When the Smoke Clears

The children of Afghanistan are out of school right now. There is no holiday, no special occasion. The country is reacting to the scare of flu. For three weeks the schools will be closed.

Earlier I was walking from village to village. The cold has frozen the water on the ground into crystals among the dirt. Pebbles crunch through the ice under our boots. the skies are beautiful, as they usually are here. Bright blues celebrate the day.

On our right we pass a mosque. There are many in this country but in the smaller villages, there are few. They become centers of community life. I see them and think of the churches back home, or especially in West Virginia. They are common, and often the only place in town that is almost always open.

An old man came out, curious as to why we would be there, but gracious nonetheless. He invited us in. We had to decline for now, respectfully thanking him but letting him know we were not Muslim and did not wish to disrespect their place. Still, it was an honor. Tasha-kor. Thank you.

Further up the street children were excited to see us. You could see them daring each other to get closer. We kneal down aware of the muzzles on our weapons, aware of the distance of our hands to the trigger. One soldier speaks to a father. I wave at a shy child poking his head from behind his sister’s skirt. Salam.

He shouts “A-Salam al lekum!” then darts back, waiting a moment before peering out again to smile and see the effect of his greeting.

Two boys come walking up along the road from the mosque. They are shy at first, but I greet them. One is carrying a book. He must be about eight years old. We start moving and he walks alongside me. I ask how he is. He says that he is very well.

“Where are you going?”

“I am going home, sir,” he replied. “I was just leaving the mosque. I was studying.”

“What were you studying?”

“Reading. I have a Qu’ran here, but I don’t want to fall behind in studying so I want to be able to read everything. I go to the mosque to work on reading. They help me.”

His friend seems older, but less mature. It turns out they are the same age, but in different grades.

“Do you like to study?”

“Yes. It is good for when I am older.”

“What do you want to do when you get older?”

“I want to be a doctor,” he says with humility. “It is hard. It will take time so I work as much as I can.”

I brighten up even more. Doktor. Medecin. A boy after my own heart. “I am a medic, actually.” We stop again and he stops for a moment. He looks me up and down.

“Yes,” I reply to his unasked question, “I do have some supplies on me.” Not much, but I do have my stethoscope, some bandages and my oto-opthalmoscope. I show him the stethoscope. Let him listen to his heart. Then I let him listen to my heart, buried under the armor. He concentrates intensely. If I knew I could have gotten another one quickly, I might have given it to him, just as a reminder. But I also know about the hospital in the nearby town. They have two stethoscopes and one blood pressure cuff for the entire hospital. They could use the equipment every day, if I were to give away my gear. But I do give him a couple of bandages for practice. I hope he isn’t forced to use them.

We are close to his house and he walks inside the gate, his friend following. He waves goodbye and tells us he hopes to see us again. If he stays as serious about his studies, he will be one of the people who bring about and sustain the change for the better for this country.

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