A Page from Afghan Civil War

A page from Afghan Civil War

P.K.Ghatak, MD

No 6.

Our mission in Kunduz was new. We started with a limited supply of medicine and other medical supplies, and we were replenishing our medicine stock from Pakistan. But some recent events in Pakistan put a stop to that supply route. We were desperate for medicine. Our mission in Mazar-e-Sharif was willing to give us their stock of medicine and about the same time news came from France that a plane loaded with medical supplies and medicine was coming to the Termez airport in Uzbekistan in 2 days, a short distance away from Mazar-e-Sharif.

We left early in the morning the next day so that we would arrive at our destination before the sunset. It was considered suicidal to venture out on the streets after dark. The shortest route to Mazar went through a desert but it was a very risky road to travel because of frequent kidnappings, murders, and robberies. We took the longer route but that meant passing through the territories of two other powerful warlords. Our vehicles were bright white in color and had insignia painted in red on the sides, back and hood. A large white flag, with a red logo, was attached to the passenger side of the front fender of the lead vehicle. We carried "safe passage” documents from all the regional warlords just in case somebody stopped us. However, it did not guarantee us much because the roadside checkpoints were manned by illiterate drug happy young people. We also carried “ goodwill care packs” containing vitamin pills, aspirin, antiseptics, band-aid, etc, and dutifully gave each one of them when they approached our vehicles.

 Soon we came to the end of our warlord’s protection zone and now we were entering the enemy territories. The road became bad to worse, there were potholes of all sizes everywhere, at some places the road was cut deliberately and our car had to travel over a field.  We had strict orders not to get out of the vehicle and step on darts in order to avoid stepping on anti-personnel mines. The driver was going side to side of the road more frequently than going forward along the path. It took another hour to cross this no-man zone. Soon the checkpoint of the other side came into view and the road condition improved. The vehicle stop was indicated by a tank thread buried across the roadway. It was nearly impossible to drive a vehicle over it without a push from the soldiers. We passed the checkpoint without any incident.
We soon came to a vacant patch of land scarred with recent skirmishes involving tanks and other heavy war pieces of equipment. There were big craters on the road where shells had landed. We saw buses, packed with people two /three times the carrying capacity, with household goods piled on the roofs 4-5 feet high, chickens and goats tied to the rear of vehicles swinging side to side, advancing at a snail speed. Soon the road looked deserted, only speeding military jeeps passed us. Here and there trucks were stopped on the road, in a group of 2 to 3, by soldiers with AK 47, ready to fire; while other soldiers were busy siphoning out diesel from the fuel tanks. As we traveled further, it appeared an unnatural calm had descended on the region like the morning fog.  A chill went down my spine when we saw abandoned gun positions along the road. There were fresh marks of tank tracts in the adjacent field, soon we saw the charred remains of a tank, and it was still smoldering. We were concerned but remained silent. We came to the next checkpoint. The guard told the driver something, as he handed him the Goodwill care pack, and signaled with his hand to hurry and leave.

We reached Mazar-e Sharif as the sun was setting. We were briefed on the security situation. We were told minor clashes had broken out and four soldiers were killed. It was not clear at that moment whether it was just a clash or a prelude to bigger things to come.

In the morning, after breakfast, we had to go to the main office for a meeting. The UNHCR office kept us briefed on the security situation by ham radio. The town was calm, people were on the street and the market place was crowded. The UN staff from a local UN office invited us for a New Year party in the afternoon. I declined to go and stayed behind. One of our members, who had previously served in Mazar, filled me in on the history of the Mazar-e Sharif. The blue mosque was the main point of attraction of the town, and he mentioned non- Muslims were allowed to go inside the compound which was a rare treat in a Muslim world. He offered to take me there.
He drove a jeep. We were in the market next to the mosque when a sudden explosion shook our jeep. He looked at me and I looked at him. None of us were bleeding and we knew we were alive, that was all there to know. The busy market emptied out faster than the props changed on a stage in Broadway shows. The metal shutters of shops came down; sandbagged gun positions suddenly filled with young soldiers with pointing AK-47. Bursts of machine-gun fire were coming from all directions. Then another thunderous noise came from the corner of the mosque and black smokes were billowing out. My eyes met the eyes of a young soldier; he had no fear in his eyes. He was edgy with the excitement of an anticipated kill. Suddenly the holy place turned into a playground of devils.

My friend drove the jeep faster than it was meant to go. I thought if bullets did not kill me his driving would. I never knew the fear of death could be that deadly. Once we reached our walled compound he jumped out of the vehicle and went straight for the ham radio. He repeated coded messages several times. Soon our place filled with the rest of our people and a few others. A hasty meeting was called. We were ordered to move down the hall to a basement bomb shelter.

The shelter was about 12 x 15 feet, with a 48 inches thick wall all around. There was a small kitchen, a sink and a tap with no running water. There were cabinets on all four walls of the kitchen and they were stacked with canned food. A place about 4 feet square was used as privy but had no toilet seat, instead, had a hole in the dirt floor marked by bricks one on each side. The flimsy door had no latch and the bottom part of it had rotted away. There were blankets and sleeping bags piled up at one corner of the room. The bomb shelter was 4-5 feet underground; sandbags piled 4 bags across and 4 bags high all around. There was a dugout shallow well on the ground and we had a huge bladder of drinking water from the US army supply.

Another meeting was called. We were 14 of us in total, 6 were girls and the rest were boys. Each of us received a notebook, a pencil, a packet containing a small flashlight, a pocket knife, one sheet of metal foil for use as a thermal blanket, a few halogen tablets in a glass vial, a few aspirin tablets, a ligature, and a few bandages. People were assigned to various jobs. I was put in charge of food and sanitation. At each meeting, I had to give a report. I felt if we stayed in the bomb shelter for more than 24 hours, cockroaches, vermin, rats, and flies would take over this place.

As I looked around, I found two books, one was an official document on Kabul, the other one a paper book edition of " The Caravana" by Michael Misner. As I began reading the book, I felt I was lucky in that I was able to read an engaging drama unfolded in Afghanistan of an earlier time but the social condition of the country had remained pretty much the same. It was very interesting reading.

At night we slipped into our individual sleeping bags. We directed our heads towards the wall and feet to the center of the room. We looked like walruses on a sandy beach packed side to side without any room in between.

At about 9 PM the fireworks really began. We could hear tanks moving on the pavement, occasional loud booms of gum fire with that the windows upstairs rattled. Then clit-clit sounds of the more tank movements and loud boom - one was never sure where it would land. Then a series of machine gun fires rattled structures all around us. The ricocheting bullets from hitting the metals and shattering of window planes kept us on edge. The fire was coming from both sides of our bomb shelter, we were caught in a crossfire.
After a while, nothing bothered me, and instead of imagining what was going to happen, I wanted to be outside with the soldiers. At least my life would not be that uncertain. Staying put in a hole even with fortified walls was like a sitting duck; a direct hit from a field gun would certainly take few of us out.

Day no. 2.
 We were having a breakfast meeting when our cook showed up with a stack of fresh bread, and a cheer went up. He told us a tank drove through the home of our night watchman, narrowly missing his wife and a child. There were deaths and destruction all around our compound; our metal front gate looked like a colander; all the windows of our building were shattered. He said he had to come and find for himself those people he cared for so long made through the night or not. Then he left in a hurry.

There was a lull in the fighting the whole day. In the evening briefing, we learned the local UN office was ransacked by the soldiers. They made gun placements on the roof of the building, broke furniture to make barricades. They found the duty free liquor chest and broke it open and got drunk. When their commander found them drunk, he ordered them out of the building. But the soldiers took all the things they could carry with them including a heavy antique solid brass wood burning stove.

Day no.3
We learned the war had spread to Kunduz. The airport was bombed; 8 people were killed. They had no word about our hospital which was located in one of the airport hangers. Local Afghans who worked for us were all safe.
Late in the morning jet planes screamed past over our shelter, then we heard bombs bursting at a distance. This time the theatre of operation was toward a hill rather than the residential area. At night, the ground fighting began with gusto. It appeared one side was going to wipe out the other. Afghans do not take prisoners.

Day no. 4.
Our supply of food was almost all gone. We had biscuits, rancid butter, and tea for breakfast. At the meeting, we learned about a ground war now raging in Kunduz. We had no further information on casualties or about people who worked for our mission. An air force commander in charge of this sector was killed when his helicopter was shot down by the ground fire. They feared that a retaliatory ground offensive was underway. New gun positions and pillboxes were cropping up all around us. It was decided to move us to a safer location. The UN was trying to arrange a temporary ceasefire to evacuate us along with other groups of NGOs (non-government organizations). The looted UN office was abandoned and people were taken to the UNHCR (UN High Commissioner for Refugees) office located in a different part of the town.

The word of a temporary cease-fire came and went several times of the day. The situation around our compound was tense but quiet. I saw one or two people sneak out of the shelter and headed upstairs in search of food and gather their personal belongings. I had no change of clothing with me, my overnight bag was in another part of the town where I stayed the first night in Mazar-e Sharif. I was smelly and felt dirty. In the same predicament as mine was a young medical student from Holland. He had finished his tour of duty and was waiting for his transportation out to Paris then to Holland. He was extremely depressed. He was following me like a shadow. I told him if worse came to worse I would call home and my family would contact our State Senator. The Senators carry power and influence in the US Government. He would get the Pentagon to rescue us and take us to a safe place. I reminded him Americans would never forget their fellow countrymen in times of need. He believed me and the others believed it also when he repeated to them that I had told him. However, I did not believe a rescue was possible in that situation. But I kept my optimistic looks up.

We were totally cut off physically except the UNHCR kept us informed. We had only tea for lunch and a few lucky ones had pieces of a chocolate bar and hard candies that were retrieved from upstairs.
It was not easy to fall asleep on an empty stomach especially when intermittent bursts of machine gun fire came from behind the building. In the middle of the night, a fierce gun battle raged.

Day no.5.
The word came early in the morning that a temporary cease-fire was agreed upon. We were given just 5 minutes to board when the convoy would come. The security man showed us how to duck incoming bullets. We were ready. But the convoy did not show up. Hopes followed by despair and it wore out many of the ladies and younger men. After the third attempt, the convoy was let in. We boarded well-marked UN vehicles in a minute. With UN flags flying from both the front and rear fenders and with military escorts our convoy passed through the charred marketplace, we saw destruction all around. The situation was tense but no one took a shot at our passing vehicles. We reached the UNHCR office intact. We then headed towards the Uzbekistan border and left Afghanistan behind.

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Afghan Justice

Afghan Justice

P.K.Ghatak, MD

No. 7.

The administrator of the medical mission in Kunduz, Afghanistan introduced me to other members of the mission, when I arrived there, and gave me a tour of the place and pointing his finger at the stairway he said." Do not go up the stairs to the roof, you can easily see the courtyards of the adjacent houses from there. And if by chance you happen to see an uncovered face of a female member of a household that would be considered as a punishable offense because you have polluted the purity of his harem. The punishment of such offense is left to the demand made by the senior member of that household.  In some cases, you can get away with a ton of money, or they may demand your gouged out eyes, or ask you to marry the girl you saw."

Not only I never went to the roof; I never looked at anything that remotely resembled a woman; always kept my gaze down - not going up above the knee level.

One day we were going to a satellite clinic, riding in a well-marked vehicle, with a prominently displaced logo and flags. As we were passing through a roadside market when a one-horse carriage (Tonga called locally) driven by an old man was coming from the other direction. The fluttering flags might have startled the horse, and it began to run erratically. The old man lost control of the horse and Tonga hit our vehicle. A metal tip of the horse harness smashed a glass window of our vehicle and penetrated inside the vehicle narrowly missing our interpreter.
Within a minute a large crowd gathered around our vehicle. Soon a fully dressed police officer appeared and began to question our driver and the old man. And after finishing his inquiry he arrested the old man and impounded his horse and carriage.
Our interpreter told me that we could not leave the area till the court proceedings had concluded.

Court proceedings!! I asked how long that would take. He politely said Afghan justice was swift.

A crowd gathered around an elevated gazebo like structure in the central square.  A clergyman arrived and took over the proceeding as a judge. He began with an invocation followed by a short prayer, then the entire crowd joined him.

The police officer produced the old man and our driver to the judge. Each gave his side of the story; eyewitnesses were asked questions. In less than ½ hour the trial was over. The judge found the old man was responsible for the accident. The judge asked our driver how he wanted to be compensated. The driver asked for a sum of money, enough to cover the repair of the vehicle. The owner of a repair shop was present among the crowd. He gave an estimate. The judge told the old man to pay the driver that amount. And added until the full payment was made his horse and the carriage would remain impounded.

We managed to slip some money to the old man; he paid the fine and the court released the old man, his horse, and carriage.
Afghan justice is swift and final. And later I learned this was the Sharia Law.

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I was right. I am still alive.

Ariana flight 102 to Kabul.

P.K.Ghatak, MD

No.8.


Ariana, the Afghan National Airlines, flight no.102 left Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris on time but only with three passengers on board; two were in the economy class and one in the first-class cabin. The first stop was at Moscow airport. The plane landed an hour before midnight and taxied to the gate. This was the time when the Soviet Union had disintegrated. Russia and several other Republic States emerged and were struggling to survive financially and from the breakdown of the law and order situation. Russians were bewildered and appeared incapable of governing themselves.

The aircraft came to a dead stop at the gate but only for a short moment. Then the aircraft moved as if it were to depart. Then a sudden jolt and a screeching sound came from the front end of the plane then it stopped abruptly. About half an hour passed without any activities. Then the crew members were going in and out in a hurry to the first-class section of the plane. The noise of people arguing was heard. Someone began to hammer the plane with a heavy hammer with loud bangs. And with each bang, the plane shook. Then an agitated, red-faced, very well dressed gentleman began to chase the captain of the aircraft as he tried to flee from him. The gentleman was shouting at the captain and whatever the captain replied made the gentleman angrier.  Fifteen minutes later several armed Russian security officers boarded the plane and escorted the agitated first-class passenger to his seat.
After all the noise and excitement subsided the plane remained standing at the departure gate. The lights of the plane were turned off; the outside was pitch dark except a few runway marker lights were on. It gave an eerie sensation as if a blackout was ordered to foil a bombing run by enemy aircraft.

After three hours the lights came on again in the aircraft. Then a flood of passengers began to board the plane. Each passenger carried as many pieces of luggage as they could on their shoulders, hands and even on their heads. No one knew or cared about the international regulations limiting the numbers and size of carry-on bags. The crewmembers stood silently; only directed the crowd towards the rear of the aircraft. Soon the plane took off. Three hours later it touched down at the Tashkent airport in Uzbekistan. Then another group of passengers filled the aircraft with more luggage pieces, one of them even carried a kitchen cabinet. The passengers dropped their luggage into every available space inside. The plane looked more like an overcrowded bus in a rural area of a poor country. There was no room for anyone to get up and move; even the toilets were packed with luggage.

In the morning the plane made an uneventful landing in Kabul. Then pandemonium broke out among the passengers in order to deplane with their load of luggage. The person behind was more impatient than the passenger in front; pushing, pulling and shouting went on till the last passenger deplaned.

The next morning, one of the two passengers who boarded flight 102 in economy class at Paris was eating breakfast alone. The other members of his group had left for work earlier. He heard a loud noise coming from the outer perimeter of the walled compound. Someone was banging on the metal door. He thought he was still thinking about the incident at the Moscow airport. When it became clear to him that someone was desperate to come in. The security guard was not present at the gate. He went to the gate and looked through a peephole of the closed gate. He was surprised to see the same 1st class passenger who was chasing the captain of flight 102, standing outside. As he opened the gate for him, and the visitor immediately began speaking in French. The man said he did not understand French. Then the visitor spoke in English and introduced him as the French diplomat and said he came to inquire about his fellow countrymen in Kabul.
“I recognized you; you were a passenger on flight 102”, the man said.
The diplomat replied, “Do you know what had happened at the Moscow airport”.
“Come in and have a cup of tea with me and then tell me all about it”, he said.
As they were walking back to the dining room the diplomat pointed out a different building and said, “That was the residence of the French ambassador, that one was the embassy building, and this one was staff quarters. The rose garden is still here but it was magnificent then”.
After they entered the dining room. The diplomat helped himself to bread, jam, and tea and began his story:

I was asleep, a jolt and noise woke me up. The plane had docked to the exit ramp, but the wheels of the aircraft were not secured by placing wedge blocks. The plane moved and the exit door panel hit the wall of the ramp, and it was damaged. The door could not be closed or locked. The captain of the plane and the ground crew decided to repair the damaged door as best they could and tie the door to a frame with a rope. And to make sure that it would not fly open during flight, a crew member would hold on to the latch of the door. In that condition, the plane was going to take off. Can you imagine an airplane is taking off with its main door secured with a simple rope and a man hanging on to it!!
 " I said no way,” he continued. “You got to replace the door; an airplane should not fly if structurally unsafe. There is a good chance that the door will fly off in midair due to differential pressure."
The captain said, “A replacement door has to be flown in from Paris. There is no way that can be done tonight. The Russian has no spare door that will fit our plane. We have to leave Moscow tonight. We have to do as best we can under the circumstance”.
I insisted without proper repair, the plane should not fly; it was against the international aviation treaty; such acts would be considered criminal negligence. The discussion became more heated, and the captain threatened to drop me off the plane. Then I flashed my diplomatic passport at his face. Then the captain ran away from me. I began chasing him and more arguments followed.
They started hammering the bent door to straighten it. I went after the repair crew. They called in the Russian security. It went on for a while. Finally, the repair crew was able to repair the door enough to open and close but the lock was totally broken. They went back again with the idea of tying the door with a rope.
At this stage the Airport security offered me a room in a Moscow hotel for the night; in the morning I could arrange my way to Kabul by other airlines. But Ariana was the only airline serving Kabul, that too was only 2 days a week.

“At the end, it came down to this;” the diplomat said and he continued “Take a chance and fly in this cripple aircraft and get blown away in midair or spend a night in a Moscow hotel and get murdered.

I choose the former. And I was right. I am still alive.”

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A dish of Potato

A Dish of Potato

P.K.Ghatak, MD

No 9.


Eight of us rented a house in Kunduz, Afghanistan, and employed a cook. He came with great recommendations from one of our Afghan interpreters. The next day he came to work.  At breakfast- the cook gave us a dish of fried eggs, sunny-side-up, and bread from a local bakery. We relished the hot breakfast and felt fortunate while sipping hot tea on a cold foggy morning. At lunch, we were pleasantly surprised when the cook placed a large dish of sweetly fragrant beef Biryani. This was undoubtedly the best meal we had ever since we arrived in Afghanistan a month earlier. However, he did not serve us any other dishes except bread. The cook left for his home at sunset, which was the usual practice because of security concerns. At dinner, one of us went to the kitchen and warmed up the leftovers. We ate the same dish once again.

The next day the cook dampened our expectations when he served us the same breakfast and lunch/dinner. We had expected more delicious food from him. On the 3rd day, he served the same dishes. The biryani no doubt was superb; even the best food loses its appeal when eaten repeatedly over several days and, moreover, we craved other dishes.
We decided to call in the cook and the interpreter. We told him we liked his biryani and fried eggs, but he could not make some other dishes too. He agreed, at least that was the way it appeared. But to our dismay, the food was no different the next day also.
Another conference with the cook revealed that the cook was stone deaf, and the interpreter admitted that he was his uncle. He was a farmer and not a cook. The interpreter promised he would serve new dishes.
The following day he served us a large plate of boiled potatoes and bread. There were no butter, oil, salt, or black peppers - just boiled potatoes.
We were speechless and had no choice other than to eat potatoes or go hungry.
 We fired the interpreter and kept the cook.

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An Afghan Noble

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An Afghan Noble

P.K.Ghatak, MD

No 10.


On an early December morning in the Northern Afghanistan 4 or 5 people were waiting for an interview seeking a job as a translator. The sun was shining; there was frost on the ground and a cold wind was blowing from the north. Among the waiting candidates was a distinguished old gentleman with flowing gray hair, wrinkled face, and very bright eyes. He held up some papers in front of his face as if he was reading. He smiled at me when I made eye contact with him.
He waited for his turn to meet the administrator. After he came out, I noticed he had a sad look on his face. He hesitated initially then he wanted to talk with me. I invited him to sit beside me and gave him a glass of tea. (Afghans drink tea from small glass). He said he did not get the job; he was told - he was too old.  In the course of a long talk, he revealed important parts of his life history and deep-seated insecurity he had.

He was 80 years old, the oldest surviving male member of a well-known family in Kabul. For generations, his family members served the Afghan Government as ministers, ambassadors, advisors for the kings and later for the presidents of Afghanistan. Whoever was in power sooner or later they had to call upon some members of his clan to fill important ministerial positions. They cooperated with the Soviets during their occupation of Afghanistan. With the Soviet departure, the Afghan civil war broke out and several members of his family were assassinated. His family broke up and members scattered; some went to Pakistan others to Iran, India, and France. For a while, he lived in Tajikistan and had recently returned to Afghanistan with the Tajik refugees.
He was educated at Kabul University, then at Bombay University in India. He was also in Paris and London for studies. He spoke four languages. He worked in international law and economics during his younger years. He had substantial real estate holdings in Kabul. And the papers he was pretending to read while waiting for the interview were the deeds of his various real estate holdings. He took the deeds with him wherever he went. His wife passed away several years earlier. He had four children, but he was unable to contact any of his family members since he returned to Afghanistan (the postal services and telephones service were totally destroyed at that time). He was staying in a guesthouse located above a restaurant on the main road leading to the next town. The more I talked with him the more I sensed he wanted company and a secure place to stay. He had hoped he would find a job here and then could stay with us in our protected compound. He was very disappointed to learn that the local people were not allowed to stay in the same housing compound with foreign national NGOs (non-government organizations).
He was frail but well-groomed and clean; had manicured nails, dressed in a well-tailored but tatter suit.  I could see his money belt under his pants. He applied Surma on his lower eyelids and attar behind his ears (nectar of roses). He exuded confidence at the same time submitted himself to the will of God. With all his riches he was unable to find a secure place to stay in his homeland.

Then the time came to end our conversation. He did not want to leave; at the same time, he knew he had to go. He held on to my hands for a long time and wanted to say something but struggled to say it. I told the old gentleman to stay in touch with us; there might be a job opportunity in the future. Or he could just come and talk with me. With difficulty, he could only produce half a smile. At the very end, he let my hands go. And said God willing he would see me again. I could see he was fighting back tears.

A few days later we were driving along the main road towards the next town. We saw a crowd gathered around a roadside restaurant. Our driver got out of the car to investigate. He returned shortly afterward and told me the old gentleman, who came looking for a job, was dead. Someone cut his throat and took away his money belt. But the police were not sure whether it was just a robbery or a political murder staged as robbery.

I felt his handshake once again, saw his tearful eyes and then I understood the meaning of his last word "God willing....."

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Jennie

Jennie

P.K.Ghatak, MD

No.11.

I met Jennie at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. I was waiting at the gate to board a plane for Kabul but no one else was there. I thought I came to the wrong departure gate. I double-checked my boarding pass and the gate number- it matched.  I tried to listen to the public announcement, it was in French, and I did not understand a word of it. As I looked around, I noticed one aircraft was parked at the gate with the logo of Afghan Airlines “Ariana” painted on it; the paint was so hastily completed that the Air France logo was clearly visible underneath a thin layer of paint.

Then I saw Jennie, she was walking in. She was tall and thin but had a determined look on her face. She was carrying a bag on her shoulder, and she had some papers in her hand. I approached her and introduced myself and asked whether she spoke English. She said yes. And that I came to the correct gate for Ariana flight to Kabul. When she was satisfied that I was a genuine passenger, she relaxed. I checked my watch; it was still 45 minutes to the scheduled departure. I offered to buy her a drink, and we sat at a kiosk. I ordered a cup of coffee, she asked for a glass of wine.
We started slowly but pretty soon we found more common ground. She was a nurse volunteered to work with the Red Cross / Red Crescent in Kabul, and I was going on a medical mission as a doctor. We were so involved in listening to our life stories I vaguely remembered boarding the plane and sitting down next to her.

Two years earlier during the summer, Jennie was vacationing with her mother in Marseille in southern France. Jennie just had broken up with her longtime boyfriend and needed time to put her life together. Her mother did not like her boyfriend and thought he was no good for her. Her mother was happy that they broke up, but Jennie could not put that behind her. This was the time the plight of Afghan people became a constant TV news item. Her mother drew her attention to one of these news reports and an appeal from the Red Cross for nurses for Afghanistan. Her mother kept reminding her that instead of feeling sorry for herself, she could do some good by donating her time to the Red Cross. And one day she picked up the phone and called the Red Cross and two weeks later she was on her way to Kabul.

After a period of difficult adjustment to the Spartan lifestyle in Kabul, she found interest in her work. She introduced order and discipline in the office, raised the morale of the employees and then demanded accountability. At that time, she started to hear medications and supplies given to hospitals were finding their way on the streets of Kabul. She decided to go to the hospital and find out the fact for herself.

There she met Dr. Ahmet. He was a young surgeon, worked tirelessly and kept to himself. His surgical skill was superior to the rest. One day he was trying to save a child, bleeding from gunshot wounds, but there was no one available to assist him in surgery. He was shouting and asking for help. Jennie was there; she put on gloves and joined him. Shortly, the surgery was over Dr. Ahmet looked up and thanked Jennie for her help. But his looks lingered a little longer over Jennie's eyes. When Jennie looked up, she saw his beautiful large eyes but had a sad look and her eyes met his. Dr. Ahmet’s eyes sparkled for a brief moment. A warm sensation passed over her face. She found herself out of place, her mind was a thousand miles away in France. She recovered quickly but the bonding had already begun.

Jennie avoided meeting Dr. Ahmet for the next few days and concentrated in her own work. But Dr. Ahmet sought her out and asked her to help him in almost all difficult cases. Pretty soon they became the number one team of the hospital. At about this time the war was heating up and the front line of war began to approach the center of the town. An increasing number of sick and injured patients began to arrive in the hospital. Jennie and Ahmet often stayed long hours in the operating room. From the conversation during operations and in-between cases, she was able to stitch together Dr. Ahmet’s life.

Ahmet came from a family of doctors. His father was a practicing Ophthalmologist, his mother an ObGyn specialist had to retire because of the civil war. Ahmet had two married sisters. When Ahmet was in college the Soviets invaded Afghanistan. His father sent him to Multan, Pakistan. By the time he graduated from medical college and completed his training in surgery the Soviets had left Afghanistan. He returned to Kabul and stayed with his parents. The civil war, death, and destruction saddened him immensely. He worked as hard as he could to prevent civilian deaths. But it was a daunting task with limited hospital supplies and medications, and a lack of essentials like clean water and round the clock electricity. The deaths came too cheaply and frequently. At times, he was in deep despair but Jennie’s presence gave him some hope for the future.

One day he mentioned to Jennie that his parents were coming to meet her in the hospital. Regulations prevented Jennie from going any place outside the domain of her work. Their meeting did not go too well for Jennie. Later, Ahmet told Jennie that his mother thought Jennie was too old for him. In fact, Jennie was 5 years older than he was, but Jennie and Ahmet laughed it off.

The war came closer to the hospital. Traveling in and out of the hospital compound became unsafe. Many staff members stayed in the hospital for 2-3 days at a stretch.
One night Ahmet had to return home because his father was not well. Jennie stayed back at the hospital. The next morning Ahmet did not return to the hospital. Jennie went looking for him. With the help of the Red Cross/Red Crescent, she came to know the militias took Ahmet and his driver as prisoners. But their whereabouts were not known. The world became dark and sad for Jennie. She was in extreme anxiety thinking about what could happen to Ahmet. She, however, continued to work at the hospital, always thinking, somehow, he would show up at the hospital the next day. The hospital was full of injured people; many patients simply died of their injuries before any help could be given. Two days later the militias entered the office of the Red Cross/Red Crescent and completely ransacked it and took away all supplies and equipment.

Jennie was evacuated along with other foreign volunteers by the UN Security Forces. Three days later they were flown to Pakistan. That week was the worst time in Jennie’s life; she could not rest and could not find any news of Ahmet. There was no way to communicate with the parents of Ahmet. The telephone service was cut off and no one dared to venture into that neighborhood. She returned to France in sheer misery and was thoroughly broken.
She took a vow to find Ahmet. She joined other volunteer organizations and kept in touch with the Red Cross. But there was no news of Ahmet. She waited nearly two years for a ceasefire to take hold in Kabul. She jumped on the first opportunity to go to Kabul and find Ahmet.

The plane was approaching Bagram airport in Kabul. The morning sun lit the hillside. As I looked out through the window, I saw charred remains of aircraft and gun positions along the runway, burned out villages all around the airport. My heart sank. I looked at Jennie; she was in prayer with her eyes closed.
As the plane landed Jennie smiled and looked happy. We climbed down the ladder and began to walk on the tarmac. Wherever I looked there were signs of recent warfare and charred remains of war equipment.
Then there was a burst of machine gun fire coming from the left. Jennie was marching ahead with all the confidence and optimism.

It is a bright sunny morning in Kabul and Jennie’s search for Ahmet has just begun.

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