I received a text message from an American friend yesterday afternoon saying that he had heard there would be demonstrations in Kabul the following day, to protest the foreign military occupation and the international NGO presence in Afghanistan. To be honest, I read it, processed it, took a deep breath, and then went back to cooking dinner. I have been living in Kabul for over one month now. I have witnessed the violent aftermath of the 29 May incident in Kabul, when US coalition forces “accidentally” drove into a crowd of Afghan civilians, killing at least a dozen and injuring 100 more. I have also borne witness to two separate (and perhaps, well-planned) demonstrations against ISAF and the general presence of the international community. And since CARE International, a large and well-known humanitarian NGO, suffered the brunt of the demonstrators’ anger in the May riots, it is not surprising that international NGO workers in Kabul were ordered not to go to work tomorrow.

I cannot predict how destructive these demonstrations will be—or if they will actually materialize at all. I decided, silently, that I would go to work as usual the next day… partly because I live and work in a very safe neighborhood, far from the city’s center; partly, because Oruj is an local NGO and thus, in all likelihood, would not be targeted; and partly, because I think the work Oruj does is incredibly important and should only be sacrificed if we were directly in danger.

What I do is not glamorous. Everyday, I sit in a steaming hot office, located on the third floor of a mud-brick building and work on my computer. Drenched in sweat and blanketed in a thick, black chaddari, I spend the majority of my days crafting and revising Oruj’s three-year strategic plan, various grant proposals, a Memorandum of Understanding, and press releases on my laptop. Everyday, the power goes off; more than once a day, the internet connection gets cut off—in fact, many days we don’t have internet at all. Each day, in the late afternoon, a dust storm kicks up, which forces us to seal up our two small windows, leaving us to bake inside. Explosions occur several times a week—though we’re never exactly certain of their source.

However, everyday, I feel a sense of privilege in being able to work with a group of highly dedicated female professionals, all of whom profoundly believe in the importance of bringing quality education to those who have, until this point, been denied it. These women and OLC know that this endeavor will not be taken on any time in the near future by the Afghan government, as the latter simply does not yet have the capacity to do so. And they know that the communities, which they are serving, do not have the resources build up an educational infrastructure on their own. Oruj has proactively tackled these challenges and focused its efforts in Wardak province where few, if any, other NGOs are currently working. In fact, just a few days ago, Sadiqa, her father, and I drove to Maiden Shar, the capital of Wardak; there, we met with the provincial Directorate of the Ministry of Education, who has held his position for less than one year, in order to advocate for girls education.

The Directorate was a thin, bearded man with light green-gray eyes. He was a little fidgety and often closed his eyes when he spoke. Although he spoke with a slight lisp, he was nevertheless loquacious. Kind, dedicated to his job, and willing to speak of education at length, it quickly became clear that he did, in fact, support girls’ education in Wardak province. As he waved his hands around, expounding upon the challenges faced by the education sector in Afghanistan, and Wardak in particular, the glint of his imitation gold watch caught my eye. By the end of the two-hour meeting, we had gathered crucial statistics on education of girls in Wardak, acquired a better understanding of the needs of the six districts, and gained the support and (I believe) loyalty of the new Directorate for Oruj’s work.

As I walked out of the building, encircled by the scorched mountains of Maiden Shar, I saw not a single woman—let alone a foreigner—on the streets of the town. I thought to myself: by working with Oruj, I am playing a small role in increasing the opportunities, resources, and freedoms of girls and women in Afghanistan. I was also aware at that moment that I was but one small component of the women’s movement here in Afghanistan. I am not deciding the movement’s direction, nor its velocity—those are things, in the long run, that only Afghan women and Afghan organizations can determine and maintain.

Now, as I sit here in my kitchen, thinking about the notice issued to international NGO workers, I can’t help but counter: I may be an NGO worker who is an international, but I am an international who works with a local NGO. It’s true that local organizations may rock the boat, just as international organizations do; but the former owns and inhabits the boat that they are rocking. And that makes a great deal of difference, both with regard to security—as local organizations better understand the boundaries they are pushing and the cultural meanings attached to their strategies and actions—and with regard to efficacy and sustainability—as they have no easy out, they are innately more invested in bringing about practical and lasting development.