Kabul, Afghanistan—There is a big number of Filipinos working here under the umbrella of the United Nations System. Without exception but in varying degrees, all of us suffer from homesickness—the mischievous angel that lurks in the caverns of our minds and teases us with a whisper that tears our hearts apart: “Go home.”
When that angel—little devil, actually—whispers that you have to go home, how do you fend off its blandishments, its honeyed words about the joys of being in beloved surroundings once again?
Given the UN’s demanding work ethic, how do you cope with that poignant longing to be back home, continuously missing family, friends, brothers in the most noble profession, and sights and sounds that are uniquely Pinoy? How do you work off that unbidden depression or hopelessness?
Excruciatingly, sleep won’t come anymore, even in the wee hours of the morning when even the most rabid of the Taliban are fast asleep. And if ever sleep comes, all it brings are troubled dreams of family, friends, brothers in the profession, and sights and sounds that are uniquely Pinoy.
The day breaks; you wake up, but still your mind aches. You don’t feel like eating; you feel you won’t be able to work, or if you could, you know almost for certain that you won’t be able to think rationally.
And when nobody is nigh, you cry—very hard, like a lost child, and wish you had a ticket for the first plane out of Kabul even if it is not yet time for you to go on your R&R.
You think about your options, but you cannot arrive at a good one because all of them remind you of what your father used to say: “When you take the King’s shilling, you march to his commands.” And therein hangs a stern warning: You accept payment for a service, you must be prepared to provide that service.
So here I am at the service of the UN, doing the best I can in the best way I know how, yet periodically saddled by thoughts of home, of longing for the family, especially the grandchild who was just beginning to gurgle the word “Lolo” the last time I held him in my arms.
I grab my laptop and try to write, but find it hard to put coherence to my thoughts. The word processor cannot process properly the emotions surging inside me, and my fingers cannot keep up with the thoughts that race through my mind.
Only the disciplined urging of my mind to survive the last remaining days before I am home again keeps me going. Only the thought that if I do survive the last remaining days, the reward of being home again keeps me well within the confines of controlled sanity.
Prayers, to keep that pesky little devil from whispering in my ear, have worked—but not always. And in those moments when the little devil overpowers me, a fleeting moment of helplessness—that of being away from home and yet being unable to fly and put my body where my heart and mind are—gives way to an uneasy stupor.
I reach for my cell phone, only to realize that it is actually the instrument for those cursed with homesickness. The more you hear a familiar voice at the other end, the more you wish you were home. Neither would that chat on your laptop convince you that you are home. Technology is cold-hearted and impersonal; it can never take the place of the touch of the hand that can gladden the heart till it sings.
So here I am paying my dues while singing the blues. It’s a pretty sad song that brings Keats to mind: “The voice I hear this passing night was heard/ In ancient days by emperor and clown./ Perhaps the self-same song that found a path/ Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,/ She stood in tears amid the alien corn.”
But I still wonder just what is happening to these other souls in Kabul who have accepted the “King’s shilling” and are sick for home, standing in tears amid the alien terrain. I have heard of one who put a noose around her neck and ended her life. Another finds solace in the amber liquid, brought into Kabul despite the prohibition. Yet another got sick in the mind, and created her own universe. And there was this ingenious guy who cleverly faked an illness, which precipitated a medical leave for home. Of course, a great many found going home, whether on vacation leave or for good, the best way to fight the loneliness.
Me, to stave off the loneliness, I entertain myself online with what is going on in dear old Philippines. Of late, I have monitored my friend Harry Roque taking on that thankless job of defending EJKs and acting as crisis manager for our beleaguered government; the colorful but not politically correct language attributed to my cousin-in-law Sal Panelo; and news as to which official made a more substantial killing in the latest caper on corruption. Or simply rejoicing, and being thankful that Ginebra has another championship trophy! Surfing the net helps drive away the blues.
I have been in and out of Kabul since June 2006, and wherever else the UN posts me, with regular visits of two weeks to my family after every 42 days. I do not know the rationale for the 42 days “amid the alien corn,” and two weeks in the bosom of your loved ones at home. But it does work wonders. Most of the time.
It all depends on that pesky little devil.
Lawyer Demaree J.B. Raval is a democratic governance specialist under the UN System. He is currently posted in Kabul, Afghanistan, for a UNDP project for capacity building of Afghan parliamentarians.