Waiting
I returned home in midwinter, when the sky was somehow grayer, the traffic heavier, the roads slick with ice, the familiar miasma of winter’s melancholy in the air. I watched the news with renewed interest, read everything I could about Afghanistan, and waited for the call that would surely come soon.
As the smoke of war in Afghanistan began to clear and aid workers filtered back to Afghanistan, the destruction wrought by the Taliban became increasingly clear. By early 2002, the people there had endured over three decades of war and torture. I learned that the infrastructure, especially the health system, had been unable to meet the needs of the population. It was estimated that one out of every five children born would not live to reach the age of five.1 For women, the reality was equally dire, and it was estimated that one of every six women would die in childbirth or of pregnancy-related complications.2 The conditions seemed as dire as they had in 1986.
I was desperate to help, and finally in April 2002, MSF called and asked me to join a mission in central Afghanistan. In early May, I left, an industrial-strength lipstick and Irish passport tucked into my bag. My first stop was New York to speak with the recruiter there, to sign a six-month contract and papers saying that neither I nor my heirs would sue MSF should I fall victim to murder, rape, kidnapping, robbery, dismemberment, disfigurement, or a host of other calamities.
I flew from New York to Dublin through London to get authentic visas and stamps in my Irish passport. As I raced through Heathrow Airport to make my Dublin connection, I stashed my American passport deep in my bag and fumbled to fish out my Irish one. By the time I made it to Dublin, my heart was racing and my cheeks were flushed, and although my Irish passport was legitimate, I was sure I would be stopped and questioned. I was speechless with relief when the authorities simply waved me through.
Once in Dublin, I met up with a friend who’d worked with UNICEF in the Balkans. With a long-ashed cigarette dangling from his lips, Seamus helped me get the necessary passport stamps and paperwork. I purchased a few small products—gum, candy, a notebook, all marked with Dublin price stickers—that I could carry to quietly prove my Irish background. I already possessed a convincing and authentic Irish brogue, perfected in childhood to imitate my immigrant Irish grandmother. I was ready.
After two days in Dublin, I flew on to Paris for a day of briefings. Although MSF New York was aware that I’m American, they had advised me to keep that information to myself. Even MSF Paris believed that I was Irish. When I arrived at the Paris office, an Australian man and I were ushered into the office of the Afghanistan specialist for briefings. The Frenchman in charge of the Afghanistan desk looked up from his work and said, “No Americans, right?” We shook our heads, and the desk officer said, “Good. Too dangerous.”
I felt a momentary shiver run along my spine, but I shook it off. I was going. No matter what. And as long as everyone believed that I was Irish, things would be fine.