Kidnapped by the Taliban (4 page)

My perspective of Afghanistan and its people had changed a great deal as well. I had been excited on that first trip but also nervous. I wondered:
Would the people accept me? Could I contribute here? Was this my future?

The trip had come together in a hurry. My family and I had moved back to the States in 2007 so I could complete my doctor of medicine
degree and join an American residency program. At the end of that year, Cilicia had started a job in Colorado Springs as a strategy analyst with Compassion International, an organization dedicated to helping children living in poverty.

More than a year later, however, I was still looking for the right position for me. One night, as I stood in the back of a room and watched a presentation about humanitarian work overseas, a balding, broad-shouldered man with a quiet voice approached me. “Hey, I’ve heard about you,” he said. “It would be great if we could get together sometime and get to know each other.”

The man, Daniel, was president of Morning Star Development. We met soon after, and I felt an instant connection with him. When I described what I hoped to focus on in my career—preventive and clinical medicine, international public health, humanitarian work, and teaching—he leaned back and smiled.

“Those are the exact things we’re looking for in a medical director,” he said.

Daniel was leaving for Afghanistan in two weeks. He invited me to join him and see what their work was all about.

When I got home from the meeting, I said to Cilicia, “Guess what? I might have a job.” Then I explained that there was one tiny hitch.

“If I took this position and ended up making medical training trips to Afghanistan,” I said, “how would you feel about that? Would you have any hesitations or security concerns?”

Cilicia has an amazing, strong spiritual faith. She didn’t even blink. “If this is what you are supposed to do,” she said, “I think security would be the least of my worries.” Despite the violent history of Afghanistan, I felt the same way. I accepted Daniel’s offer to join him on the trip.

Even though I’d grown up in that region of the world, there was so much about this nation I didn’t know. My research showed that Afghanistan was about the size of Texas, but that was where any similarity with the Lone Star State ended. Afghanistan’s population of twenty-eight million
¹
was 99 percent Muslim.
²
Two-thirds of the population were illiterate.
³
The average lifespan was forty-three years;
⁴
more than a tenth of the nation’s children did not even reach the age of five.
⁵
To offset meager incomes, many Afghans turned to cultivating poppy fields—the country was the world’s foremost producer of opium, the key ingredient for heroin.
⁶

I wondered what I was getting myself into.

Two weeks later, with the morning sun just beginning to slant red-hued rays across the landscape below, I got my first glimpse of the towering, snow-capped peaks that surround Kabul. The highest point in the Hindu Kush is at an elevation of nearly twenty-five thousand feet; Kabul sits at nearly six thousand feet. The view from my plane window reminded me of Denver and the Rocky Mountains, though these peaks are even more prominent. As we flew over the city, I was surprised to see that Kabul was laid out in a well-planned grid, including a downtown, rows of residential houses, and a business district.

The picture was a bit different on the ground, however. After connecting with my driver, I was soon hurtling through potholed streets in what felt like a high-speed car chase. At each major intersection, we raced into a roundabout filled with cars, trucks, bicyclists, and pedestrians jockeying for position, always within inches of each other. In the middle of it all, a lone policeman holding an AK-47 stood on a small concrete platform and watched over us.

Those policemen weren’t the only signs that I was now in a war zone. Armed Afghan soldiers in green-and-brown camouflage
uniforms patrolled the streets. Nearly every dilapidated home and building were protected by brick walls at least ten feet high and lined with razor wire. Everything was covered with layers of mud. The citizens of Kabul, however, appeared to take these conditions in stride. Women wearing headscarves bartered over fruits and vegetables with shopkeepers whose tiny storefronts lined dirty, cluttered sidewalks. Men in groups of two or three—most of the older ones in traditional garb and many of the younger ones in Western-style jackets and pants—dodged traffic on the way to their destinations.

At last we arrived at the locked gate and modest home of our NGO team house. I met the staff and was soon ushered into a meeting with members of another NGO. They were leaving the country and wanted to know if Morning Star would take over their medical clinic. It was fascinating to hear what was being done to help and equip the Afghan people, medically and otherwise—and to hear how much more help was needed.

One of the visiting team members that morning was Cheryl Beckett, a thirty-year-old Ohio native who’d helped feed and give medical assistance to Afghans for the previous five years. Little did I know that we would strike up a friendship on my successive trips—or that seventeen months later, she would be among ten volunteers massacred, reportedly by the Taliban, on the way back to Kabul after an aid mission.
^*

It was the next morning that I met Rafiq, program director for three of the NGO’s community centers. If I did join Morning Star, this was a man I would work with closely, so I hoped to make a good impression.

Rafiq was nearly six feet tall and, unlike most Afghans, clean
shaven and wearing a dress shirt and jeans. We sat on couches in the team house living room and made small talk. I learned that Rafiq was in his early thirties, was a well-respected member of a tribe in the nation’s eastern provinces, and had earned a medical degree and completed a public health internship. He had a wife and three children.

I realized that his background wasn’t so different from mine. I was ashamed to think I’d anticipated someone a bit narrow-minded, with limited education or understanding of world affairs. Rafiq, however, was intelligent, knowledgeable, fluent in English, and passionate about his work. He was so accomplished, in fact, that an international organization in Afghanistan would later nominate him for the 2013 Nobel Peace Prize for his contributions to the nation’s rural communities.

It would not be the last time I’d have to adjust my thinking in this surprising country.

That afternoon I met Rafiq’s driver and assistant, Farzad. He was in his late forties, about five inches shorter than Rafiq, with a more typical Afghan appearance—full beard and adorned in the long, loose shirt with pajama-like trousers known as the
salwar kameez
. Farzad greeted me with a “Hello, sir, how are you?” though I soon learned his English did not go much further than this. He was always smiling and extremely friendly, even stopping to pat dogs as they ambled by.

Later that week I traveled out of the city for the first time. The occasion was the dedication of the Pul-i-assim Community Center. Morning Star had received permission from the area’s tribal elders to operate the center, giving people a place to come for medical care and training as well as education. It served more than fifty surrounding villages, including four thousand children.

On the drive out of Kabul, I expected to find a countryside devastated by war. Except for Afghan National Army patrols, however, I
observed no evidence of conflict. Instead, I took in views of wheat and rice fields as well as orchards of apricot, plum, and apple trees.

We were still on the paved section of the Kabul-Jalalabad Highway when our driver slowed. I saw, ahead of us on the road, a brown, dusty cloud moving toward us on what seemed to be a million legs. We pulled off, and I watched, fascinated, as weathered men with long headscarves and walking sticks slowly guided hundreds of sheep past us and toward Kabul. These nomads, known as
Kuchis
, number more than two million people throughout Afghanistan. Revered by their countrymen for maintaining a lifestyle that Afghans had practiced for centuries, they earned their living by herding and selling sheep, goats, donkeys, and even camels.

Farther on, we reached a village with one-story adobe homes lining both sides of the highway. The homes, more like huts, were constructed of mud and sun-dried bricks made from sand, clay, water, sticks, and manure. Many of these homes featured an opening that served as a storefront. Residents attempted to catch the attention of passersby with goods such as biscuits, fruit, soda, and sugar.

In that same village we slowed nearly to a stop when we came upon a game of street soccer. Kids ranging in age from about as old as twelve to as young as two were kicking a sack cloth tied with string on the pavement. Some wore sandals while others played in bare feet. The game halted as we drove through. They watched us carefully until we’d passed, then immediately resumed the game.

Soon after, the highway pavement petered out. As the twisting dirt road led us closer to the community center, I saw more single-story adobe homes scattered on the brown, rolling hills around us. Each structure was contained by a wall of rock and mud.

At last we arrived. The community center itself was a compound
that included a one-level brick-and-concrete medical clinic, an education building, and a small agricultural plot. The clinic was funded and built by a NATO-sponsored team five years before, while the education building had recently been completed with the help of Morning Star partner funds.

More than one hundred people soon gathered in the compound courtyard for the ceremony. As NGO and local officials thanked one another in speeches through a bullhorn, I stood at the edge of the crowd. I’d met a local man earlier that morning and mentioned that I was originally from India. Now this friendly fellow began speaking to me in a mix of Hindi and Urdu, two languages with which I was somewhat familiar. He was shorter than me, in his early twenties, probably a member of the Pashtun tribe from somewhere near the Pakistan border. He’d clearly taken a liking to me. He told me about some of his aspirations, including the idea of traveling to India to receive an education.

I realized once again that I’d misjudged Afghanistan and its people. I’d expected to find men and women who’d been defeated by generations of war. Instead, I encountered a young man full of dreams for the future.

After the ceremony many of us moved to the backyard of one of the village leaders. Rafiq pointed out an elder gentleman there who was breathing hard. As the foreign doctor in the crowd, I was expected to come up with a solution, so I offered to give him a brief exam. When I pulled out my stethoscope and listened, I heard mucous buildup in his lungs. I suggested a local medicine, gave him advice on steam therapy, and recommended he rub a balm on his chest before going to sleep.

It turned out that this man was the father of the local police chief. Both he and the chief were appreciative, smiling and thanking me
repeatedly. Though my efforts were minimal, it was far more medical care than they were used to. I was encouraged. If even a cursory exam and a little extra attention had this kind of impact, perhaps I
could
make a difference here.

By the end of those two weeks, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d found my future. The people of Afghanistan had touched me. I told Daniel that I was ready to join the team.

On subsequent trips I grew more and more comfortable in Afghanistan. My position as medical director allowed me to teach, to treat people, and to help shape our long-term plans. It was rewarding work. I got to know the NGO staff, committed men and women from both in country and other nations. Rafiq and Farzad were among those who became trusted friends.

Though it felt right to be in Afghanistan and most of the people we served were grateful for our efforts, it was impossible to ignore signs indicating another view. The farther we traveled away from Kabul and into rural areas, where insurgent influence was far stronger, the more likely we were to see the white flag of the Taliban posted alongside a bomb crater or atop a mountain. It was a warning that we had traveled into what they considered their territory.

Once, on a trip to assess medical conditions in the eastern provinces, I rode in a car with a local colleague. He turned to me and said in English, “This area is not good. When we come to a checkpoint, please do not open your mouth. Don’t say anything.”

Soon after, we approached a post manned by Afghan National Army soldiers. A metal bar blocked our passage. A soldier in a camouflage uniform and holding an AK-47 stepped out of the open-air, brick structure beside the road. “Why are you traveling here?” he demanded when we stopped the car. I took my colleague’s advice and
let him do the talking. Though there should have been no threat from government forces, I’d seen too many signs of the Taliban presence. One can’t always be sure where a stranger’s sympathies lie. We were allowed to pass, but it was one of the few times I was uneasy in this nation I’d come to love.

I wasn’t thinking about any of this when my plane touched down at Kabul International Airport on November 29, 2012. I’d been impatient to return. A mix-up with my visa had left me stranded in Chicago a week longer than I’d planned, delaying my arrival. Now I just wanted to get to work.

My first full day back in the country, however, involved a very different assignment. I had agreed to help judge a college debate tournament. More than twenty teams participated, each averaging about six students. They took positions on topics such as freedom and liberty in Afghanistan, women’s rights within the Muslim tradition, and the right to an education.

As I listened to the students present their arguments, I was impressed by their speaking skills and the respect they showed one another. One young man in particular caught my attention. Ajmal’s appearance was fashionable. He looked to be about nineteen and wore tight jeans and a checkered dress shirt. He was clean shaven, his dark hair slicked back with gel. What amazed me most, however, was his command of the English language and passion for issues that would define the next generation of this nation. Every word was distinct, and every contention was logical and clear.