Interval

When I returned to Boston, I had difficulty adjusting to my full-time job. It wasn’t likely that I’d be granted another leave of absence anytime soon, yet I longed for the work I’d left behind—for the stark honesty and reality of refugees. I realized that when I was working with them, freed from the stresses of daily life—lines at the bank, rush-hour traffic, an endless list of overdue chores—I was able to be my best self, to be the person I was meant to be. I don’t mean for that to sound self-serving. I think it’s true for all in-the-field aid workers. It’s what draws us back again and again—a healthy addiction to doing something that feels more important than the next bubble bath or glass of wine. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t crave those. I did. I just craved the work a little more.

I finally gave my notice at the law firm and returned to the hospital to work in the ER and clinics on a per diem basis, which meant that I could come and go as I pleased. I wouldn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to work with refugees again.

Afghanistan was still on my radar. I came home from Africa to find a full envelope of Irish ancestral documents waiting for me. I quickly gathered the other paperwork required, and in late July, I headed to the Irish consulate in Boston to apply for an Irish passport. I followed up with a phone call in early September and was assured that my passport would be mailed shortly. Elated, I called Bendu, the MSF recruiter in New York who’d first made the suggestion about a foreign passport. “I’ll have my Irish passport soon,” I told her. “Can I go to Afghanistan now?”

She paused, and I heard the rustling of papers and the tap of computer keys in the background. “I’ll let you know,” she said and hung up abruptly.

My heart sank. All that work. For nothing.

But on September 10, Bendu called and asked if I’d be willing to go to northern Afghanistan to work on a mobile clinic. “The assignment is for six months,” she said. I hesitated. It would be my longest trip yet, and it wouldn’t just stretch my savings, it would demolish them. Still, this was exactly the mission I’d been waiting for, and I said I’d go.

“Alright, then,” she said cheerily. “We’ll speak later this week.”

The following morning, on September 11, 2001, the world changed forever as the Twin Towers and Pentagon were viciously attacked, killing not just innocent, helpless people but, as a villainous aside, American innocence and trust as well. I watched in horror that morning as the Twin Towers fell, my heart breaking at the sight. I was glued to my television, and like thousands of others, I called the volunteer number that flashed across my television screen. I wanted to help. I’d know what to do, and though I called several times, no one ever returned my call.

When the newscaster announced days later that all international aid workers were being evacuated from Afghanistan, I tried to call MSF, but all lines were busy. When I finally reached Bendu weeks later, she confirmed that MSF was, at least for a while, out of Afghanistan. Once the coalition’s bombing campaign began there in early October, any aid work there began to seem an unlikely prospect. I was heartbroken. As the world’s attention focused on that destitute corner of the world, the devastating truth of the Taliban’s rule began to emerge; torture, murder, and unspeakable crimes against these people. It was worse than any of us had imagined.

When IRC asked if I’d go to Macedonia—the site of civil war, destruction, and population displacement earlier in the year—to coordinate their health programs, I accepted. It would be only a short assignment—two months at the most, and if things changed in Afghanistan, I’d be ready to go.