‘We have something sad to tell you,’ Fatima said, the various discussions between the women falling into silence. ‘Unfortunately, Dr Sofia will not be returning to us after today. It has become far too dangerous for her to travel here from Kabul.’ A ripple of disquiet ran through the room.
Sofia had not discussed with Fatima how they were to tell the women but she couldn’t help thinking it might have been better if it had come from her.
She saw the disappointment in their eyes as the reality of what this would mean for each of them settled in. These women were stoic and resilient because they were used to disappointments, Sofia thought. It was part of their strength, but sometimes Sofia agreed with Iman and wished they would rise up and smash the walls down.
34
JUST AS SOFIA was about to talk about her decision and what it would mean for the women, Clementine was ushered into the room by one of Fatima’s staff and the women’s attention was lost to the exotic beauty in dungarees and boots. Rising from her position on the floor, Sofia introduced Clementine to Fatima before turning to the women. ‘Dr Clementine is interested in hearing about your training,’ she said, ‘but it’s probably best if she explains why she’s here.’ As she sat back down on the floor again, Sofia made room for Clementine between her and Fatima.
Crossing her legs and lowering herself to the ground in one fluid movement, Clementine greeted the women before resting her hand on her heart and beginning a little speech in Pashto. She talked about how privileged she felt to be there and to be able to meet the extraordinary woman trained by Dr Sofia, and how she hoped the MSF staff at the clinic in Kandahar might be able to continue their training.
‘The clinic,’ she explained, being careful to look around the room to include all the women in her comments, ‘is about to expand its services for pregnant women and newborn babies and it will be needing help.’
While the women turned to each other to discuss this news, Clementine waited until the room fell silent and she had their attention again. ‘I know you must be disappointed that Dr Sofia won’t be able to finish your training, but with Fatima’s help, and your permission, our MSF staff would like to finish that process. We would also be able to supply you with all the necessary medicines and support you need during that process.’
Again the women talked among themselves and Clementine waited for their attention to return. ‘If each of you could tell me what village you come from, the names of the villages closest to you and what you see as your village’s most pressing neonatal needs, I’d be grateful.’ As she waited for the women to speak, Clementine rummaged around in her tote bag to pull out a well-worn notepad and pen before turning her phone on to record and setting it down in front of her. The women, who had watched her with interest, remained silent. Sofia was wondering how she could simplify the question when Clementine spoke again. ‘Do any of your villages have a doctor?’ she asked.
‘There are no doctors in our villages,’ Afsana said, a baby in her lap and a toddler asleep at her feet. At eighteen years old, Afsana was the youngest and, like most of the rural population, was illiterate. Sofia considered her the most forthright of the women. As Afsana spoke she waved her hand in the air dismissively. ‘There’s no money for them. We have private clinics in Afghanistan, but they’re run by doctors who don’t care.’
When Afsana saw Clementine beginning to take notes she stopped. ‘It’s okay,’ Clementine said, looking up to see why Afsana had grown silent. ‘I’m just doing this so I can remember things.’
‘You are a writer of books?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m a doctor who’s a little bit slow,’ Clementine said, giving Afsana her most winning smile, ‘and if I don’t write down all the important things you tell me then I’ll forget them. These notes are just a reminder for me. No one else will ever see them.’
Afsana looked at Sofia and Fatima. They both nodded.
‘Okay,’ she said, still sounding a little worried that if she said bad things, which she was intending to do, this magic of recording her words might bring trouble to her door. ‘These clinics are not always open, and the doctors want too much money, and we can never afford the medicines they want to give us, but at your clinic I’m thinking the drugs are free and the doctors are free. And,’ she said, wanting to make a point, ‘the doctors care about us, I think. The doctors in these other clinics do not care about us, they only care about our money.’ Afsana pointed at Clementine’s notebook. ‘You can write this down, please.’
‘I would like to know what you do at your clinic,’ asked Sadaf. At thirty-two years old, she was the senior member of the group and probably the most curious. Married at fifteen to her young cousin, Mohammed, Sadaf had been unable to bear him a child. Three years ago he had taken a second wife, who had also proven to be barren. From initially feeling inadequate, Sadaf had guessed where the problem lay and had moved from hating her younger rival to feeling compassion for the girl who was also about to be replaced. Sadaf considered her husband a fool. A third barren wife would see his whispered failures become a roar in the village. She had told Sofia that when she understood that her home would never
