samedi 28 juillet 2007

Patching wounds, altruistically

As I was getting my daily movie fix (my only real addiction, the booze-related one slowly taken away by the hot wind), I had the greatest epiphany since I realized I had forgotten my passport in Montreal.

"You haven't blogged in five days!", I told myself while renting a pirated copy of some Afghan flick starring a non-burka-wearing local star. (And Praise the Lord she's not wearing one, as it would be a sin not to expose such a feast to one's eyes).

Today, two women took their burka for a walk from the Panjwayi district to Camp Nathan Smith, of which my platoon was given custody. Under the seemingly heavy blue-coloured burden they were (most likely forcibly) wearing, one could guess their frail constitution, weakened by several kilometers walking under the gradually hotter sun.

"We're here to see someone," they tell me as I get them some shade and water.

-Who?

-Someone. Anyone. Our husbands have been killed by a British convoy, and we seek restitution. Financial restitution.

As unsurprised as I was that some Brits had randomly killed random people for being randomly suspect, I also felt slightly helpless, as I knew about their case, which had been discussed the night before. Their demands are being processed as of now by the powers-that-be, and anyone having grown up in a social-democratic country could only relate to being dragged through a humongous administrative apparel, most likely to few avail.

As I called the proper instances (who would later dismiss them with the same feeling I had), one Abdul Ghani, wounded by yet another British convoy, came by to get his bandages changed, thanks to a deal that was passed between him, a local Kandahar resident, and the PRT's medical station.

This was the exact moment I realized that some were right about one aspect of this Canadian mission : We actually are pactching wounds left by others. Altruistically.