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"My father was rich. I [hand signs for showing milking] two go."
"Goats?" I asked.
"Go. Go. Two go," she said nearly swallowing the difficult word, showing two fingers, and milking in the air again.
"Cow?" asked my son.
"Yeah, cow. Two cow. Father have big square land." [drawing a big square in the air.] Father rich. She looked up and to the side, looking for words and memory, I thought.
"In the city?" I asked. "Two cows in Kabul?"
[A big nod] "Uh-huh. Yeah. Lotta land in Kabul. I make bread, sometimes 2, 3, 4, 7, " [recruiting more and more fingers into the gesture], 27! Sometimes, 27!" Big smile and a pause to thank "Allah-God" for blessings of the past, and to pray with palms raised heavenward as she brought the prayer into the present: "Allah-God help you! Help your husband! Help your son! College!"
"Thank you, Thank you," I answer, as does my son who probably could benefit fropm some devine intervention in his studies. "You made twenty seven bread? Nan? Twenty seven nan? In one day?"
"Yes, 27. " [with a gesture showing sliding bread into an oven on a long-handed wooden shovel]. "Sometimes nan, sometimes, mmm, thick." [indicating first a thin nan bread, then a four inch thick loaf.] "Twenty seven!" she said with remembered pride.
I drew a dome shaped oven over the floor, and asked, "Oven?" I imagined the kind of brick outdoor oven that takes days to heat evenly and so it is always kept hot and its use alternates from one family to the next.
"No. Oven. Tanur. Lotta wood." I looked up tanur in the dictionary and it only translates as oven.
"Did you sell the bread?"
"No, no. Eat. All family." [wide gesture which led me to imagine there were 30 people to eat this bread]
"How long did 27 breads last?"
[A puzzled look returned to me.]
"You made bread one day. How many days your family eat the 27 breads?"
"Two days. I make bread again."
"Wow! Big family! Twenty seven breads eaten in two days!" Then I thought about how months ago how she told me her husband and her four children are all dead from the war. She was remembering a day when she was rich because her extended but close family had two cows, grassy land for them, milk, cheese yogurt, wheat and bread. This followed the conversation about the four colors of Afghani rice and she was stimulated to recall the days of plenty.
She had to leave then so that she could walk home before dark. She prayed for us again and left cheerier than I ever had seen her, evidently remembering those rcih days. But she prayed for blessings for my family one more time, kissed me on both cheeks, hugged, expressed love, called me sister, and left.
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I suppose there is something to say here about PERSPECTIVE.
"Goats?" I asked.
"Go. Go. Two go," she said nearly swallowing the difficult word, showing two fingers, and milking in the air again.
"Cow?" asked my son.
"Yeah, cow. Two cow. Father have big square land." [drawing a big square in the air.] Father rich. She looked up and to the side, looking for words and memory, I thought.
"In the city?" I asked. "Two cows in Kabul?"
[A big nod] "Uh-huh. Yeah. Lotta land in Kabul. I make bread, sometimes 2, 3, 4, 7, " [recruiting more and more fingers into the gesture], 27! Sometimes, 27!" Big smile and a pause to thank "Allah-God" for blessings of the past, and to pray with palms raised heavenward as she brought the prayer into the present: "Allah-God help you! Help your husband! Help your son! College!"
"Thank you, Thank you," I answer, as does my son who probably could benefit fropm some devine intervention in his studies. "You made twenty seven bread? Nan? Twenty seven nan? In one day?"
"Yes, 27. " [with a gesture showing sliding bread into an oven on a long-handed wooden shovel]. "Sometimes nan, sometimes, mmm, thick." [indicating first a thin nan bread, then a four inch thick loaf.] "Twenty seven!" she said with remembered pride.
I drew a dome shaped oven over the floor, and asked, "Oven?" I imagined the kind of brick outdoor oven that takes days to heat evenly and so it is always kept hot and its use alternates from one family to the next.
"No. Oven. Tanur. Lotta wood." I looked up tanur in the dictionary and it only translates as oven.
"Did you sell the bread?"
"No, no. Eat. All family." [wide gesture which led me to imagine there were 30 people to eat this bread]
"How long did 27 breads last?"
[A puzzled look returned to me.]
"You made bread one day. How many days your family eat the 27 breads?"
"Two days. I make bread again."
"Wow! Big family! Twenty seven breads eaten in two days!" Then I thought about how months ago how she told me her husband and her four children are all dead from the war. She was remembering a day when she was rich because her extended but close family had two cows, grassy land for them, milk, cheese yogurt, wheat and bread. This followed the conversation about the four colors of Afghani rice and she was stimulated to recall the days of plenty.
She had to leave then so that she could walk home before dark. She prayed for us again and left cheerier than I ever had seen her, evidently remembering those rcih days. But she prayed for blessings for my family one more time, kissed me on both cheeks, hugged, expressed love, called me sister, and left.
----------------------
I suppose there is something to say here about PERSPECTIVE.
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