The Reunion

Kanadahar, Afghanistan

Thursday was busy.  In addition to the visit by the Secretary of the Navy, three rocket attacks, and steady stream of trauma patients, we received a special visitor.  Jane's father had finally arrived.

He was escorted into the ICU by a small cadre of Army soldiers in their field cammies.  One carried a large SLR camera.  Apparently their unit was as anxious to record this reunion as we were.

Oddly, little Jane didn't jump up and down and yell "Daddy" in Pashto.  She seemed confused.  Dad was speechless, but began wiping tears on the tail of his flowing turban.  For a moment I wondered if we had found the "wrong" father or that he was acting real well, based on the reaction of little Jane.  This is not out of the realm of possibility as we have had alleged "fathers" here for days visiting patients' bedsides, and later it was determined that they were actually uncles or other relatives.  But it became clear soon enough that this was her father, as she opened up and began speaking to him, telling him of her crazy, crazy new life at the ROLE-3.

Jane with her father and Joe, her orthopedic surgeon

Later when we discussed the unusual first moments of their reunion we came to the conclusion that there were some cultural issues at hand at which we could only speculate.  Maybe seeing her father crying stunned her.  Maybe father usually interacted only with her five male siblings, leaving the other four girls to be attended to by her mother.  Who could say?

In addition to learning about the composition of her family, we learned that no-one in her family had been killed - fortunately.  She had been out playing with her friends and siblings when a rocket hit her village compound.  Dad had heard that although Jane's arm was hurt, it was intact: he was a bit stunned to see her tiny left arm stump.  Who wouldn't be?

Jane showed dad all her toy she had amassed during her week with us.  He told her to pick out some for her siblings - smart, as I would have done the same thing.  As radically different as our cultures are, I supposed there are some universal thoughts about parenting.  He asked that she put on a special red dress for the trip home.  She put on her tiara and was led by her remaining hand down the hallway by one of the nurses, to the awaiting van.  I could barely suppress a tear as the sliding door of the van shut.  The dirty white van carried our princess to the plane which would take her back to her mud hut, her siblings, and her mother.  Now that is a reunion I would pay to see.