Kidnapped by the Taliban Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 merepeatedly. 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 andlet 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