When you see the kids ...

A call from Belinda this evening...

A soldier died yesterday. "I am okay!" she tells me quickly. He was not from her post... but in the small military family, that does not matter. Our hearts and thoughts go out to the family.

A central theme in almost every call that Belinda makes home is the plight of the children there. This particular call today, she had a heavy heart...day in, day out - she sees these children suffering and the harsh life that war has brought to them. Her ,own living conditions are straight out of the show "Survivor" - but worse...but her worst day would be one of these children's best she has said, having witnessed just how hard their life is and how little they have.

One of the things she noted is the rampant infection to be seen on their hands. The hands of every child she sees are swollen and red, cracked, their nails usually a vivid orange, bleeding, sores. Possibly a water-born contaminant she has said, since just casual contact with the water there once gave her a rash that is still ongoing and hopefully will be diagnosed, the medics are looking into it.

She routinely sees children as young as 3 toiling in the fields alongside their older siblings and parent(s). If you are old enough to hold a shovel or pump a well, you are old enough to help the household. Their hours are long, often well into the night. It is not uncommon for her to see them out working from before sunrise ubntil well past sunset, often a 16 hour day.

But the moments they can let loose and be 'kids' are a joy to her. You could hear the smile in her voice relating a story of tossing a Frisbee from the watch tower, the kids laughing and chasing it, tossing it back to her for her to throw it again.
She told me of a little boy, maybe about 4... trying to run in shoes far too big for his thin, little pigeon-toed feet...yet he had shoes, far more than what the other local children had who ran about barefoot. She said he was the classic little tag-a-long kid, trying to keep up to the rest of the pack. He struggled along yet couldn't catch the Frisbee, couldn't keep up to the other kids, so he started to cry...
Belinda kept tossing that Frisbee till he finally caught it, and after that he was all smiles. He always smiles at her now, waves and gives her a joyous thumbs up now, he is so pleased with himself and his new friend... she is learning a few basic Afghan phrases to engage him in some conversation now.

She also spoke of a shy little girl who would stare, and sometimes cry, and keep her wary distance, till upon getting a little closer, she realized that this 'soldier' was also a girl... and now watches her every move and studies Belinda with a shy smile. No words spoken yet, but Belinda is confident that with time that will change.

Belinda ponders aloud that if it is so hard for them, the soldiers themselves to live like this in the relative short term of less then a year...how is it that the locals and children manage every single day, with so little hope in sight?
The homes she has seen are the epitome of poverty. No door, or a blanket for a door, a blanket for sleeping, she has only ever rarely seen a piece of furniture, most sit on dried blocks of mud. The holes and damage to the interior walls reflect the stark evidence of war...

Children of 3 toiling the fields, young children cooking, cleaning and hand-laundering clothes, hauling water... a child of 11 is more like 16 or 17 she said, they age so fast. Their mortality in this lifestyle is so reduced that a man or woman of 40 is regarded as old.

The only bright spot in most of her days is when she has a little something to give to the children...a small treat of some sort , sometimes a small toy. One little boy of seven struck a cord with her ... he arrived with other children but rather than act like a child of 7, spoke like an adult, looking her in the eye, a strong handshake from such a small hand. She offered him a little toy but he asked for a pen and paper instead. Not having one to give, she again offered the small toy. He accepted the toy graciously, and then he went straight out into the feild and gave it to one of the younger children.

Conditions for the soldiers in these small posts are only a small step up from the locals. To use the bathroom 'bucket' is a 20 minute ordeal of prep and disposal. No soldier at this post has had a shower since they left Canada - and due to the chronic shortage of water...baby wipes have been their only method of trying to get clean ( and those are running out! We have a parcel full of baby wipes ready for tomorrow's mail...) The mattresses promised have yet to arrive, and sand is everywhere, in everything... you adjust to life always having the abrasive grit of sand. She ponders how much of her tan is a tan- and how much of it would wash off if she had access to water...Life in a post of this kind is tense, hot and dirty...it is amazing their morale is as high as it is.

She is thankful for the life she has in Canada, but angry that children have to endure so much. She is sad that life is so unfair, that by virtue of where you were born, you can have so much - and so little.

But for all she sees and feels, the duty she serves, the conditions she must bear to perform that duty, you can hear the light and smile in her voice when she speaks of seeing the kids.

Till next time,
Julie