Through the traffic of Kabul, through the grey industrial suburbs, passing endless fields whose only trees are chimneys; chimneys for brick production, leaving no trace of nature, just few meter deep cracks in the brown landscape, from where the clay for the production is taken. Seen through the frozen window of my car, this is the way to Barik Ab, one of roughly thirty “land allocation schemes”, areas allocated to returnees and internally displaced persons, following a presidential decree issued by President Hamid Karzai in 2005 to address the serious problem of landless returnees. Many returnees from Pakistan and Iran as well as persons who got internally displaced during the decades of war and construction had been landless since their return to Afghanistan, living in tents, temporary shelters, public buildings, unable to return to their original homesteads due to a variety of reasons. So, here they come, the land allocation schemes, meant to give a piece of land and future to all those left homeless. Just as many other schemes dedicated to returnees, Barik Ab is reachable on a road that takes away any remaining illusions that this site could be a better place than where refugees and IDP’s had lived during the years of their flight. The site is about 35 kilometers north of Kabul, along the road to Bargram.
Its winter, and the landscape is snow covered, but the little brown islands of clay and mud that break through the white blanket offer a glimpse on what this land looks like when the snow is gone. From the main road, which is asphalted, we turn to the right, towards the mountains. Our car slides from one side of the gravel road to the other, barely making its way to Barik Ab. I wish I could get out of the car and walk the remaining distance, but as it is, that’s not the way expats like me are supposed to approach communities. Once we reach the community, we are welcomed by a group of elders, members of the “Shura”, the local authority of Barik Ab. They welcome us into a house, we sit down along the wall of the room, embracing with our bodies a stove that hasn’t any wood in it. The room warms up by the heat of our bodies, while the stove remains cold. We introduce each other. We listen. To the concerns and needs raised by the community. It doesn’t need many words to explain their needs. A look around is enough. Breathing out into the room, seeing the air of my lungs crystallizing into a small cloud, is enough to know that there are needs. I am here to discuss livelihoods, though. A longer term intervention that should help the community to get self sustained and away from dependency on temporary support that focuses on the immediate needs. But where to start? Listening to them, it seems like listening to a fish that has been thrown on land, in a small bag of water, and told: now, here you have your new aquarium; adapt! It reminds me of a similar project in Guatemala, where I had worked many years ago: refugees and internally displaced people who had originally lived in the highlands where given land in the low lands after their return to Guatemala. The problem was that agriculture in low lands and high lands is something totally different, with different products, different seasonal impact, and different markets. I don’t know how many of these returnee bubbles succeeded. But back to Barik Ab. Together with the Shura members I and my colleague try to brainstorm over possible support that could have a sustainable impact on the livelihoods of the community. It turns out that many have skills, acquired before the war and during their flight. Next to me sits an engineer. A younger member tells me about an English and computer course he had had to interrupt when moving out to Barik Ab. It’s the interruption that strikes me the most. Its like gathering a crowd of people, putting them into a boat and driving them to an island where they are supposed to develop into a well functioning community. But to me it looks more like another displacement, trading off certain vulnerabilities for others. As a result, the sites soon turn into a playground, where government bends down to international pressure by providing land to those landless, and where aid organizations experiment their approaches to community development and reconstruction; where shelters will be branded with logos from UNHCR and schools with emblems of UNICEF. But what does it really need to turn these places into an environment that offers a future to children and a save retreat for older generations? I am thinking about the challenge ahead, of creating livelihoods that offer a future. Looking around the circle, the future seems far. Lack of transport is one of the obstacles that divide the community from the future. Though there are commercial centers not far away, that might offer an opportunity for employment or a market for products produced in the community, they remain out of reach as long as there is no transport that would allow inhabitants of Barik Ab to go there. Lack of integration into the local market is another obstacle. Again, it is this isolation, this artificiality that makes me despair. Is this the home the people of Barik Ab where looking for? Or is it yet another displacement? I know I shouldn’t get emotional; after all, I am here to coordinate a program and not to endure emotional outbreaks. But sometimes it’s hard to stay aloof from the places I work in, the people I work with and for.
Its winter, and the landscape is snow covered, but the little brown islands of clay and mud that break through the white blanket offer a glimpse on what this land looks like when the snow is gone. From the main road, which is asphalted, we turn to the right, towards the mountains. Our car slides from one side of the gravel road to the other, barely making its way to Barik Ab. I wish I could get out of the car and walk the remaining distance, but as it is, that’s not the way expats like me are supposed to approach communities. Once we reach the community, we are welcomed by a group of elders, members of the “Shura”, the local authority of Barik Ab. They welcome us into a house, we sit down along the wall of the room, embracing with our bodies a stove that hasn’t any wood in it. The room warms up by the heat of our bodies, while the stove remains cold. We introduce each other. We listen. To the concerns and needs raised by the community. It doesn’t need many words to explain their needs. A look around is enough. Breathing out into the room, seeing the air of my lungs crystallizing into a small cloud, is enough to know that there are needs. I am here to discuss livelihoods, though. A longer term intervention that should help the community to get self sustained and away from dependency on temporary support that focuses on the immediate needs. But where to start? Listening to them, it seems like listening to a fish that has been thrown on land, in a small bag of water, and told: now, here you have your new aquarium; adapt! It reminds me of a similar project in Guatemala, where I had worked many years ago: refugees and internally displaced people who had originally lived in the highlands where given land in the low lands after their return to Guatemala. The problem was that agriculture in low lands and high lands is something totally different, with different products, different seasonal impact, and different markets. I don’t know how many of these returnee bubbles succeeded. But back to Barik Ab. Together with the Shura members I and my colleague try to brainstorm over possible support that could have a sustainable impact on the livelihoods of the community. It turns out that many have skills, acquired before the war and during their flight. Next to me sits an engineer. A younger member tells me about an English and computer course he had had to interrupt when moving out to Barik Ab. It’s the interruption that strikes me the most. Its like gathering a crowd of people, putting them into a boat and driving them to an island where they are supposed to develop into a well functioning community. But to me it looks more like another displacement, trading off certain vulnerabilities for others. As a result, the sites soon turn into a playground, where government bends down to international pressure by providing land to those landless, and where aid organizations experiment their approaches to community development and reconstruction; where shelters will be branded with logos from UNHCR and schools with emblems of UNICEF. But what does it really need to turn these places into an environment that offers a future to children and a save retreat for older generations? I am thinking about the challenge ahead, of creating livelihoods that offer a future. Looking around the circle, the future seems far. Lack of transport is one of the obstacles that divide the community from the future. Though there are commercial centers not far away, that might offer an opportunity for employment or a market for products produced in the community, they remain out of reach as long as there is no transport that would allow inhabitants of Barik Ab to go there. Lack of integration into the local market is another obstacle. Again, it is this isolation, this artificiality that makes me despair. Is this the home the people of Barik Ab where looking for? Or is it yet another displacement? I know I shouldn’t get emotional; after all, I am here to coordinate a program and not to endure emotional outbreaks. But sometimes it’s hard to stay aloof from the places I work in, the people I work with and for.
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