MANILA: On Oct 3, 2015, a trauma hospital in Kunduz, Afghanistan, run by international medical organisation Doctors Without Borders or Medicins Sans Frontieres (MSF) was destroyed by precise and repeated US air strikes. The attack killed 42 people, including 14 MSF staff members, 24 patients and four caretakers, and wounded dozens more.
The hospital had been providing free, high-quality surgical care to victims of general trauma, such as traffic accidents, as well as patients with conflict-related injuries. It was the only facility of its kind in the whole north-eastern region of Afghanistan and offered services to the residents of Kunduz province as well as to people from neighbouring provinces. The facility was a fully functioning hospital at the time of the attack and was therefore, protected under International Humanitarian Law.
The attack has had devastating consequences for the victims, their families, MSF teams and the entire community of Kunduz. Several months later, the hospital remains closed until further notice, leaving thousands of people without vital medical services.
MSF has not yet made a decision about re-opening the trauma hospital in Kunduz. We first need to obtain clear reassurances from all parties to the conflict that our staff, patients and medical facilities will be safe from attack. We require assurances that we can work according to our core principles and to international humanitarian law: namely, that we can safely treat all people in need, no matter who they are, or for which side they may fight. Our ability to operate hospitals on the frontline in Afghanistan and in conflict zones everywhere depends on the reaffirmation of these fundamental principles.
This is my story of surviving that horrific night.
It happened again last night.
We were like two headless chickens running in total darkness – me and the surgeon who assisted me in an operation. The nurses who were with us a moment ago had run outside the building, braving the volley of gun shots coming from above. I was coughing, half-choked by dust swirling around the area. Behind my surgical mask, my mouth was gritty as if somebody had gone forced me to eat sand. I could hear my breath rasping in and out. Layers of smoke coming from a nearby room made it hard to see where we are.
Fire licked at the roof at one end of the building, dancing and sparkling in the dark, reaching towards the branches of the trees nearby. The ICU was burning. Outside, only the constant humming from above pointed to the presence of something. An aircraft? Air strike? Why the hospital? Why us? Then, without warning, another tremendous, ear splitting blast shook the building. The ceiling came crashing down on us and the last remaining lights were turned off, sending us to total darkness. I screamed in terror as wires pinned me to the ground. That was the last thing I could remember.
I woke up sobbing and disoriented. It had been months since I had gone home from Afghanistan and, except for a fading scar on my right knee, that awful incident at the Kunduz Trauma Centre was almost forgotten, suppressed to memory. Debriefings, consults with psychiatrists, meditation techniques, pages upon pages of journal entries to unload myself of the horror of that night ... all of these were swept aside when memories came rushing in a nightmare triggered by a firework.