HAhmed.com

…So when a chaplain asked if I would like to say hello to wounded Afghan civilians, I allowed my fellow Group 3 members to wonder where I might be, and accompanied the chaplain. “There is one child, in particular, who wants to say hello,” she said. She then pointed to the rear of the room, which housed about 10 or 12 injured Afghans, mostly male, who lay on small green cots that lined both walls in groups of five or six.

I asked the chaplain if the boy was familiar with WWE. “No,” she said, “he just knows that you are famous and he’s very excited to meet you.” I immediately looked at the young boy, who flashed an excited smile. I was then informed that the man in the cot across the aisle from him was a detainee, a status which required the presence of an armed guard at all times. I gave the detainee half a smile, which he chose not to return. At that time, I did not know the nature of his physical condition or the reason for his detention. Had I been aware of the reason, I would not have offered him the smile.

The detainee had apparently been making an improvised explosive device (generally referred to as “I.E.D”) which exploded and blew off both of his hands. The wounded detainee then showed up at the gates of Bagram asking for help from the same Americans whose lives he would have gladly ended.

I then walked over to a boy who wore a cast on his foot. I never did learn the nature of his injury because then I became distracted by another boy, much younger, whose injuries were literally breathtaking. I know the word “breathtaking” usually carries a positive connection, as it is most often applied to incredible views or beauty - human, natural or other. Yet, the extent of this poor child’s injuries literally took my breath away. His face thankfully had been spared from the worst of the burns on his body. Most of his body seemed to be one large mass of scar tissue, as if he’s been wrapped up in a bodysuit of angry scars. His hands were the first thing that I noticed, as they lay outside of his blanket. One hand contained the vague outline of his former fingers. The other hand, the right one, seemed to be nothing more than a deformed pink and purple circle connected to a wrist. It was this hand that he extended to me when I stepped over to his bedside.

The child, the chaplain told me, was the victim of a kerosene heater explosion, an occurrence far more common to the impoverished in Afghanistan than I could ever comprehend. These explosions, the result of poorly built heaters and cheap kerosene gasoline mixtures, are an everyday occurrence. I even saw photos of a two day old child whose entire tiny body had been engulfed in hideous flames. I’ve never been a witness to such horrible consequences.

Antonio had a magic smile. This poor child, Midikula, did not. Like Antonio, he knew pain and suffering, and his little face reflected it. As I mentioned, his face was almost scar free, but sadness and despair were etched all over it.

Within seconds of our meeting, the little boy began to weep and shout out anguished words. An interpreter laid out the sad translation. “He says when he leaves the hospital, no one will care for him, He is only happy here.” Happy is not a word I would ever associate with that room of 10 or 12 patients, including one terrorist. Although I have been allowed into the hospital rooms of suffering children many times and have been a patient myself a few other times, despite the best intentions of caring should and the tremendous assortment of board games, video games, DVDs and televisions, I have never thought of hospitals as places where children are happy. There were no board games, video games, DVDs and televisions in Midikula’s room. There was just a tiny green cot and the love and caring of a few dedicated professionals. Perhaps these words, love and caring are the keys. Perhaps this hospital was the only place he’s ever witnessed those emotions.

The interpreter spoke again. His words did more than take my breath away. They put tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat, a knot in my gut and a chill down my spine. “He wants you to take him back to America,” she said. I’m not sure if I have ever, in my 40 years felt so helpless or like such a pathetic liar when I simply said, “I can’t.” “I won’t” would have been more of the truth. “Can’t” is a strong word. In fact, it’s not a word that I used or accepted very often during my career.

My wife and I have a half-joking tradition when I am set to leave for developing countries. “Don’t be afraid to bring a child home,” she always says. She said it when I went to China in 2002 and Iraq in 2004. We used to talk about adopting an Afghan child after the initial U.S. invasion of the country. I shared that thought with a few friends and actually received disapproving feedback, as if the existence of Al Qaeda camps in Afghanistan was the handiwork of orphaned children. Now here was a child begging for a home, and I simply said, “I can’t.”

The boy was scratching at his scars, lowering his blanket as he did, revealing to me just some of the terrible damage that the explosion had done to his torso and abdomen. The chaplain later told me that one leg needed amputation because the damage was too extensive. His other leg, despite the efforts of physical therapy, had lost all range of motion, becoming permanently fixed in a locked angle. A prosthetic device, I was told, was almost an impossibility. The money just isn’t there, and even if it was, the boy’s rural rugged landscape would render the device almost useless. A wheelchair would fall victim to the environment as well. Ramps and elevators aren’t exactly accessible in the countryside.

I searched my pockets for some kind of gift that I could give to this poor child. I also searched for some soothing words, but even with a translator’s help, those were tough to find. I handed him a coin that had been given to me by a base commander. The coins are given out in the military for excellence, and I guess my Santa vs. Santa match qualified as such. The translator asked for one, but I told him I was out - the second lie I had told while standing at this child’s bedside.

As I prepared to leave, I told Midikula that I would send him a box of toys when I got back home. Through the translator he told me that he would like two large white stuffed animals, a dog and a cat. I then touched the boy’s head and with the best smile that I could manage, I exited the room.

I returned minutes later, bearing gifts. When I told the chaplain that my good intentions to good deeds ratio was low and that I’d be much more likely to follow through on these intentions if I purchased toys on base, she took me instead to a small trailer outside of the hospital that contained a few boxes of donated toys. While there were no large white stuffed animals, I was able to secure a small white beanie baby cat, a grey beanie baby dog and a Wyle E. Coyote that looked like a consolation prize at a second rate carnival.

I’ll be honest; the kid didn’t care much for Wyle E. Coyote. I guess if one is not aware of his “Roadrunner” shenanigans, he could look a little creepy. Through the translator, he worked out a trade - Wyle E. Coyote for a red breasted robin.

Before I left the hospital, I gave the boy a wallet-sized photo of my younger children. I’m not quite sure why I did this? I think so that he might have something directly from me instead of through a colonel or chaplain.

Last night, as I lay down, hoping sleep would find me, I again thought of that poor child. I thought about the terrorist as well. I thought about our service members and the sacrifices they have made. I thought of the holidays that would pass without their loved ones near and the dangers they face every day. I still don’t know what to think of our adventures in democracy in both Afghanistan and Iraq but if democracy brings with it food, shelter and kerosene heaters that don’t set little kids on fire, then by all means, these adventures will be worth the price we’ve paid. But I don’t know if that will happen? I do know that brave Americans like the ones I’ve met at Bagram Air Force base have sacrificed their lives in pursuit of this bold goal. I also know that mere feet from where our service members breathe, lay two Afghan citizens, separated only by a six foot white tile aisle and an armed guard. I know that their feelings toward our country cannot be more opposed. One sees the United States as pure evil, while the other, sees the U.S. as an answer to his dreams.

Sometimes the United States seems to me to be like a brilliant, privileged student, bragging about his C+ grades to a classroom full of disadvantaged failures. We may not be the best and brightest in that classroom, but we are capable of better and we are a long way from being evil. Can the U.S. truly be the answer to one’s dreams? For millions, it has been. Although I don’t think this is true for Midikula. Maybe I was the answer to his dreams, and instead I gave him a carnival doll.

I’ve been thinking about an old Irish prayer that reads, “God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference.”