[Main Index] [Next entry: "Kandahar Chronicles #2 - 15/08/2003"]

08/15/2003: "Kandahar Chronicles #1 - 13/08/2003"

The queue starts at about 7 am every morning under the bamboo and
plastic shelter outside the Basic Health Unit (BHU). Most people
manage to find a place to sit on the matted floor while others support
themselves on the arms of relatives or children. The kids dressed in
dusty cast offs stare at me with big, luminous eyes; brown, green and
sky blue. The desert is cool in the morning and the air is still, but
the people know that in the terrible heat of the Kandahar summer the
wind and dust storms are only a few hours away. They get impatient
when they see me, the women pointing to the various ailments of the
children and jabbering in Pashtu. I see a small girl sitting quietly
in the corner, her pretty face brutally scarred on one side and
covered with the purple stain of old disinfectant.


"No, no, sorry sorry, me no doctor. Engineer, me engineer sahib." I
stammer in response to their incomprehensible demands, as if slow
halting English is universally understood. My efforts to learn Pashtu
have resulted in mispronouncing a few phrases and counting to ten. I
call out one of the English speaking nurses from inside the
registration tent to the female waiting area. I ignore the old ladies
squawking at me and ask him what happened to the little girl. He
questions her quickly and emboldened by her sudden celebrity she
answers in a small, raspy voice. He translates her story like he's
reading out a shopping list, such tales are the norm in the camp. An
old woman that looks like she could be her great, great grandmother
but is probably not more than fifty prods her along when she pauses.

About eighteen months earlier, she had lived in an Internally
Displaced Persons (IDP) camp along the turbulent border region between
Afghanistan and Pakistan. These transient camps had been established
by the UNHCR as temporary "Waiting Areas" for people displaced by the
fighting until more permanent settlements could be built. She lived
there with her family for more than a year in a small, mud brick
dwelling covered with an old tent supplied to them by UNHCR upon their
arrival. It was winter and a cold wind forced the people to cook
indoors. She didn't remember exactly what happened but it seems like
her mother was making chai when their canvas roof collapsed into the
small cooking fire and trapped her inside. Neighbours pulled her out
along with her mother but both suffered horrible burns. To this day,
when the weather is dry, the scar tissue becomes brittle.

The nurse retreated to the registration tent and the old ladies
resumed their clucking. The little girl gave me a half-smile and I
gave her my pen. Sorry about your face kid and sorry you live in a
desert and that your face splits open in dry weather, here's a pen. I
left her with her prize for comimg in last and took a walk around the
BHU. Patients clutching white admission cards moved between the tents
looking for doctors and pharmacists. Friendly waves and invitations
for chai came from the medics peering out from their wards. The best
way for me to find out the problems and issues with the medics is over
a hot cup of tea. Today though I was on my way to a coordination
meeting with other NGOs working in the camp and didn't have time for a
chat. A BHU in the middle of an IDP camp demands a lot of logistical
support and time.

I jumped into my land cruiser and prepared to head out. I looked for
the little girl but she was nearly invisible amongst the women
shrouded in light blue burkas. A man passed by pushing a pair of
feverish toddlers in a wheelbarrow and two men talked by the gate with
only three legs and a crutch between them. The ambulance sped by in a
cloud of dust heading for the city hospital in Kandahar forty
kilometers away, the driver wild eyed and grinning beneath his beard
and turban. He steered between the stones that demarcate the roads
that are clear of landmines. One half of the stones are white for the
cleared zones and the other half red signalling the mined areas. It
made me think of the little girl similarly marked. She, like
Afghanistan, face many years of recovery after the disruption of war
and to that end the haumanitarian aid organizations have come to try,
with their mandates to assist, to share in the task.

When I was asked to write about life as a humanitarian aid worker in
Kandahar I felt it would be a great opportunity to share some
experiences of this unique work in a fascinating land. I hope that by
detailing some of the daily events and frustrations as well as looking
at the bigger picture of present day Afghanistan and the humanitarian
aid industry in general, this can serve as a forum for people to ask
questions or make their own comments. I met the little girl with the
terrible scars last week. It was just fifteen minutes one morning
between my second and third cups of coffee. I didn't really know where
to start with these dispatches so I thought back to her. I don't know
how she is now or which of the ten settlements she is from but I'll
never forget the look joy her face when she took my pen. Kandahar is a
tough place and the job is challenging, sometimes you need the little
things to get through the day.

Replies: 2 Comments

Hi Carlos,

Reading your chronicle reminded me of my own experiences with some of the poor youth, living in Okinawa, Japan, where I lived 6 years ago. It's nothing in comparison to the suffering, sickness and poverty you may be witnessing in Kandahar I am sure. But the fact there is a huge language barrier, you are there because you want to help (I was teaching English in Okinawa, considered "the poorest prefecture of Japan"), and somehow manage to grasp the humanity in small moments of your day, in the youth that somehow you can probably relate to as well as to the older generation, it all reminded me of the importance of those seeds we plant, every time we reach out to others.
One day hopefully I can assist MsF; in fact that is what I want to do in about 10 years ( after a medical degree. In the meantime I have a lot to study...
(including a biology course I am taking, in addition to my 4 poli sci. courses). I will try to write semi regularly.
I hope you are well there, and that as you said, you keep the bigger picture in mind, to help you with the harder days.

Cheers,

Valerie

I'm taking Prof. Debeirt and Stein's course "Global Networks" & think it's great you can "talk" to us the way you do.

Valerie said @ 09/18/2003 05:06 PM EST

This is an awesome start to the Kandahar Chronicles. Carlos has given us a great intro to his life in Afghanistan and I hope he is able to maintain these updates.

Graeme said @ 08/15/2003 06:30 PM EST