiza estudiaremos el clima por el proximo tema.
No es tan dificil probar que si luna se gira o no por las observaciones personales (dado que el sol esta en el centro, puedo conceder el hecho por el projecto lunar y disputarlo despues por propositos de mi oferta de una "A". ¡Sexto año es, de verdad, un tiempo majico!) asi que lo hicimos por un projecto experimental. Una y otra vez hacia hincapie yo que no es importante si el hipothesis inicial es que la luna se gira o que la luna no se gira, la nota por ambos hipotesis es igual. Desde ambas posiciones uno tiene que seguir el mismo procedimiento, y terminaria probando la misma cosa (si, se gira, una rotacion por cada revolucion que hace alredador de la tierra, vaya, compruebalo para ti mismo.) CERO puntos por comenzar con la respuesta correcta en su hipotesis. 100 puntos para LA PRUEBA.
En cuanto a la matematica, comenze una leccion para el orden de las operaciones cantando mientras escribia sobre la pizzarra, cada palabra en su propia linea "Please, Please, Mr., Don't, Sing, Again" todos las letras iniciales in mayusculas muy grandes. Entonces, una explicacion breve de la leccion se dio (entre el cantico que todavia no se habia terminado). Durante la explicacion, las palabras Parenthesis, Powers, Multiplication, Division, Subtraction, Addition fueron escritos a la par de su respetiva letra mayuscula. Entonces puse 3*5+10 = 3*5+10 en la otra pizarra. Trabajamos en ambos lados de la ecuacion, con la participacion de la clase, haciendo un lado en el orden incorrecto, asi que comprobamos que 25 iquala a 45. Pedia que cada alumno copeaba mi ejemplo en su cuaderno. Algunos alumnos tienen un problema con esto, pero no les daba pelota mientras volvia a mi cancion. Despues de un coro mas, les explicque que como 25 es lo mismo que 45, si yo les pido $45 prestados y deveulvo $26 deben ser felizes. Mis alumnos sufren, aprendan a pensar, llegan a ser heroes delante de sus semejantes cuando discutan publicamente conmigo. Su profesor puede ser tan denso. El que se traga sin pensar lo que yo (o cualquier otro) enseña no aprobara, y ¡justamente asi! Hasta aquel punto, la puerta de mi aula habia quedada bien cerrado, pero ahora, se la tocaba desde afuera. Aquel dia fue la celebracion de nuestra gran apertura y el embajador de EEUU en Af. estaba abriendo la puerta. Entro con tres fotografos quienes lo grabaron todo. Eventualmente, los alumnos descubrieron mi error y me forzaron a cambiar a los señales "iqual a" para decir "no igual a" en los lugares apropriados. Mientras salia, el embajador dijo a los alumnos con tono grave pero con una sonrisa sobre sus labios, "el proximo vez que su maestro hace un error, hazle caso mas estrechamente." El Director de ISK, la Principal y el Presidente de OASIS SCHOOLS han expresado su satisfaccion por la calidad de enseñanza en el sexto grado. Ya se acabo el aula con la puerta cerrada.
El maestro no es un profeta intachable de la verdad, sino un aprendiz mas. Como usamos cuatro pasos para escribir, y cada cual tiene un lugar sobre la pared para poner sus obras escritas, tambien se encuentra un ensayo escrito por Mr. Drew, con los cuatro pasos evidentes. El producto final es un ensayo de dos parafos sobre como se arreglo el aula. Fue escrito en un nivel de quiza tercer año, con errores multiples de deletreo y de la gramatica (aun despues de editar algunos). Es una representacion honesta del mejor trabajo que pudiera producir. Es escrito en el idioma Dari usando la escritura Persica (de derecho a izquierda).
La clase de lectura comenzo con una cuenta emocional de la vacacion Navideña en 1968 cuando di yo diez vueltas a la luna, via TV, junto con los astronautas del Apollo 8. Despues del aterrizaje, TV no ofrecia mas viajes reales un cohetes (habia que esperar al Apollo 9 en Marzo), y estaba yo tan deprimido, hasta que, dentro de la biblioteca descubria que los libros tambien pudiera llevarme al espacio. Esos viajes eran aun mejores. Entonces discutiriamos las distrezas de de escuchar y de leer (ambos suceden en el mismo sitio en el cerebro). Si uno entiende a cada palabra, pero no "recibe el mensaje" ¿ha escuchado de verdad? Del mismo modo si uno puede pronunciar a cada palabra, pero el libro no le lleva por ningun lado ¿ha leido de verdad? Leer a un libro en sexto año significa mucho mas que leer un libro en quinto año. Los cinco sentidos son todos involucrados, como tambien los son los pensamientos y sentimientos del corazon. La escuela llega a ser mucho mas divertido cuando uno lee de verdad en vez de tan solo entender las palabras escritas.
Estudios Sociales tambien rindio a un chance mas para pensar como nunca antes. ¿Como sabemos que hicieron los que vivian muchos años atras? Ninguno que hoy vive estaba alli para verlos. Asi que aprendimos de los artifactos desde el primer dia. Llevaba yo a un traje lleno de artifactos (de mi propio dormitorio), y cada grupo de estudiantes tenia que construir a una historia personal del ocupante basado solo en la evidencia presentada. Salieron bien, cada grupo deducia que en aquel cuarto vivia un hombre que hablaba muy bien el ingles y el español, y que estaba aprendiendo el Dari, hace mucho ejercicio, se come suplementos nutritivos, es un Cristiano devoto, ha visitado (o fue visitado por) gente del Mejico o America Central - todo correctamente interpretado basado en los artifactos. Otro dia, los jovenes traian sus artifactos personales al aula y sus compañeros deducian sus historias personales, espresados en ensayos escritos. Los artifactos representan fuentes historicas primarias, los ensayos son fuentes secondarias. Los jovenes entendian bien el asunto.
La fiesta de Ramadan ha comenzado de nuevo. No corre de luna nueva a luna nueva sino comienza cuando los Mullahs VEN a la luna nueva y termina cuando los Mullahs VEN a la luna nueva de nuevo. Nadie puede decir con certeza de antemano cuando sucederia ni cuando se vaya a terminar.
Algunos creen que mis intenciones fueron de lavar el coco de los niños. Nada podria ser mas alejado de la verdad. Toda autoridad moral para lavar cocos fue deshechado, al proposito, en las primeras lecciones. Nadie podria acceptar ningun idea sin pensar el asunto criticamente de antemano de un profesor que ni siquiera accepta a un sistema solar heliocentrico. Es mi deseo de estar aqui lo suficiente tiempo para ver que estes niños llegan a ser adultos jovenes...
Lo que fue una ciudad de un millon despues de los años pacificos de la Taliban ha llegado a ser una ciudad de cuatro millones, despues de la conquista del imperialismo Yanqui. Muchos parecen disfrutar de semejante imperialismo, aunque el pais todavia pase por una temporada de guerra sostenida. La politica educativa de la escuela ISK es muy mia (o visa versa), asi que supongo que soy un agente para con todo esto. Quisierra multiplicar semejantes escuelas por todo lado en la Persia. Si tengo exito, el pueblo comenzara a pensar por si mismo. Si no tengo exito, el pais volvera a ser dominado por algunos heroes quienes, sin lugar a duda, no permitiran ni al pensamiento critico ni la busqueda sincera de La Verdad. Oponeran a los cielos y a la tierra, pero como seran contra los gringos tambien, seran "heroes", sin importar.

Sixth Grade the Way it was Meant to Be

While running the perimeter of the U of K-Town, you can not help but be struck by the number of students wandering aimlessly, alone, with their noses stuck in books. Memorization is the order of the day; independent thinking and problem solving is not so positively valued. Asian students are taught to respect their elders, their adults, their teachers. Beliefs are handed down from the "white beards" (old, wise ones). Everyone born here must be of one faith by legal decree. Students expect to be told what to know and what to believe. They excel at regurgitating the right answers. Someone had to be prepared to teach something completely different...
When I first started teaching in public schools in 1997, there was already an intellectual capacity to draw on; any kind of standardized test could bring in a score 90th percentile or above. And that "presentation personality" had already been developed; I could speak at length on any topic, with or without knowledge. There was a good rapport with (some) children through the RICY program, around the corner and up the street. Ready to be professional at teaching the loads of stuff in my repertoire, the children in my room would be serious professional learners, otherwise discipline would be applied consistently and fairly. None of the above would work for me in Kensington. Good material and an interesting delivery would only get me so far (maybe ten minutes on a good day). Twenty minutes later, the revelation that children who curse out their parents w/o consequences would not respond to discipline as one raised in a more civilized environment might expect dawned on me. I had so much to suffer and to learn.
Being the only non-Hispanic in the Bilingual Department at Stetson Middle School, my classes were stacked. At first, beginner level bilingual classes were my assignment. Many misbehaving students would never be evaluated as proficient at English, and so the group of them became mine. Later, I taught the more advanced bilingual classes; those years many misbehaving students were evaluated as being more proficient at English, so the group of them became mine. I learned to speak to the hearts of students instead of telling them what to do; they would move better by routine or by personal involvement. Coercion and punishments, no matter how administered, never produced positive results. Passing grades were not necessary for promotion, detentions would be an opportunity to stay away from home, and suspensions, as doled out, were unavoidable random events that simply meant a few days off - a school initiated sick day. The prevailing question in the students' souls was, "does anyone care about me?" So my classes always began with room for silliness, meeting and greeting, creative hand shaking and full body gyrations, which gave way to well established routines; it was all about motivation. Eleven and twelve year olds are remarkably unprofessional - fact that I learned to enjoy.
The term "closed-door-classroom" was invented to describe my work. Rarely would I refer a
student out to an administrator, my room's problems were solved (or not) by me - the classroom door was closed from the inside. Each new "miracle" strategy (whatever that might be at a particular point in time) for inner city education was rarely on display in my room - the administrators would keep my door closed from the outside when important people (the important people seemed to be interested in miracles and unable to identify them) came to visit. No formal observations of my class were written for the last several years. The admin did not boast of my class, nor did they ever want to split my class up and give them to other teachers. And, dealing with so many problematic youth, what I learned about pre-teens!!! The peer groups have a power akin to the Word. They can call things into being that did not exist, though instead of giving life to the dead they often deal death to the living (Romans 4:17b).
If ISK had been my first teaching assignment I would have applied discipline whenever the students were less than professional learners. The tragedy would have been that ISK students would have simply respected that and learned to absorb information as it spouted copiously forth. Yet now I know that pre-teens can not be coerced into open-heart, open-brain learning, a good teacher must always work (and play) to develop and maintain internally motivated students. Because of the rough classes I have become an expert at that. Stetson students simply would not have responded at all, they would have gone about their business as if no adult were in the room, unless they had first been drawn in emotionally. Coercion could accomplish nothing. Dad had prepared me to teach critical thinking from a position of student-felt internal motivation in K-Town. From day 1 I have been so thankful for the inner city experiences that had seemed so unfair and overwhelming at the moment. Light afflictions do indeed yield eternal glory.
Finally I showed up (three months before the sixth grade science materials) in K-Town. I decided to uphold the belief that everything in the sky moves around a stationary earth - since that's what you see every time you look up. Science is the study of things that can be seen, measured and proven. Firm, indeed, was the ground beneath me when I offered an "A" for the year in science to any sixth grader who can show, from personal observation (books can err as easily as you or I can), that the earth moves around the sun and not visa versa. (The key to the proof is the observable retrograde motion of the planets - three dimensional algebraic models, based on two dimensional observations, only tend to "prove" that the model with the earth at the center is more accurate- differential calculus had to be invented and applied in three space to prove that the sun is indeed in the middle and the earth is the body that has relative orbital motion. None of that is happening in any sixth grade class.) Now these poor kids are faced with a science teacher who, day in and day out, insists that the earth is the center of the solar system, but who is willing to listen to any evidence to the contrary. What a dynamic!!! First of all, sixth graders are so peer oriented; the power of pre-teen peer pressure and agreement is stronger than black-and-white, see-it-and-touch-it fact. Something in the air tells these kids, as a group, that their teacher is wrong. No evidence that a child could present will ever convince me, but whichever student would publicly advance a reason for a sun-centered solar system becomes an instant hero in the eyes of the class, who readily assist in any way that may be possible, logically or
emotionally. So my mostly Asian students will confidently disagree with the teacher, with their authority figure, en masse. And as none of my stone cold smug, slam dunk, black-and-white evidences of a geocentric solar system are likely to be swallowed by my class, the discussion goes on and on, in a healthy sort of way. (If the earth really rotated in space, the wind generated by the friction blow all the birds off their perches.) New books just came in - earth science; maybe we'll study weather next.
It is not so difficult to prove that the moon spins by personal observation (given that we assume a sun-centered model, I can make that concession for the moon project and then withdraw it for purposes of later discussion - sixth grade is such a magical time!) so we did it as an experimental project. Over and over again I point out that it does not matter if the original hypothesis was that the moon spins or that the moon does not spin - equal credit for both. From both positions you are drawn to follow the same procedure, and end up proving the same point (it does spin - one rotation for every revolution it makes around the earth, go out and prove it to yourself!). ZERO points for starting out with the right answer in your hypothesis. 100 points for the PROOF.
In math, a lesson on "order of operations" started like this: first I sing a song as I write on the board, each word on a different line - Please Please Mr. Don't Sing Again - all the first letters in huge caps. Then a brief intro to the topic is given, while writing Parenthesis Powers Multiplication Division Subtraction and Addition next to their respective cap letters on the board. Next, 3*5+10 = 3*5+10 goes on the other board. I work both sides of the equation with class participation, messing up the order of operations on one side, to end up with 25=45. I ask that everyone copy our example in their notes. As some students have a problem with that, I ignore them and return to my song. A minute later I explain that 25 equals 45, so that if I borrow $45 dollars, you should be happy if I return $26 since 25 is really the same as 45. My students suffer, they learn to think, they become heroes to their peers when they publicly disagree. Their teacher can be sooooooo obtuse. He who unquestioningly buys into what I (or anyone else) teaches them will end up failing - and rightly so!. Up to this point, my classroom door has remained quiet closed,
but now there is a knock from the outside. Today is the day of our grand opening celebration and the US Ambassador to A. is opening the door. He enters with three photographers who record everything. Eventually, the students discover my error and equal signs can be easily changed to not equal signs. As he leaves, the Ambassador admonishes the students with a smile, "the next time your teacher makes a mistake, make sure you pay closer attention." The ISK Director, ISK Principal and OASIS President all expressed satisfaction with the way things are going in sixth grade. Closed-door-classroom no more.
The teacher is not an infallible prophet of truth, but a fellow learner. Since we use a four step writing process, and everyone has a place on the wall to publish their work, there is also a composition written by Mr. Drew, with all four writing steps evident. The final product is a two paragraph essay about how the classroom is set up. It is written on about a third grade level with multiple spelling and grammatical errors (even after some were edited out). An honest representation of the best work I could produce, it is written in Dari using Persian Script.
Reading class started with the telling of an emotional story about the Christmas vacation in 1968 when I orbited the moon, via TV, with the Apollo 8 astronauts. After splashdown, the TV offered no more moonshots (until March), and I was ever so depressed, until at the library I discovered that books could also take me back to outer space. Those trips were even better. Then we started talking about the similarities between listening and reading (they both are controlled from the same location in the brain, you know). If you hear every word, but do not "get the message" have you really listened? In the same way, if you decipher every word, but the book takes you nowhere have you really read anything? Reading a book in sixth grade means so much more than reading a book in fifth grade; it engages all five senses as well as the thoughts and emotions of the heart. School becomes so much more fun when you really read instead of just understanding the written words.
Social Studies also is a chance to think like never before. How do we know what people who lived long ago did? No one alive today was there to see them. So we learned about artifacts from the first day. I brought in a suitcase full of them (from my own bedroom), and each group of students had to reconstruct a personal history of the room occupant based on the evidence. They did well, everyone deduced that in that room there lived a man who speaks English and Spanish very well and is learning Dari, he exercises a lot, eats dietary supplements, is a devout Christian, and has visited (or been visited by) people from Mexico and/or Central America - all correctly interpreted from the artifacts. Another day, the kids brought in their own personal artifacts and their peers deduced their personal histories, expressed by written essays. The artifacts represent primary historical sources, the essays are secondary sources. The kids got it down right.
Ramadan started this week. It does not run from new moon to new moon. It runs from when the Mullahs say the moon is new to when the Mullahs say the moon is new again. No one can tell in advance exactly what day that will happen.
Some believe that my intentions were to brainwash the kids. Nothing could be further from the truth. Intentionally, all moral authority to brainwash was relinquished in the first few lessons. No one could uncritically accept anything else that might come from a teacher who will not even accept a heliocentric solar system. It is my desire to stick around long enough to see some of these children become young adults...

Monday, September 26, 2005

Enter the Usher (Retro Journal)

A transition between places of service is a healthy thing to go through every now and then. On the physical side, when you move you have to decide what is important to take and what you need to give or throw away; you clear the decks for action. On the soulish side you have to be introspective; you start to deeply evaluate who you are and what the needs of the world are and exactly which gap The Father has formed and equipped you to stand in. In my case, how was it that the passion to include inner city youth in the Kingdom was lost and a new vision put on the table? Why did that new vision take over my heart? On the spiritual side that personal connection with the Father himself is renewed in a brand new context. He remains the same while everything and everyone around you changes. This is an essay on the introspective, soulish part of my transition from GCCC to K-Town.
I used to think that I was extremely introverted with regular bursts of extroversion. On the one hand I get so much enjoyment from solitude - to the point that I became the fastest long distance runner in both High School and College, (perhaps not in an attempt to qualify for the Olympic Team, as purported) to be able to run alone, ahead, just about every day. When the teams were permanently left behind, new running shoes have helped me find (always alone) the religious group where I first responded to the good news, the open fields where Costa Rican High Schoolers taught me Spanish, and today the safely enclosed University of K-Town (where students stroll around with their noses in books and Dad knows what adventures await). I am always powering up alone, yet bumping into the right people at the right time. But how can an intense introvert (such as I indeed am) weave stories in front of an audience that capture and hold attention until they converge on a main point (never speak without one!). When introverts translate (do introverts even develop enough linguistic skills to translate?) do the discourses they come up with contain more emotional content than the originals, as mine usually do? How can an introvert be responsible for teaming together people from divergent backgrounds to win the battle to change the spiritual environment of a submarine, to form house meetings in Latin America over the opposition of extended family members, and, (well, let me deal with Philly later)? Only an extroverted introvert could do all that.
It was at PFO (Pre-Field Orientation) where they made a distinction between one's inclusion skills and one's introvert/extrovert orientation. Inclusion skills are your ability to form and be part of a group. A person with low inclusion skills struggles to get themselves included; a person with high inclusion skills is able to empower others to become full participants and is himself the key to group formation. The introvert/extrovert continuum is completely distinct; an extrovert is energized by using inclusion skills and is drained by having to be alone. An introvert is exhausted by forming and being included in groups and renews strength by passing time in solitary reflection. After PFO the light dawned on me. I am extreme on both scales- extremely able with inclusion skills, and yet extremely introverted. I am loathe to use the inclusion skills I possess; there is a switch in my brain - once "on" I form and entertain groups, but I need to be pushed to "turn on". When I get my ‘druthers I avoid groups - even those I've formed myself. I’m inclusive to the point that I can excel as the only non-Hispanic in my school's bilingual department, and introverted to the point that casual observers believe that I have no inclusion skills.
Oh, yeah, Philly. There is a serious friction thing going on in inner city neighborhoods; gangs form around neighborhood distinctions. Once some children got off the GCCC van, walked around two corners, encountered the same van and threw rocks at it. Since they and their neighborhood friends were no longer on board, in their minds the van represented the kids from a different neighborhood. Sammy and Fat Boy are two young men who, they would claim, grew up in the same North Philadelphia neighborhood. I may be the only person who remembers that at one point in time it was not so. Fat Boy was from the "Refuge" neighborhood and Sammy was from "Stetson", "the other neighborhood". Dangerous. They remember growing up together because they both became belongers in Him, especially through a RICY basketball team that played within the city. It happened when the inclusion power resident in the RICY environment overcame the violent exclusivity that breeds in Philly's neighborhoods. And having been both included, they could and did overcome.
This city neighborhood friction thing was a potential happening every Sunday at the pick up point. Two hundred kids had permission slips signed and you could never be sure which handful would show up from where. After they all were feeling included enough to ride a half hour in peace together, we would arrive at GCCC where we were not-exactly-like-everyone-else; a second inclusion problem loomed to be overcome. As years passed, the older ones would go to service and I would stay around Sunday school with the younger ones - sometimes even teaching the first few minutes of class - until everyone seemed happily included in the suburban environment.
Thus two different social adjustment tasks had to be completed every Sunday BEFORE service began. Neither task was one a person with ordinary inclusion skills would have attempted, much less succeeded at. As introvert extraordinaire I'd be running low on the emotional fuel gauge. At the end of the service, all the kids would be coming back to me. If there were any problems in Sunday School I'd then deal with it. Lunch, sports activity, afternoon study and return to North Philly would all be on my emotional shoulders, but for that moment when service was beginning (I'd have already struggled to make lots of difficult people feel included in many ways), how does an introvert recharge his batteries?
There is no place on all the acres GCCC owns where you can be assured of being by yourself on Sunday morning at 11:00 A.M. I know, because I've been there - each and every place -several times, seeking renewed emotional energy. The songs of the L.. in the air would always waft irresistible in the end (especially after a cup of coffee). Here surfaced the skills that only an extremely talented introvert could master: I would get completely alone, singing, in a room with a thousand other people. You'd have had to see it to believe it. A stone’s throw from “my older kids” and watchful in case needed. But anyone who noticed me would be struck by the fact that I was quite alone among the crowd, praising, crying, powering up for the action to come, just as I needed to be.
Enter the usher. He sees a middle age man, alone, who seems to lack the inclusion skills necessary to make himself a part of the congregation. Just the kind of task he was prepared to handle. (Sunday smile on - GO!)
Sit down over there? Of course I’d be happy to sit down over there, if I had any inclination to do so. Which I don’t. Thank you, anyway. (Sunday smile coming back at you!). This goes on for weeks, for months, for years.
Most teachers at my old school get burnt out and leave within the first year. So what if, after several years, I no longer coached a basketball team? Didn't I deserve a little rest just for hanging in there? And the after school program I once ran also fell by the wayside. But most of the teachers who were around me in the earlier days were no longer even in the neighborhood; was not I the one still standing firm? On a "smooth" Sunday afternoon (and they were becoming quite smooth) I could detach from the RICY group (without going too far away). It got to the point where I would not usually even participate and play with the kids; I only did that if someone in the group would otherwise have been left out. Eventually, the bible study tasks were also given to the older kids. My passion for this ministry had waned. A new vision had room to take root.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Security Issues

For an entire year (2004-2005), I would walk around my home church (never stopping at a pulpit) talking to anyone who would listen about Dad's doings among Persians, and my actual and anticipated role in it. There were those who, for that entire year, avoided having to listen to any part of it, cutting me off by saying, "but it's so dangerous". Yet I had learned from experience that protection comes from Dad; fear could never dictate where I live nor what I do nor say. Costa Rican low-income neighborhoods had brandished that "dangerous" reputation until I found myself at ease in them. The North Philly barrios of my former home and job were shrouded in a haze of fear, yet had become a relaxing "home" to me and mine. On these pleasant experiences my expectations of K-Town security were built.
Expectations faded and the new reality took center stage the afternoon I entered (what was later dubbed) the Karte Char Palace (where I lived for a few weeks before the women teachers took it over) and the transition was a fairly smooth upward lift. No terrors were lurking behind the luxuriously new marble walls, plentiful full baths, nor from those breathtaking terraces. Able choquedors guarded the entrance, later to be accompanied by an armed security service, who socialize during the frequent extended visits from both the local police and the ISAF anti-terrorist rapid response force. Costa Rica never offered this level of comfort and attention, at least not to me. With running shoes on, alone, starting at 5 A.M., new trails were ignorantly blazed through places where, well, I have not since returned. The U of K offers shelter with its 2+ mile long internal perimeter, trees shading the way, and University security keeping almost all of the cars away; it's always a safe haven for a few hours of introverted exertion. The streets of Karte seh and Karte char present themselves as friendly, hot and dusty. Yet K-Town is officially a war zone; none of the "down town folk" are even allowed to bring family members into the country.
Oh, not everything here is as safe as it appears; invisible kite strings will strike your torso and head as you walk along, then people you scarcely know will invite you to tea and meals (you're not SUPPOSED to accept the first or second offers, dummy!). If you are a male who speaks the native tongue, there lurk construction workers, children, professionals and others who might leap out at any moment and entrap you with their life stories. Then back at the ISK compound, turning on the internet you could always read about violence in far off places like, well, here in K-Town. There is a Star-Trek induced dimensional disconnect between the news reality and the daily reality, and I live in the better place (you couldn't pay me enough to live on TV). Just like in North Philly where the bombed out 7-11 on the news was from a different dimension than the one down the street (where they pour the remains of the regular coffee into the decaf container!); the two places can therefore share the same street address without ever overlapping.
Security is a serious daily issue; if lady visitors stay after dinner we men must see that they arrive safely at home. Walking alone is not a good idea at night, a good (lady) friend of ours was roughed up last month in an alley. We have a comfortable compound in a rough neck of the woods. The Parliamentary elections happened last Sunday, so after the usual Thursday-Friday weekend, we kept ISK closed until Tuesday. The whole town slowed to a crawl. Government electricity ran all day (usually it cuts off at 6 A.M. until night and we run our generators). All of the NGO's had their staff on lockdown (which, depending on your company, would mean that if you go out no one will say anything, except, "I told you so" if something goes wrong). Our meals were not prepared as usual since the cook stayed home, so I ventured out to get some yogurt. Everything was still and quiet; half the shops at the local bazaar were closed. On the news, a mortar hit a K-Town warehouse wounding (one news service said killing) a UN worker - not a peep in my dimension; not even an aggressive taxi driver. Some universes have all the luck. Then at 1:30 A.M. a loud rumbling awoke me. All the dogs on this side of the mountain were barking. My first thought was that our incomplete High School building had fallen, but it had not. Was it a downtown explosion? No. A mild tremor had occurred that most people did not notice. As far as security goes, it only takes one serious incident to alter your world view.
It seems almost inevitable that one day an evil Romulan plot will cause the two universes to collide at some point and something awful will come into ISK's space. Though multiple greetings are the norm, sometimes the young men who repeat polite phrases as I run by at the U seem like anxious children vying for attention. Yet there are moments when I wonder if one of them is trying to set me up, (in spite of the fact that a bicycle abduction would be a physical impossibility.) The ISK security staff and I spend a lot of time together joking around in Dari. I observed that the Chinese machine gun weighs a lot more than the Russian one, without being any more effective. The fact that I am out handling Asiatic machine guns should serve as a hint that Toto and I might no longer be in Kansas. We are developing drills for ISK involving scenarios that go way beyond the fire drills of my youth. So there is this "imaginary" security stress everywhere, right alongside the incredibly warm welcome and hospitality.