(This was written on March 22, the day after Taliban gunmen killed nine people in a Kabul hotel.)
Ten years on since I first came to Afghanistan, and I have been back two weeks.
There was an attack at the Serena Hotel last night. Nine killed, including Luis Duarte, a retired Paraguayan diplomat here to observe the elections. The mission he was on is pulling out.
Others have retreated and are reassessing their participation. Our crew has decided to stay the course.
Yesterday, I met a guy I have known virtually for 10 years, but had never met in person. We had great conversations, talking about shared experiences, the work we are doing and the people we knew in common. We were surrounded by other engaged, intelligent people with great depth of experience and understanding.
We got in touch with some of the Afghan staff we had worked with and arranged for them to meet us at my residence for lunch the next day 鈥� the Persian new year, Nowruz.
Last night, I went to an Afghan wedding at one of the many brightly lit wedding halls that seem to line the roads. Everybody happy and in a party mood.
We meet an old colleague. A young Afghan, who, since I first met him, has married, is the father of three kids, has a nice house, is leading a local NGO and is making a real contribution.
We end up at a table of eight, me and some 30-something Afghans. The staff member who had invited me 鈥� the brother-in-law of the groom 鈥� is dashing around, dragging people onto the dance floor, making sure everyone is having a good time.
The men at my table include a political analyst, an IT manager, an operations manager, all making positive contributions to their society. Everyone enjoying life and looking forward to a better future.
As we leave, word starts to come in 鈥� something is happening at the Serena. A chorus of cellphones ringing. The security officer is on the phone. Details emerge, small-arms fire.
Reports seem to settle on some kind of dispute between a couple of locals who drew down on each other. Who let them in with guns?
Anyway, seems like no casualties, situation under control. Off to bed.
Morning. It鈥檚 bad. Worse than imagined. An observer is dead. Heartbroken. What to do? Stay or go? Others are on the way to the airport or making plans to evacuate.
Our crew is secure. It鈥檚 put to the group. Anyone who wants, can go. Everyone stays.
Ten years ago, a skinny 13-year-old knocked on our gate in Wazir Akbar Khan, looking for work. He had written a note in pencil, in English, describing his circumstances.
His father was dead. Killed by the Taliban. His uncle, a taxi driver, had recently abandoned his mother and her two children. He was now the man of the house.
So we gave him a job after school, making photocopies, doing stuff. He鈥檚 now a political officer at an embassy, had progressed to be a program manager before making the leap from the NGO. Finished high school, got a university degree.
He comes to lunch with three of his former colleagues at the NGO. An engaged couple, he at the UN High Commission for Refugees in Bagdhad, she a program manager at the NGO. The third a beautiful young woman, working as a translator, and soon to be going to law school on a scholarship.
New year鈥檚 day. Delightful young people, full of life and promise. Free-flowing conversation, catching up, exchanging stories, listening to brilliant political analysis. Sharing laughs. Sad about the tragedy of the night before, but revelling in shared experience and celebrating each other鈥檚 successes.
I stay for the people at the lunch and the wedding. I stay for this delightful new generation of smart, educated, hard-working, confident, dynamic, beautiful people who make a difference every day and are contributing in thousands of little ways to make a better Afghanistan.
And it鈥檚 for them and all the others like them all over the country that Luis Maria Duarte died.
Kit Spence of North Saanich is chief of party for Democracy International鈥檚 Afghanistan Electoral Reform and Civic Advocacy program in Kabul.
