Oh... James...
It's 2.10am. My phone rings.
"This is the State Department, Washington DC. The Undersecretary for ______ would like to speak to you."
"Um, yes, sure, ok." I splutter with the 2am phlegm getting caught in the back of my throat.
"Emira, it's good to speak to you again. I see you have left [your old job]. Of course, I didn't have your new number so I had to use a locator to find you," says the Undersecretary for ______
"Um, yes, great. A locator..."
A locator, for those outside of Kabul, is not Google, nor a GPS device, or a pager. Nor is it the act of phoning the Embassy here and simply asking for my number. How they knew, in Washington, who my new employer was, in Kabul, or get my number is mildly disarming considering I am in a country with no phone book, no directory, no landlines, no faxes, no street names, no house numbers or maps. It's a place you come to hide where no one can ever find you.
Or so I thought.
A locator, quelle horreur, is one of three things: 1) C 2) I 3) A. Between my recent run-in with MI5 (subject for another blog) and now the CIA I feel like a regular Bond Girl -- although somewhat lacking in height, cheekbones and long flowing shiny hair. Actually, there are a million other things that separate me from the giddying heights of Bond Girl status, but I feel like flattering myself today.
"This is the State Department, Washington DC. The Undersecretary for ______ would like to speak to you."
"Um, yes, sure, ok." I splutter with the 2am phlegm getting caught in the back of my throat.
"Emira, it's good to speak to you again. I see you have left [your old job]. Of course, I didn't have your new number so I had to use a locator to find you," says the Undersecretary for ______
"Um, yes, great. A locator..."
A locator, for those outside of Kabul, is not Google, nor a GPS device, or a pager. Nor is it the act of phoning the Embassy here and simply asking for my number. How they knew, in Washington, who my new employer was, in Kabul, or get my number is mildly disarming considering I am in a country with no phone book, no directory, no landlines, no faxes, no street names, no house numbers or maps. It's a place you come to hide where no one can ever find you.
Or so I thought.
A locator, quelle horreur, is one of three things: 1) C 2) I 3) A. Between my recent run-in with MI5 (subject for another blog) and now the CIA I feel like a regular Bond Girl -- although somewhat lacking in height, cheekbones and long flowing shiny hair. Actually, there are a million other things that separate me from the giddying heights of Bond Girl status, but I feel like flattering myself today.
posted by Emira Shafiqa at 10:03 am
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