Chapter 1
Kabul, 1965
On a freezing, snowy night in 1965, my father, Dr. Mehadi Mostamand, found his real purpose in life.
He was about to leave his office in the hospital where he worked in Kabul, Afghanistan when a picture in a newspaper lying on the coffee table caught his eye. He was already bundled up to go out into the cold, but this photo transfixed him. He removed his scarf, took off his gloves and hat, and picked up the newspaper, gazing at the image on the front page of Kabul’s leading newspaper, mesmerized. The accompanying headline proclaimed: “A Widespread and Curable Eye Infection Blinded Thousands of Children in Herat.”
At that, he unbuttoned his overcoat, sat down on a chair by the door, and read the article. Then, he stared at the accompanying picture of a young boy for a few more moments. He leaned back in the chair and pinched his forehead with his index finger and thumb—a gesture he often performed when something perplexed him.
After several minutes of silent contemplation, he stood up and once more put on his winter garb to face the snow. He strode out to the hospital’s parking lot. When he got to his car, he discovered that a foot of snow covered his vehicle. His hands were already wet and cold when he got in the car and turned the ignition key. Nothing happened. No crank. No sound.
Even though he did not know much about cars, he suspected that he had a dead battery. He already knew that no auto repair shops would be open, as they closed at five p.m. even on days with good weather. When there was heavy snow, they might not open at all. He returned to the hospital to call his wife, my mom, and tell her that he would be late. However, the heavy snow had brought down major communication lines, and the call could not get through. He turned on the electrical heater, warmed his hands, and dried his gloves. He tried the phone once more but was unable to get through.
He walked outside again, hoping to catch a taxi. The few passing taxis had more than six people in each, although they could safely carry only four people. He continued walking. Few private cars were out on the streets of Kabul that night, but those he signaled were already full and did not stop.
He trudged through the foot-deep snow. Cold winds whirled down from the Hindu Kush Mountains into Kabul and whipped around him while snow blinded him. Radio Kabul would later report that this year, 1965, Kabul experienced the heaviest snowfall in the past ten years, leading to many fatalities.
Dad crossed the street and continued walking along the frozen Kabul River. The lights flickered because the Soviets did most of the electrical work in Afghanistan in those days, and they did a shoddy job. When it rained or snowed, most lines went down or blew out under pressure. During heavy snow, most residents lost their electrical power.
The only sound he heard was that of his shoes crunching in the snow. He saw his breath, even in the darkness. The smell of the damp pine trees freshened the air, but he was too cold to appreciate their scent. He felt so disoriented by the cold that he did not notice when a taxi stopped for him. The taxi’s horn finally brought him back to reality.
Dad was the sixth passenger in the taxi, and he squeezed himself in the front seat with another passenger. They struggled to close the door. The broken rear window did not close all the way, so the cold night air whipped through the car.
Sharing a taxi with strangers traveling to the same part of the city was common in Kabul, especially during the winter. There was no traffic rush hour as not many people owned a car. This evening, the roads in the city were in particularly bad shape due to the recent heavy snow and rain.
At the taxi’s first stop, two passengers got out, including the one next to Dad. He was finally able to extend his legs.
On the ride home, Dad thought about my grandfather, who lived with us. Grandfather’s blood pressure was high that day, and that morning, he had told Dad that he was not feeling well. He needed more blood pressure pills, so Dad went to the hospital pharmacy during the day to get some. However, just before the taxi driver turned onto our street, Dad checked his briefcase and realized that he had left the pills in his office. He became anxious and asked the driver, “Can you take me to the pharmacy? I forgot my dad’s medicine.”
Only two other passengers remained in the taxi. The taxi driver said, “Yes, I’ll take you, but let me drop these other passengers off first.”
An hour later, the taxi driver dropped Dad off in front of the pharmacy and waited for him on the side of the street. By this time, though, the pharmacy was closed. Dad knew from experience that no other pharmacies would be open. He hoped that Mom had some extra pills for his father at home. She had a habit of saving extras of everything.
Hours later, when he finally arrived home, everyone was relieved and happy to see him. I was almost eight years old, and my seven siblings ranged in age from two to fourteen. Another was on the way. At the time, Dad was in his early forties, and Mom was in her mid-thirties. She worked part-time as a nurse at the same hospital as my dad.
Mom helped Dad remove his overcoat and gloves. She added more wood to the stove and gave Dad a hot cup of tea. Mom had prepared hot soup for Dad earlier, and she’d kept it comfortably warm on the stove. She spread Dad’s wet overcoat across a chair close to the stove to dry. Then, she sat next to Dad on the Toshak,[1] a large, fluffy cushion commonly found in Afghan homes. “What happened? I was so worried,” Mom said, looking at Dad in a way that invited a response.
Dad blew into his hot cup of tea, took a sip, and said, “My car broke down in the hospital parking lot, and the few taxis that were out were full.”
“Why didn’t you leave earlier? You had problems with your car this morning.”
Dad was already getting warm, and he took off his sweater. “I started to leave early, but a picture in the newspaper distracted me and made me lose track of time.” He spoke like a doctor addressing a nurse. He had long been accustomed to conversing with Mom like this.
Mom looked at him quizzically. “What was so important about a picture?”
Dad got up, opened his briefcase, took out the newspaper, and read the headline.
When Dad was in high school, his father—my grandfather—took him to Mazhar e Sharif, one of the largest cities in northern Afghanistan. My grandfather was accompanying a group of doctors who were evaluating child healthcare in remote villages in Afghanistan, where one in every five children died from preventable diseases before the age of five. Before this trip, Dad was not sure what he wanted to do with his life. After returning to Kabul, he knew that he wanted to become a doctor and help children in remote regions of Afghanistan who lacked access to healthcare.
He faced many obstacles in his path to becoming a doctor, but he found a way to achieve his goals, though not how he initially intended. The medical school assigned him to a residency in ophthalmology. He was disappointed because he wanted to become a pediatrician. That is why he chose to attend medical school: to help sick children in remote villages of Afghanistan.
Now, he explained that reading the newspaper article this evening had rekindled this desire. He was confident that helping these children stricken with an eye infection that resulted in blindness was what he wanted to do. Providing medical care to rural children would fulfill his goal of becoming a doctor in the first place.
Dad was not passionate about ophthalmology, but the story of the blind Herat children had inspired him. He began thinking about what he could do to help them. Years later, he would recall seeing that picture in the newspaper as the moment he found his calling in life. He was happy to provide eye care for his thousands of patients in Kabul, but the emptiness in his heart still bothered him. He never lost his concern about the health of the children in rural Afghanistan, and the scenes from his trip to Mazar e Sharif never left him.
When Dad had finished telling his story, Mom looked askance at him and pointed out, “You already treat some of these children in the hospital.”
“Yes, but only a few can afford to come to Kabul.” Dad shook his head sadly.
Mom put some more wood in the stove and said, “How long has it been this bad in Herat?”
“At least a couple of years, but nobody in a position of authority was aware of it. You know how bad communication is between those isolated villages and the city.”
Mom shook her head and said, “It is shameful!”
Eye infection is mainly a rural problem, mostly found in areas with no access to health care. There is a profound disconnect between the major cities and these small villages.
Mom refilled Dad’s cup of black tea. “I thought you were satisfied with your work here in Kabul.” She said it like a question.
“Yes, I do gain satisfaction from what I do, but I still feel a void in my heart. Something is missing from my life. That something is a purpose. Even as I help people, I do not feel a sense of fulfillment from what I am doing. I went to medical school to become a pediatrician and provide healthcare to those children who cannot access healthcare in large cities.” Dad leaned back against a pillow on the wall and said, “Yes, I do treat many children with chronic eye infections here, but most of those children have access to healthcare. My main concern is the children in small villages who become blind or die because they are unable to see a doctor.”
Dad again picked up the newspaper and studied it for a moment. Pointing to the boy in the photograph, he said, “Look at this child’s innocent face. It melted my heart. When I saw this photo, I knew I had to help these children. Seeing this photo showed me how I could pursue my life’s calling.”
Mother’s deep sigh and smiling face indicated that she appreciated Dad’s explanation.
After Dad ate dinner, he went to my grandfather’s room and gave him his medication—my mother had saved some extra pills after all. Grandpa, whose wife, my grandmother, had died in 1960, was alone and needed extra attention. So, he lived with my parents, who were better off than Dad’s other siblings.
Dad shared the newspaper article and photo with his father. Grandpa was aware of the problem of access to healthcare in the villages due to his old job, and he asked his son, “Can you help those children so that they will not become blind?”
“I need to find out more. I’ll keep you posted.”
He pulled the blanket over his father, turned off the light, and said, “Goodnight.”
However, Dad himself did not sleep well that night. His sleep was restless, but when he awoke, he had formulated a plan. He told Mom, “I’m going to Herat for a couple of weeks.”
He searched for the address of his friend and medical school classmate, Dr. Kolali, in Herat. Dr. Kolali was from Herat and had extensive connections to the city and the surrounding villages. They had not seen each other in over a year, but Dad was certain that Dr. Kolali was the only one who could help him in his goal of providing medical care to rural children in the area. Dad wrote him a letter, explained his concerns and his plan, and let him know when he was going to be in Herat.
While Dad was preparing to go to Herat, Grandpa’s health deteriorated quickly, and he developed a high fever. Mom phoned Dad at the hospital one day and told him of the change in his father’s condition. He rushed home, checked Grandpa’s blood pressure, and listened to his lungs.
“He has pneumonia,” Dad concluded. “We need to take him to the hospital.”
Grandpa’s illness took precedence over Dad’s plan to leave for Herat. He put his plans on hold. For several days, he spent most of his time after work with Grandpa.
Shortly after his hospitalization, Grandpa died. His death greatly affected Dad. He missed their nightly chats.
[1] These mattresses are made from cotton and have a thick cotton or silk cover. Most people in Afghanistan don’t have furniture, but their rooms have many Toshaks that they sit or sleep on. Some decorate their Toshaks with colorful fabrics. Like many styles of furniture, Toshaks have a great variety. In cities such as Kabul, people have Western furniture. Today, most homes have couches, love seats, and dining tables, but Toshaks are still a major part of the Afghan culture.
