Where's Dara?

For once, I am posting an entry on the day of the event. Unfortunately, it is a depressing subject.

Today, a suicide bomber shattered the relative calm of Kunduz. It was as audacious as it was devastating. The suicide bomber set himself off on the road in front of the provincial police station. A large number of police were there, apparently practicing for a parade on 28 April. It was in the center of town. It was close to a school. According to reports, 8 died at the scene and at least 20 were seriously wounded.

At 8:35 this morning, the world shattered for those nearby and those whose loved ones and friends died.

My chokidor went to the hospital. He had a good friend who was a policeman. His friend is dead.

"Madam Dara," he said to me, "it is a very horrible day."

Indeed it is.

I found out about it after our morning meeting. My head of office called me and said "No one leaves the office. There are reports of a suicide bomber in town." I called my colleague, who was outside the office, to make sure that he stayed where he was. No movement. I went and told the staff.

And then she called a few minutes later and told me the news. The staff already knew. They find these things out fast.

The last time there was a suicide bomb in Kunduz was last June. At that time, 3 died and 8 were wounded. It was in a market, I believe. There was one attempt in the time that I have been here, but it was thwarted.

Now, we have been warned and jolted out of our sense of relative security. We had a few IEDs (improvised explosive devises) in the provinces, but most were defused. We have the most mobility of any region-and we enjoy it. Now, though, we have been warned.

My female assistant said to me, when she heard the news, "I must start wearing a burka." She interprets this as a clear sign that the Taliban have returned.

I told her to wait and see and not to overreact.

"I was not here last time," she said, "but I heard they killed women for not wearing the burka here."

Wait and see, I said to her.

Another of my national staff said to me, "I just can't figure out what makes someone do this. They are just poor police officers. And why would someone kill himself to hurt others?"

A good question. And one that I really could not start to answer.

The strange thing is about a suicide bombing in the town you are in is that it seems like a hundred miles away if you do not see it with your eyes. If you cannot touch it, it just does not seem real. But you know that it is. And you know the implications.

You are no longer safe.

Nor are your friends or your colleagues.

It happened right down the street--to the people who are supposed to protect you from these things.

It may not seem real--but it is. Your rational side knows.

My female assistant had brought her son into the office. They were supposed to have flown to Fayzabad with her son, a day ahead of the rest of us. The flight was cancelled (as usual) and she returned directly to the office. The only place the car was allowed to go.

Her son is one and half with big, curious brown eyes. Oblivious to our discussion, which was in a language he could not understand, anyway, he blithely went around the office, playing with everything. A happy distraction. So, I thought, let's go into our other office and bring a smile to the guys. The laughs came, as we played our game of hide-and-go-seek.

Normalcy, for us, had returned.