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After visiting Afghanistan last summer, the Rev. Stephen C. Holton returned, this time to see the mosque in Qharabagh that has been rebuilt with funding and support from the Episcopal Diocese of New York.

The mosque in Qharabagh was destroyed by American bombs and recently
restored with the sponsorship of the Episcopal Diocese of New York.

Photos courtesy of the REV. STEPHEN C. HOLTON

February 6
Off again tomorrow, this time with a stopover in Dubai, just south of our new base at Al Udeid in Qatar. Into the heart of war, for peace.

February 7
We leave today. Goodbye to the family in front of the airport. I walk through the security area and have to take off my shoes, as I will when I walk into the mosque to rededicate it. I wonder, does the holy space, the holy journey, start here?

February 8
In Dubai. Outside the Emir’s offices around the magnificent mosque, I hear the muezzin, “Allahu Akbar.” “God is great.” “Come to prayer.” The chant is taken up by two other muezzins in different tones around the city, echoing each other. It is a peaceful sound – “come to prayer.” Different from church bells. Should we sing out: “Glory to God in the highest” every morning from our church steps?

February 9
We sit down in the departure area in the airport. Since we are on the edge of Afghanistan, unreality takes over. Two men sit down opposite us. Afghan American engineers who have come to help rebuild the country. One is the uncle of Nilufar, the Global Exchange staff member at my guesthouse. She doesn’t know he is coming. I am to tell her.

We begin to talk about the mosque project. They are full of joy at this talk of Christians helping Muslims out of the goodness of their hearts – unlike what the Taliban told them. They tell stories about how Christian Churches took in Afghan refugees around the world. They say this is why Afghans like Christians.

This is how peace will be built – and it will be – by common people. Not because of George Bush or even Frank Griswold or Bishop Sisk; but because some nice woman in Ohio, or New York, took in a refugee when he desperately needed it, gave him a room, and then quietly excused herself while she went to church.

In Kabul
I am so much at peace, here in Kabul. The end of a journey, here at last.

Kabul is different than in June. More peaceful. The traffic travels in straight lines. People pay attention to the policemen. They are friendly to me. There are quietly efficient soldiers at the airport, in new uniforms.

That evening we go to an internet café – here in Kabul! The country must have moved along quite a bit – with 30 computers, lots of international people and young Afghans – and I email home: “It’s me, in Kabul.”

February 10
Drove off to the U.S. Embassy this morning to register, down a road kept clear of traffic, through a gate topped by razor wire, under the watchtower topped by sand bags. We’re ushered into a little kiosk and a young man in fatigues – some boy from Kentucky or some other place in small town America – comes in to give us papers to fill out. “How ya doin?” I ask, to break down barriers between combat soldier and hippie do-gooder religious type. He’s receptive.

We fill out the papers and thank him. He says he’ll be sure the consul sees them, and we’re on our way.
Having grown up in the diplomatic corps I feel at home in embassies around the world, even those ringed by razor wire. And hey, he’s just some kid from Kentucky doing his best. He needs to be recognized as human and so do I.

All people need is a bit of respect, a bit of welcoming, a bit of humanity; and they’re off and running – being respectful themselves, welcoming, human.

A car jaunt around Kabul – seeing more construction! People shopping in markets! Spices spilling off carts for tomorrow’s festival! Plenty – even in destruction. People seem less frantic than last June, less close to the edge, more open. It’s still a hard life, but it’s a life moving forward, definitely forward. I check this hunch out with Ahmad, our Program Director. Yes, it’s true, he says. The Afghan people are no longer somewhere between despair and hope; but beyond hope – in life.

A high point in this day of gentle high points is probably at the Sikh temple, where we go before dinner. We walk in, hear the music, take our shoes off and enter the sanctuary. Someone shakes our hands and indicates where we can stand. Many carpets are on the floor. There is a central area with the holy book laid out and a mic. in front for the chanting. Lovely, lively chanting. A little girl leads for a while. An elderly scholar on the balcony reads silently. Halwa, some kind of sweet paste, is distributed to all, including us.

We are made so welcome, into the heart of worship. This is where the heart of a people is, in worship; and in welcoming one into worship, we welcome them into the very presence of God – a place at the table in the sacred presence, right next to us. What could be more welcoming than that?

When we’re friendly in church, we’re not just being nice. We’re welcoming people into the holy presence of God, the very heart of our lives as people of God. What could be more welcoming than that? What could be more nurturing than that?

February 11, Eid-l-Qurbon – The Feast of the Sacrifice of Ishmael
Today I watch three sheep being slaughtered, in the area behind the guesthouse. They dig a pit. The butcher sharpens his knife. Then they bring the sheep running, one by one down the alley, with the butcher’s sons running behind. They first wash his feet, then feed him sugar to make his soul sweet, and put mascara on the eyes, for one must be beautiful to meet God. Then down he goes, with his head over the pit, and the boys hold him down. Quickly, the butcher cuts his throat, and the blood drains out, and to the dust it returns. Gradually the boys pump the remainder of the blood out. He is carried back, and the next sheep is brought out – a little skittish this time, having seen his friend carried back upside down.

The butcher makes short work of each sheep – sugar, mascara, on his side, butchered over the pit; and you see the life – the blood and breath – drain out. Then they are carried back to the porch where they are laid out. A tube is inserted into the aorta in the leg and the sheep is blown up like a balloon to make it easier to skin – which the butcher does, expertly. Then the sheep is hung up by the heels, and all the innards are removed, and the fat and the meat – and the process continues.

Behold the fire and the knife, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering? God shall himself provide a lamb for the burnt offering, my son. What a gift that God provides.

There is an extraordinary tranquility during the sacrifice, an extraordinary unity with the ram. An appreciation of its life. It is not horrible. I go inside briefly and someone is watching a rock concert on TV with bright lights. How disjointed from life. That is horrible.

Not outside. What a sacrifice. What a gift.

We drive off to visit a refugee’s house. On the way we pass a cemetery full of mujahideen/soldiers graves, with the green flags of martyrs flying. Down the road is flowing a stream of blood from a sacrifice. On the left – the graves – is what happens when we choose to take our own children’s lives in the cause of war. On the right is the possible alternative, taking the economic gift from God and sharing it with our friends.

We go in and visit Ehsan, the little boy I met last June who almost lost his leg to a cluster bomb. His father takes us into his sitting room in his little house in this cratered area outside of Kabul. Nice, threadbare carpets on the floor, red cushions around it to sit on. We do. Hospitality, I think, rejoicing. The man is giving all he has as he passes around the cookies one gets on Eid. We talk. He is friendly. I realize why God accepts Abraham’s hospitality as he passes by in the desert on the way to Sodom. It is the one thing he doesn’t have – this God of all the universe. It is the one thing we can give him – our hospitality.

I enjoy heaven on earth, for a few minutes, with Ehsan’s father and his four children, on a threadbare carpet, somewhere near Kabul.

February 12
On our way out this morning, we pull over next to a man with a large wad of small bills. They stand like this on all the street corners today. They are there to make small change so you can hand out charity to beggars, or – in our case – to orphans in the orphanage where we are headed. It is the custom during Eid-l-Qurbon to hand out charity. Along these lines, we pull over when we see an elderly beggar; and Ahmad leaps out of the car and gets one of the 2 pound bags of sheep meat we’ve been carrying around for just this purpose.

We get to the orphanage where we meet the director, a sweet, dedicated man who looks a little like Gomez Addams in the Addams family. He takes us to each little bunkroom in turn – oriental carpet on the floor, little bunks down the side, little boys or girls lined up near their heater. Ahmad hands out the money. I enjoy handing out the candy, saying “Eid Mubarak/Blessed Festival.”

I wonder about seeming condescending. I realize that if you give yourself at the same time as you give the charity, it is not so. It is humanizing to both of you.

The director speaks with pleasure of educating these little boys and girls to become doctors and teachers, and build up their country; rather than becoming soldiers and falling into the violence that characterized their elders.

After lunch we drive east toward the mountains and see how the area around Kabul is so much less destroyed than Kabul – which suffered so much in the mujahideen time in the ‘80’s, before the Taliban. As we get farther out, the mountains rise up before us – gorgeous, craggy, snow covered peaks rising straight out of the valley floor. The road winds by a stream through the Kabul gorge. Some tanks lie overturned nearby. The road rises and goes through various tunnels. We drive past an ISAF (International Security Action Force) column going the other way. Some of the ISAF soldiers stop to take pictures of each other. We stop to take a picture of them and they indicate this is not a good idea.We go on.

The road continues to climb in cliffside splendor. We come to an Afghan army installation – lonely machine gun perched on a peak pointed up the gorge. The turbaned man standing nearby sees me, and walks to the gun to pose! I take a picture.

We turn back. We pass the ISAF group inspecting the dam holding Kabul’s water supply. I reflect that being a tourist in a place that needs an international security force is probably not such a good idea. Kind of dangerous. As I pass a field lined with red rocks – signs of an uncleared mine field – I reflect that I might be right.

We drive on toward Kabul.

February 13
A day of Afghan hospitality, beginning with Afghan bargaining. We go down Chicken Street in search of carpets. Into “John’s” store. It begins. What kind of carpet? What price? Different patterns appear on the floor. As we close in on a deal, I say my brother’s name is John too. “Then you are my brother,” he says. We embrace. I buy the carpet. Buying a carpet here is a relationship. You must love the carpet, love the seller! It is not a cold transaction.

Other trinkets call out my name as I walk down the street.

Lunch at Hashmat’s with his wife and family. He is the CARE official supervising the mosque project. He has become my brother. We sit on the floor in his house, and eat, and talk. His wife Naja taught a secret school for girls during the Taliban time. She could have been arrested and beaten. Her students could not say where they were going. They had to hide their textbooks at school.

Music was banned so the family hid their CD’s under the washing machine. Still, when the washing machine shakes, one will occasionally slide out from underneath, reminder of worse years.

Young men and old were beaten if their beards were trimmed or their armpit hair was not trimmed. The Taliban went around at night listening at the windows to hear if music was being played or a TV was on.

Ahmad was arrested once. His beard was not long enough. While in jail they tested him on their version of the Qur’an, which appears to be Qur’an with a Pashtun accent. Pronounce it wrong, you’re beaten. Nothing but Pashtun racism.

The beating of old men and women is what turned the Afghans off the Taliban. This is not Islam. This is brutality. This is abuse.

We leave laughing and telling stories; enjoying the hospitality and Hashmat’s beautiful family. Afghan Islam today.

Later that evening I take a long walk down to the park, thinking about my speech at the mosque rededication tomorrow. It is dark. I am dressed in a long, dark coat and Afghan hat. Nobody bothers me. I am perfectly safe.

A sign in front of the mosque in Qharabagh explains that the rebuilding was sponsored by the Episcopal Diocese of New York.

February 14
We leave this morning for the mosque. I dress in my clericals, after thinking long and hard about the potential danger of doing this. I do it to honor the villagers, and to honor myself and the Church; for after all, we have done this as Christians and should be honest and rejoice in it.

We drive up to Shamali Plain. I see all the reconstruction. The houses rebuilt. I see what must be a returned refugee family on the roof of their home that was still destroyed 8 months ago. It must be good to be home.

The one brick kiln I saw in Shamali Plain 8 months ago is joined by 6 others. A child is flying a kite from the roof of a house. There is grass. There are still minefields.

We drive on to the mosque. We see the sign pronouncing the work of the Episcopal Diocese of New York.

The mosque is a lovely cream yellow, with a large patio out front. I walk in. I take off my shoes in the holy space. I pad across the floor. I see the new mighrab/niche pointing towards Mecca and the preaching steps beside it. I see the wall where the hole used to be. I see the snow capped peaks of the Hindu Kush through the new window.

Outside I am shown the separate entrances to the ‘Sunday School’ classrooms for children. I shake hands with the local warlord. Tall fellow. I see another venerable gentleman with a rifle poking out from behind his back.

I speak with a young man, Hakimi, who has read our Bible, and does not see much difference with the Qur’an.

It becomes clear that Imam Sherzad, our partner in the project from Queens, will not be here. He has had to celebrate Eid-l-Qurbon at his mosque with his people in New York. I begin to realize this is a good thing. There has been a little trouble with the construction company (isn’t there always?) and of course they couldn’t complete all the work until winter is over. I make it clear to them that Imam Sherzad – widely respected in this country – will be here when the work is finished to inspect it as wellas celebrate it!

Another advantage: this will be my event, and the event of the Episcopal Diocese of New York, not shared with anyone else.

We go in. 200 people are there from the village. The county supervisor is there – a distinguished, kind man. Bishop Sisk’s letter is presented, with translation. Both the original and the Dari will be hung in the mosque.

I speak. I speak of having been there before, and the work we have done together, of 9/11 and the bombing of their mosque, about the need for holy space in time of war so we can rebuild our lives, about reconciliation and the need for all the children of Abraham to do God’s work of peace in the world.

As I speak it is as if a way opens before my feet and I keep speaking. And the Way is Christ, and I follow the Way.

Connie, my trip partner, rises. She presents the Imam with a rock from the World Trade Center. He treasures it, turning it over and over. She speaks of hope rising from the rubble.

The Imam gets up. He says that I had promised we would build this mosque last June. And now it is complete. This is the same young Imam who last June yelled at me for the American bombing and for making promises that were never kept.

Promises made, promises kept.

Mosque elders rise to thank me and Bishop Sisk – to whom I am to bring thanks – for the mosque. They say we are always welcome, whenever we come back.

We leave, after presenting them with mittens made by the women of my parish for the children of their mosque.

Driving through Istalif, the ruined resort village I saw last June, I see so many signs of life. Children are walking down the street. The street has neither potholes nor huge rocks in it. There is still much work to be done, shops to be rebuilt after they were destroyed by the Taliban, but so much rebuilding already. The UNICEF school tents are replaced by cream colored school buildings.

We have a late lunch and drive back south.

I think I will be leaving tomorrow. I remember that as a child my mother told me that when I left a playmates’ house after playing all day, I should seek out the hostess of the house and say: “Thank you for having me.”

Thank you for having me, Afghanistan.

February 16
I am in flight on the way home from Afghanistan, somewhere over the Atlantic.

We did it. We did it.

The lesson for February 23, the next time I’ll be preaching, is the healing of the paralytic (Mark 2:1-12), taken by his four friends and let down through the roof to Jesus.

We are the four friends who brought him to Jesus. We, the Church, are the ones who saw the problem. We, the Church, are the ones who knew it could be fixed.

The world, since 9/11 or before, is paralyzed by hate and fear and separation. We, the Church, know it doesn’t have to be this way. We, the Church, know there is one who can heal. We, the Church, bring the World to the One who can heal.

He does.