Sometimes, watching the news is almost unbearable. Over the past couple of weeks, witnessing the events in Afghanistan has struck me to the very core. Watching such scenes of displacement, fear, and devastation would be distressing enough anyway, but this particular nation, and its people, have a very special place in my heart. I feel hopeless, if not nearly as hopeless as many Afghans must feel – but I have a reason for hope, in the longer term.
Back in 2013-14, I was invited to join an International Leadership consortium, as part of a British Council project. The project’s aim was to pair Afghan academics with UK academics, to share learning and leadership insights around quality assurance. The Afghan government recognised education, and especially higher education, as an important component of their post-war recovery, and sought to introduce new ways of thinking about quality, to develop internationally-recognised Afghan higher education.
I was paired with an Afghan academic from the University of Herat – Ancient Herat, as he proudly informed me. I had no idea what to expect from this collaboration, but I was excited to find out more about Afghan universities, and to learn from him. My engagement with him turned out to be transformative in so many ways. I will not name him here; I do not know if to do so would cause him danger, but I will not take the risk. I will, however, always be grateful for all that I learned from him.
My Afghan partner was young, still in his twenties, and yet was the head of his department. He explained that, because of the war, the nation had virtually lost a whole generation. There were young men, who were relatively inexperienced, and there were old men, usually retired Army generals, working to lead universities. The middle generation, who would typically form UK middle management ranks, had been killed or injured in the fighting. This young man knew that it was up to him and his generation to create a higher education that might bring stability to his nation, and he was up for the challenge, despite his youthful inexperience. I wondered what my response would have been, at the same career stage – I remembered a strong sense of impostor syndrome, a lack of confidence, and a feeling that everyone else knew more than me. I’m still not sure I would have had the strength to take on a university leadership role in my twenties, or even thirties.
He was working in incredibly challenging circumstances. His internet connection was unreliable to say the least. He was working longer hours that anyone I’d ever met, trying to build up his colleagues, lead his department, and at the same time, introduce a system of quality assurance that was, quite literally, unknown in Afghanistan at the time. I was wary of imposing a culturally inappropriate model into a higher education system that I didn’t know, but he wanted to know more, to do more. We talked a lot over Skype, working through the issues, occasionally visited by his small, endearing son.
One of the problems he encountered was a culture in which academic staff were usually paid to attend committees, and he had no resources to be able to offer payment to a quality assurance committee. We talked about the different rewards that people might perceive – status, prestige, and even just that some people might want to help, to make a difference. He also realised that he could do something I had never even dared to dream about – he could invite women to be on his committee. The courage it must have taken to go into his own university, and to propose this, is beyond my wildest imagination. Herat University had a surprisingly (to me, with my biased expectations) high proportion of female students, but female staff were few and far between, and none had leadership positions. The university culture represented women as intelligent and capable, but their commitments to children and family meant they surely would not have time or resource to take on such roles. My Afghan colleague dared to challenge this assumption – and the next time we spoke, the first woman ever had been appointed to a university committee in Herat University. He thought she was probably the first woman to hold a committee role in the whole of Afghanistan. She was proving a real asset to the committee, and was quickly followed by a second woman.
Quality assurance was being introduced at Herat University, driven forward by my amazing, creative, and brave colleague. The next step in the British Council and Afghan government plan was for the university to become a Centre of Excellence in Quality Assurance, to share its learning with colleagues in other Afghan universities.
To achieve this meant that dialogue was needed across a whole region. In the UK, this would probably be quite easy – co-ordinate some calendars, find a meeting room, get together around a table. These days, we wouldn’t even need the room and the table – a quick Zoom call would bring everyone together in seconds. In Herat, things were not, of course, quite so straightforward. The internet just wasn’t reliable, and there could be periods of days with no connectivity. But travel was a risk; the roads were littered with landmines, and there was always the risk of fatal attack. Travelling from one university to another was literally a risk to life.
My new colleague determinedly found a way to overcome this. He arranged for everyone from the surrounding universities to travel to the University of Herat – just one journey, dangerous, but limited to taking the risk just once. He organised accommodation for all of the other university representatives, and they stayed in the university for the winter period, learning all about quality assurance. Once he’d shared everything he could, they travelled home again.
The University of Herat became a Centre of Excellence in Quality Assurance, and my new found friend led something of a revolution within his region. Born under Taliban rule, in a culture in which women’s roles were clearly defined, he proved himself to be a visionary. Against all his own expectations, and worries, he was a strong leader who brought others with him, and he built infrastructure, people, and processes, to develop the higher education system that he knew was the foundation of his nation’s recovery. He was so proud of Afghanistan, of its people, and of the potential that he knew lay within it. He knew that everyone, men and women, would need to work together to reach that potential, and he recognised issues of equality, diversity, and inclusion, that were way beyond my naïve experience of them. During our year of working together, I learned the true meanings of the words privilege, courage, and above all, integrity. I also learned to appreciate the value of cricket, as a sport that could bring a nation together and unite people in pride. If the Afghan cricket team is playing, I’ll be cheering – even if they’re beating the English.
My sorrow, now, is deep. I am terrified that the results of all that hard, hard work, that inspirational leadership, that kindness, integrity, and courage, will be lost. I see scenes of terrified women, burning their university certificates, unable to show their pride in what they can and did achieve, and unable to educate the next generation. Afghanistan, my heart bleeds for you, and I have no words to help. Your sons and daughters have so much spirit, so much I respect and admire, and I hope one day to see those spirits liberated, to once again work for your recovery. I will be here, cheering – and willing to offer my shoulders to the work. I share my British Council certificate here, proudly, not as evidence of what I can do, but as evidence of what Afghanistan and its people can do. My hope for Afghanistan lies in its people.
UK community – we have so much we can learn from our Afghan academic colleagues. Right now, we are probably all feeling pretty powerless to help. However, do consider finding out about CARA – the Council for At Risk Academics, and if you can, donate either your time or a monetary contribution to their cause.
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