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Journey to Afghanistan
KHORASAN - Chapter 9 - Page 22

Writing about my patients in Afghanistan is difficult. I feel the stirring of deep emotions. The many limitations in diagnosis and treatment, the difficulties in follow-up, and the extreme hardship of their daily lives still profoundly influences my thoughts and feelings.

I had read and heard a great deal about the refugee camp, Khorasan, prior to arriving there. It was a camp of some thirty thousand displaced people on the Northern side of Mazar-i-Sharif. That first morning there had been a skiff a new snow. It was rapidly melting leaving mud. Our van wound through those muddy streets lined by mostly one story adobe houses pressed together. Some streets had been graded and graveled, others were totally unimproved. There were no names on the street corners nor numbers on buildings. I wondered how our driver knew exactly where to turn and which of the thousands of lowly homes was the place to stop and pick up Doctor Nadia. She was waiting. A single jump-seat, slightly separated from the others had been left for her. As she seated herself she pulled the light blue burqua away from her face and greeted us all with a beautiful smile and "Good morning."

We passed a well where people pumped water by hand. Most were young boys with buckets, often carried on both ends of a wooden shoulder yoke. Nearby was a school with high walls and a narrow gate. We could see no activity there. A bit further, on our left appeared an extensive field covered with thousands of small pup-tents. In each the supporting structure with a central timber was similar but the roofs were of huge variety: canvas, blankets, rugs, plastic and burlap were included. Some people moved about but most squatted on the muddy ground by their tents or just stood and stared. Smoke here and there curled up from a tiny tent. This was Khorasan.

A crowd had gathered near the end of the lane, pushing toward a heavy wooden gate in the whitewashed wall encircling the rented building to be used as our clinic. Burquas covered the faces and figures of all the women. Probably a third of the adults were men, generally turbaned and wearing a variety of coats and blankets. Many men and women carried small children while older children stood among them. I saw much urgency, some jostling and no smiling. Nearly a hundred people were in the group. Others were approaching.

Our driver pointed toward the gate as we disembarked and we were told to stay close behind. Pressing through the crowd I remembered with a bit of apprehension that I was the stranger and we'd been told to regard it as an "unsafe camp." My thoughts quickly changed as I saw the faces of children, many showing obvious illness. Some of the adults reaching towards us seemed to be calling out for help. Though I couldn't understand Dari these sights and sounds certainly connected. I was deeply stirred.

Marian, the gatekeeper, opened it just enough to let us through with our packs, medicine chest and red folding chairs; then shouting at the crowd she pushed the gate closed. Marian had been the gatekeeper since the clinic had opened only a few weeks before. Although occasionally she required other help, for the most part she was the main person keeping order. I was told that she often "patted down" women in their burquas. We wondered if that was really needed.

Crossing a small yard our group entered the two roomed house rented for a clinic. Thick walls, ceiling and floor were adobe. One room had a tiny diesel-burning stove. It added a little warmth. A wooden cot was in the far end of that same room. We stretched a wire and hung a small plastic tarp to make it a private place where patients needing some disrobing could be taken. Three groupings of two or three red plastic chairs were arranged in the two rooms, the large metal medicine chest was placed centrally, and we were ready for business.

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