But what have Susan and Patti done since that day? The answer to that question is what amazed me from the moment I learned about it. First, they recognized Afghanistan for all of its complexities. True, it was the country in which the terrorists had trained to kill their husbands, but it was also a place that had been used as a pawn during the Cold War, only to then be abandoned by the international community - sparking a civil war that would last another decade. Even God's absence seemed certain - as drought and famine increased the agony. The effects were especially cruel for women who had already been banished from public life by the Taliban, and were suffering staggering declines in health. (Afghanistan is one of the only countries in the world where women have a shorter life expectancy than men.)

Second, Susan and Patti saw beyond their own grief and recognized this suffering, and realized that as awful as it was to be a woman in Afghanistan -- it was even worse to be a widow. From the beginning, they recognized the widows in Afghanistan as individuals - women they identified with and felt a connection to - rather than a monolithic, nameless, faceless group, as often happens during the world's tragedies.

Since we've been in Kabul, an AP article has come out detailing Susan and Patti's trip here, and a lot of people have gotten in touch with them after reading it. Most of the emails have been very supportive, but there are always a few that come from people who must think everyone who lives in Afghanistan is somehow connected to the Al-Qaeda terrorist network. "I don't know if you know this," Susan likes to remind people, "but not one of the terrorists on September 11th was actually an Afghan person."

I wish we could have brought everyone in America on this trip to see the wretched conditions in which ordinary people live. I have to believe that if people would distinguish between Taliban fanatics - who remain a scourge on their own people - and the Afghan populace, the response would be one of compassion and generosity for the average Afghan person.

Coming from a country where the number of televisions in a home outnumbers the people living there, it's hard to imagine people having nothing. Literally nothing. But that's the reality for the widows we've met. They live in one room - maybe about 200 square feet - with 4, 5, 6 children. There is no electricity, no running water. One girl in particular, Lida, told us that that when there's not enough food to go around, she doesn't eat. "I let my brothers eat because they go to school. I lie and tell them I'll eat after they leave. But there's really nothing left." Exactly whose enemy is she?

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Bagh-e-Zenana, the Women's Garden in southwest Kabul, is, as its name implies, a women's only park and bazaar. And policemen make sure that only women enter. While Susan, Patti and I go in to shop for some gifts for our families, Sean does some filming on the streets. It's a rare moment when a woman, whether visiting or living here, feels like she's allowed some sort of privilege.

Mothers at the park are pushing their children on swings, picnicking on small swatches of grass, and shopping in the tiny stores that sell every "feminine-leaning" product - from purses, lipstick and lingerie to kitschy ceramic bride-and-groom statues. Even breast enlarging cream is on the shelf here.

The park was built by King Habibullah in the early 1900's as a place for his five wives and 35 concubines. (He eventually made it illegal for men to have more than four wives - a limit defined by Islam that still exists in Afghanistan.) In 1996 when the Taliban took control of Kabul, they turned this hang-out spot into a garbage dump. Since it was cleaned up in 2003, one of the only things a shopkeeper can remember disrupting the tranquility women feel here was when police mistook a female U.S. soldier wearing a bullet belt and a burqa for a suicide bomber.

I need to start back a few years here. I had no idea what wearing a burqa would be like, and frankly, before August of 2001 I hadn't given it too much thought. But that summer I was teaching an international communications class at American University Paris and brought the students to visit the Amnesty International office for a conversation about human rights abuses and a journalist's responsibility.

Almost as an afterthought - I can't even remember what rationale they gave - one of the staff suggested that we try on the burqa, and ushered us into a room with a huge cardboard box that had the prettiest blue fabric - a Crayola cornflower blue-peeking out the top. What happened next is what you'd probably expect. The students and I tried on the burqas and thought it was the most awful, oppressive, dehumanizing thing a society could force on a woman. OK, so I hated the burqa. No surprise there. And I assumed every Afghan woman must hate the burqa, too.

A month later 9/11 happened, America's invasion of Afghanistan toppled the Taliban, and we heard reports that women were celebrating by literally throwing off their burqas. That was that. The Taliban was gone. The burqa was gone.

But when I visited Afghanistan in January 2002, I found women were still covered head-to-toe. Maybe the emancipation women were experiencing in the capitol city, Kabul, just hadn't reached this rural, northern village yet?

Now, here it is 5 years later. five years after the fall of the Taliban. five years after the massive international effort to democratize and modernize Afghanistan. and the streets are still filled with these blue, ghostly figures. "Bewildered," is the way Patti says she feels about it. I have to agree. It is bewildering.

Our first full day in Kabul. It's 3:52AM when the first call to prayer comes. By 8AM, the sun is so high in the sky it feels like noon.

We're filming Susan and Patti as they travel with CARE International to see the Humanitarian Assistance for Widows of Afghanistan (HAWA) program in action. Our first stop is a food distribution area where 500 widows are receiving a monthly ration of flour and oil. It's a chaotic place littered with burned out Russian tanks and surrounded by snow-capped mountains in Kabul's 13th District.

In total, CARE is feeding 7200 widows in Kabul - that's 7200 widows out of the more than 50,000 that live in the city, many of whom would qualify for this emergency relief if more funding existed to include them. Abdul Wahab Hamid, the distribution center supervisor, has been doing this job for nine years but says he'll never get used to turning the needy away. Today, a young widow approaches with one child in her arms, another two clutching to her legs. The children are 6, 5 and 3. but malnutrition makes them look years younger. "My husband died in a car accident. I have no money, no way to feed them," she tells Abdul. He listens. But that is all he can do. She does not have a ration card, and without one there is no way she will take home any food from here.

We arrive in Kabul. Driving through the streets, there's a barrage on the senses: the smell of fresh lumber being used as part of the massive reconstruction effort... huge, lime green watermelons on every corner... raw sewerage running through the middle of narrow streets. Women in burqas pass brightly colored posters of a smiling (and half-naked) Arnold Schwarzenegger while withered old men carry the loads of two donkeys on their backs.

There are bicycles everywhere on the streets of Kabul. But only men and boys are riding them. "I'm afraid of bikes - and cars," an Afghan widow tells me. Part of that fear comes from the cultural pressure - obligation, actually - for a girl to "prove" her virginity on her wedding night. In order to avoid the shame of a daughter being rejected by her new husband and his family, parents take all kinds of precautions - including keeping their girls off bicycles.

She has won two Gracie Allen Awards from American Women in Radio and Television. Beth is also an author (Fighting For Our Future, McGraw Hill) and university professor. At Suffolk University and American University Paris, Beth has taught courses in covering international crises, the business of international news, and media ethics. Prior to her film work, Beth was as a television and radio news reporter and anchor. She was born in Gales Ferry, Connecticut and earned a B.A. in History from the University of Connecticut, and an M.A. in International Relations and International Communications from Boston University.

Beth Murphy has been directing, producing, and reporting for documentaries and television & radio news for 18 years. As the founder of Principle Pictures, Beth has contributed programming to The History Channel, Discovery Channel, Lifetime Television, PBS and numerous international media outlets. From covering stories of slavery in Sudan to young women battling breast cancer, Beth's work focuses on the hope and humanity that often define our darkest hours.