‘Is there a problem?’
You betcha there’s a problem, Sofia thought. ‘There might be.’ Sofia went to move her laptop again before returning her hands to her lap. ‘It’s important to keep my work with the village women under the radar, especially in a place like Kandahar, where I’ve been working lately. If the Taliban found out a Western woman was training them it could be really dangerous. So yes, there’s a problem.’
‘And danger for you.’
She shrugged. ‘Danger for everyone. I need to know who told you.’
‘A friend who works with MSF. I’m afraid I can’t tell you how she knew.’
Sofia sat back, considering this. Only the previous week she’d accepted what she’d known for a while: she had to stop the midwifery training with her Kandahar group. With the upsurge in Taliban control in the region it had become particularly dangerous for her to travel there, and while she could choose to put her own life in danger, she had no right to put Tawfiq and Rashid’s lives in danger. She realised now that she should never have taken on the group in the first place but she hated to say no to requests where there was a great need, and Fatima, the woman from Kandahar who coordinated the group, had convinced her of the need. Sofia was planning to return one last time to tell them of her decision, and to deliver boxes of medical supplies she had collected for the group, which was beginning to feel like a Judas kiss: an apology for her betrayal. Jabril and Zahra had been adamant that she didn’t need to return in person to tell them but she did. The women had shown such dedication and had sacrificed so much to learn from her that they deserved at least a personal apology and an explanation.
‘It probably doesn’t matter anymore because my work with the women in Kandahar is about to end. Actually, I’m going there on Friday for the last time to tell them I won’t be finishing their training.’
Daniel sat up in his chair looking genuinely concerned. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘The Taliban.’ Sofia shrugged as if the words were self-explanatory. ‘It’s become too dangerous for us to travel there again, plus the danger is increasing for the women every time they meet with me. I’m still not entirely sure what you want from me.’
‘I’d like to hear what the day-to-day concerns are for the women who visit your surgery and if the UN could address any of those issues for Afghan women. With regard to the midwives,’ he said, ‘I understand it’s probably impossible for me to talk with the women, but would it be possible to talk with the woman who coordinated this group? And, of course, anything you can tell me about what you do in the slums would be great. On top of that, I’d be interested in an overview of what you think needs to be done in Afghanistan.’
Sofia bristled. She hated that question and was surprised he’d even asked. He should have known better. She might be living in Afghanistan but she would always remain an outsider, and as much as it wasn’t her place to say how the people should live, it also wasn’t her place to say how the problems of Afghanistan should be solved, even if she knew, and she didn’t.
‘What I see here are essentially the same problems that are found in any society that doesn’t support its most vulnerable: the lack of a functioning healthcare system, the suppression of over half its population, extraordinary levels of domestic violence and a country that constantly seems to be at war with itself.’
‘You paint a grim picture,’ he said, while nodding in recognition.
‘And what would you want me to paint for you, Daniel?’
He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything else from you, Sofia Raso.’
She had no idea what that meant. ‘But you know all this, surely?’
‘I haven’t worked with women like you have and I don’t work on the ground here. You’d really be an invaluable resource.’
It was Sofia’s turn to laugh, releasing the tension in her body. ‘Well, there’s a first. I’ve never been called that before.’
‘Perhaps I could have worded it a little bit better,’ he said, a little embarrassed.
‘Oh, please don’t. I quite fancy being an invaluable resource.’
Sofia glanced at the clock on the wall behind Daniel. ‘This is what I can do for you. I’m going to Jamal Mina tomorrow, and if you’re free you’re welcome to come. I can introduce you to my friend Taban who works there. She trained as a nurse and runs a clinic in the slums and will be able to answer all your questions. I’ll also introduce you to my boss, Dr Jabril. Those two can tell you all you need to know about the medical needs of Afghans. With regard to my private patients, I’m happy to talk with you in general terms about women’s issues but that’s as far as it can go.’
‘Your contact with the midwives?’
Sofia considered this. ‘I’ll talk with Fatima; she’s the woman who runs the group. If she’s willing to speak with you and you’re able to come with me on Friday then we might be able to arrange something. Alternatively, you could simply talk with her on the phone.’
‘In person would be better if that’s possible.’
‘Would you be able to come on Friday and back late Saturday night? It’s a quick trip. ’
‘I could.’
Sofia sat back and smiled at Daniel. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Ditto.’
She checked the time on the clock again. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got a patient coming soon.’ The lie had slipped out so easily it surprised her. ‘Let me walk you out.’
14
IQBAL HAD FINISHED setting up his little workshop in his usual spot next to the entry to Sofia’s surgery. A pile of broken shoes were stacked neatly beside him while the tools of his trade – a bottle of glue, a miniature hammer, an old paintbrush with half its bristles missing, a bundle of rags, and a small tin with the lid cut off to hold his tacks – were spread out at his feet. With his walking stick stowed safely behind him, Iqbal was ready for his first customer.
Having been taught the cobbling trade by his father when he was six years old, Iqbal would reminisce with Sofia about the golden days when rich Afghans had ordered beautiful shoes in soft new leather from the family shop in central Kabul. While those days were long gone and rich Afghans didn’t find their way into Shaahir Square seeking the services of an old cobbler with failing eyesight, Iqbal still loved his trade. For the most part he charged a few afghanis to tack on a sole or stitch a loose flap on a neighbour’s shoe to help it last through another winter, but if there was no money he would perform the service for free and, in return, he might be given a warm meal or a special sweet.
Although Iqbal’s face had grown as dark and brittle as the old leather he worked on, whenever he saw Dr Sofia it crinkled into tiny creases of love. As Sofia and Daniel stepped out into the square, Iqbal looked up at them, lifting his hand to shade his eyes from the sun.
‘And who is this beautiful stranger you’ve brought my way today, Dr Sofia?’
Sofia looked over at Daniel and saw the smile. He had understood every word Iqbal had said. ‘This is Dr Daniel, a very important man from the United Nations who has come here to help Afghans.’