that was hard to do in Afghanistan was to exercise. At times I felt as if cobwebs were forming inside me as I yearned to go for a run, or hit a punching bag.
I remember at this compound, there was a young man of about 30 years of age who was a chowkidar, or watchman, for the demining teams and he was on an ATC contract. He was disabled, with an entire missing leg and he wore a stiff prosthetic. Each day, either late in the afternoon or early in the morning, depending on our schedule, I would run up and down the length of the compound. I measured the distance, and it was only about 55 metres long. But I figured if I ran its length, up and back, only five times, then that would be just over half a kilometre. If I did that seven times, it would be nearly three and half kilometres which would be a good run and I could inter-mingle it with some sprints and some normal running. So, that’s what I did basically each day for that mission. I also found a large rock that I used for chest presses and some local bricks that I had found to use for shoulder and biceps exercises. I worked out a full routine, which is something I would continue to do in several other countries.
As I was doing my running and strength exercises one morning, this young chowkidar guy with his stiff artificial leg watched me. I thought he was interested in joining me but realised he couldn’t. After three days had past, one evening when I had finished, I went and got one of our Peshawar staff and then returned back out to this young chowkidar. All of our conversation was through translation, as although my Dari was reasonable, it was not good enough for the conversation I thought we might have and besides, he was a Pashtun here in Nangarhar and may not have been too good at Dari.
We sat on the veranda area of the main building in this partially abandoned compound and called the chowkidar to join us. As we chatted, I eventually asked how he lost his leg. With openness, he said he had been shot high up in the thigh and his complete leg was amputated by a local doctor. I assumed he must have been hit in the femoral artery area, as he said it was amputated then and there, in the field four years ago. He had woken up in a hospital in Peshawar not knowing why he was there or why he was in a bed. His name was Mohamad and he told of the sad and too frequent situation where a deminer or mujahid would be injured, then drugged unconscious and operated on, only to wake and wonder where they were, not knowing of the damage they had received. As he spoke his eyes watered just slightly and I felt for this guy. I asked how he got his artificial leg, as many in this region didn’t have any and were bound to crutches or wheelchairs. He said that an Australian NGO had provided it to him and that he was very happy to have it. But I had seen him walk and noticed he had a bad limp. I asked if the leg was a good fit and why he limped so badly. He said that his leg stump had altered over the years and now it was just a little too small for the prosthesis. It gave him pain when he walked for more than a few minutes. He also said he used to be a very good soccer player as a younger man. This reminds me now of an incident near Kabul in 1995 when the Taliban were gaining significant strength there.
I had been coming back from a visit to the south-west of the city when we drove past a barren soccer pitch not far from my home in Kabul city. A gathering of men were standing and squatting around someone on the ground and a few were running back and forwards to the road. We were forced to slow right down to avoid hitting them and it was then we realised a young boy had been injured or was ill. A man running back to the gathering saw us looking and yelled at our car that the boy had just been shot by a Taliban militant. He asked whether we would help. So we pulled the car over and ran to the crowd. On the ground was a young lad of only about 16 years of age. He was covered in blood from his waist down to his toes. Nobody really knew first aid, so I used my multi-knife and cut his trouser leg along its length looking for the bullet entry. It was high on his hip and with the amount of blood I knew it was his femoral artery. I grabbed the cloth from an old man squatted alongside and pushed hard with my fist against the area of the bullet hole. The boy was almost unconscious but groaned at the pain. I guessed we were 15 minutes from the ICRC hospital in Kabul and so whilst pushing to stop the bleeding, I got my driver to bring the car into the playing field and tried to explain to the gathered group that this was serious and life threatening. If badly damaged, a femoral cut can cause you to bleed to death in just ten minutes. Once the car arrived, we put the boy on the back seat, had two of the friends jump in with me in the back and another in the front as we sped off to the ICRC. My driver called the UN radio room and told them about the incident and got them to call ICRC. When we arrived I was still forcing my fist against his upper thigh as the doctor and attendants ran to our car. Blood was everywhere. The doctor asked me a few questions in English then said, “Well done,” and took over the treatment of the boy. I never even heard the boy’s name, but I know that he had his leg amputated right up against his hips with the smallest stump you can have. He survived, but it was not a happy ending. I also found out why he had been shot. As he and his friends were playing soccer, three Taliban drove up in a car. They got out and said to the boys, “This was no time for playing when you should be answering Allah’s will to fight.” The young victim had said something to the effect that this was just for fun, and so they shot him. Nothing more than that.
Anyway, my chowkidar in Nangarhar in 1991, was apparently always eager to see me exercise even though he wished he could also do what I did. Well, I thought, I can assist here. I noted that his leg no longer fitted his prosthesis and jotted that to my memory. I had recently been told of another NGO which was using the soft rubber from the inside of run-flat tyres from old Russian armoured vehicles to create new forms of prostheses. This could possibly help this guy I thought, but at the time I told him he could join me during my exercises any time. He patted his false leg and said in Pashto, “Maybe four years ago, but not now,” and laughed. But I persisted and said I understood he couldn’t run, but he could do the strength and stomach exercises almost the same as I did. We spoke about this for over an hour. In the end, he was really keen to join in and to learn what he might and might not be able to do, though he had basically done zero exercise since his accident.
Early the next morning, my one-legged chowkidar greeted me with a look of suspicion and concern. I indicated through simple hand signalling that I would do my run first and then we could do some strength exercises. He smiled broadly and nodded his head in understanding. He then sat and watched every meter I ran. Finally, I stopped and grabbed my big rock and bricks and we sat together as I tried to explain our exercise routine, as I saw it. First, we needed to check if he could do some of the exercises, then once we were happy, we would start. He eagerly agreed and I admit he really looked keen. So, I went through the chest presses, the shoulder presses, some bicep curls and some triceps exercises and push-ups. He could do each one easily and he seemed to gain confidence. I then indicated the sequence for the exercises, chest, arms then abdominals, and we started. I admit that once I start a series of exercises, I usually lose all knowledge of what’s happening around me as I slip into my personal ‘zone’, but with this guy bursting with enthusiasm I was spellbound. He had removed his shirt and he pushed and shoved those rocks and bricks like there was no tomorrow. I kept thinking he would stop and so I kept going at my usual standard and encouraged him to keep going and to work harder. He did, and I feel he forgot about his handicap for the next 45–60 minute as we both sweated and strained that morning. I was as proud as could be to see his effort and his desire to get himself fit once again. When we finished, I was really beat and clearly so was he. At that moment one of the administrative assistants walked around the corner and I grabbed him to help me translate what I was saying. I told Mohamad, that not tomorrow but the following day he would be very sore all over. We both laughed at that and he said he’d be fine, but I knew better. I told him even if he was sore the next morning, he must do some more exercise to get rid of the lactic acid that will be creeping into his system even as we spoke. I then had to leave to get ready for the day’s business at the demining sites so we shook hands and promised to meet again the next morning.
The next morning he was ready again, though after a bit of a laugh he admitted his arms and chest were already sore. The administrative assistant also came out to join us. I did my run with him as Mohamad exercised with the heavy stone and bricks and when we had finished running, we all did more chest, arms and abdominal exercises together, including countless push-ups. Although Mohamad was already very sore from the previous day, he clearly forgot about that once he started and really worked
