Prosthetics Give Afghan Amputees Hope for Future
KABUL, Afghanistan, 2 jan 02 (USA Today)

By Walter Shapiro

The long and narrow blue rectangle painted on the floor the International Red Cross' orthopedic center is roughly the size of a fashion-show runway. But watching the procession of grimly determined Afghan men and boys walking the carefully delineated circuit is an infinitely more uplifting sight than gawking at the practiced struts of jaded supermodels.

Here comes Nasser Ahmad, once a soldier in the Northern Alliance army of Ahmed Shah Massoud. Ahmad's left leg was amputated a year ago because of a Taliban-inflicted shrapnel wound. Walking with a deliberate stride and only leaning slightly on the metal cane he carries in his right hand, Ahmad is in his second day of practicing on his new plastic artificial limb. As Ahmad, 33, proudly explains in the Dari language, "I was once a farmer. And now with my prosthesis and a crutch, I can go back to being a farmer."

Then there is Raheem Maullah, 18, a carpet weaver who lost a leg from a mine explosion in 1993 during the merciless Afghan civil war that reduced much of Kabul to rubble. First fitted with an artificial leg in 1998, Maullah is back at the Red Cross center breaking in a replacement limb. He is joined in the jaunty amble along the blue lines by his younger brother, Abdul Alim, who also lost a leg from the same mine. As a fast-maturing 14-year-old, Abdul has already outgrown four prostheses.

Presiding over the procession is physical therapist Sahat Musa, who lost his own right leg from a mine in 1987 as a government soldier in the war against the mujahedin. "All of Afghanistan is in this situation," Musa says in halting English. "This war was a really bad war. Eighty percent of the amputees we treat are from mines."

Nothing shocks a first-time visitor to Kabul as much as the heart-rending devastation from 22 years of almost continuous war. This sad history began with the struggle of the American-backed mujahedin against the Soviet occupation, continued through the 1993-94 civil war as rival generals battled for control of

Kabul and then climaxed with the rise and fall of the Taliban. For Afghans in their 20s, whose childhoods were punctuated by the sound of artillery shells and truck-launched rockets, the only respite from this cycle of violence came during the early 1990s when the communist government of Najibullah hung on for three years after the withdrawal of Soviet troops.

The Red Cross began its orthopedic project in Kabul during the Soviet occupation in 1985. Now it also runs centers in five other major Afghan cities. The prosthetic limbs supplied by the Red Cross have mobilized more than 25,000 amputees, many of whom presumably would be begging in the streets. In this impoverished capital with intermittent electricity and virtually no telephone service, a city where baking bread is considered heavy industry, the Red Cross has managed to create a large and orderly workshop in which disabled Afghans handcraft artificial limbs, crutches and wheelchairs.

"In America, they make prostheses from expensive materials like titanium," says Alberto Cairo, the Italian Red Cross official who directs the Afghanistan -wide orthopedic project. "Our level here is good quality, but basic. But still, it would be acceptable even in Europe." The plastic artificial limbs, which the Red Cross distributes and fits without charge, cost about $ 100 to make in Kabul compared with a typical cost of $ 1,200 in Europe.

There is no more evocative symbol of the remorseless reign of the Taliban than punitive amputations meted out under their crude interpretation of Koranic law. Because it has been widely reported that the Kabul soccer stadium was used for these grisly acts of vengeance, it is easy to assume that these punishments were commonplace, but this appears to be one of those emotionally potent myths that flourish in wartime.

"There were probably no more than 100-150 amputations in all of Afghanistan," says Cairo, whose center is notified by Afghan hospitals whenever a patient needs an artificial limb. "Many more Afghans were lashed and beaten. And even one amputation was too many. But we have enough disabled people in Afghanistan without having to artificially create more."

There is an exuberant quality to Cairo that is infectious. Standing outside the center at the end of the workday, Cairo says, "It is important that people see this not as a place of sorrow but as a place of hope. Look at this young man." Cairo gestures toward Mohammad Jawad Joya, a smiling 16-year-old in a wheelchair who is crippled from polio. "Yes, it would be better if he could run and walk, but he has a future."

That may be an understatement. Joya, who could not write his name four years ago, now speaks fluent English, has nearly completed high school and virtually runs the center's computer operations. Asked about his studies, Joya quickly volunteers, "I have not been only studying school subjects, but I also have been learning philosophy and logic." Currently torn between becoming a philosopher or a poet, Joya eagerly solicits advice on attending college in the USA.

It is always dangerous to extrapolate from exceptional individuals like Joya. Yet his boyish enthusiasm for learning serves as a reminder of the hidden potential that lies submerged among the illiterate, even in war-ravaged Afghanistan. "I'm an optimist, not just about Afghanistan, but about the whole world's processes," Joya proclaims. For a brief moment, just outside the room where Afghan amputees again learn to walk, it is tempting -- so very tempting -- to share in Joya's innocent faith in the perfectibility of mankind.