Scraps of Men Do Not Exist: Alberto Cairo at TEDxRC2

Alberto Cairo is the head of the ICRC's orthopaedic program in Afghanistan. At TEDxRC², he shares with us his wish for overcoming the social and physical barriers the disabled face in war-torn communities across the globe.

Good evening everybody.

It's true. I have been
in Afghanistan for 21 years.

I work for the Red Cross,

and I'm a physiotherapist.

My job is to make arms and legs.

Well, it's not completely true.

We do more than that.

We provide the patients,
the Afghan disabled,

first with physical rehabilitation,

then with social reintegration.

It's a very logical plan,

but it was not always like this.

For many years,
we were just providing them

with artificial limbs.

It took quite many years

for the program to become what it is now.

Today, I would like to tell you a story,

the story of a big change,

and the story of the people
who made this change possible.

I arrived in Afghanistan in 1990,

to work in a hospital for war victims,

And then, not only for war victims;

it was for any kind of patients.

At that time, I found myself
in a strange situation.

I felt not quite ready for that job.

There was so much to learn.

There were so many things new to me,

but it was a terrific job.

I was also working
in the orthopaedic center,

We call it like this. It's the place
where we make the legs.

And, I said, it was fantastic

but there was something strange.

As soon as the fight intensified,

the physical rehabilitation was suspended.

There were many other things to do,

so the orthopaedic center was closed,

because physical rehabilitation
was not considered a priority.

It was a strange sensation.

Anyway, I was working --

sorry I'm a bit confused. (Sigh)

You know, every time
I make this speech, --

this is not the first time --
it's an emotion,

it's something that comes out
from the past.

It's been 21 years,
but it's still all there.

Anyway. In 1992 the Mujahideen
took all Afghanistan,

and the orthopaedic center was closed.

I was assigned to work for the homeless,

for the internally displaced people.

The orthopaedic center was closed,

and... (Sigh)
It was a very strange sensation.

But one day, something happened.

I was coming back from
a big food distribution in a mosque,

where tens and tens
of people were squatting

in terrible conditions.

I wanted to go home, I was driving,

and, you know, when you want to forget,

you don't want to see things.

You just want to go to your room

to lock yourself inside,
and say, "That's enough."

A bomb fell, not far from my car --

well, far enough,
but [making a] big noise.

And everybody disappeared from the street.

The cars disappeared as well.

I docked, and only one figure remained

in the middle of the road.

It was a man on a wheelchair,

desperately trying to move away.

Well, I'm not a particularly brave person,

I have to confess it,

but I could not just ignore him.

So, I stopped the car,

and I went to help.

The man was without legs,
and only with one arm.

Behind him, there was a child, his son.

His face was red because of his effort
to push the father.

So, I took him into a safe place,

and I asked, "What are you doing
out in the street,

in this situation?"

"I work", he said.
I wondered, "What work?"

And then I asked
an even more stupid question,

"Why don't you have a prosthesis?"

Why don't you have the artificial legs?

And he said, "The Red Cross is closed".

Well, without thinking,

I told him, "Come tomorrow.

We will provide you with a pair of legs."

The man -- his name was Mahmoud

and the child's name was Rafi -- left.

Then I said,
"Oh my god! What did I say?"

The center is closed, no staff around,

maybe the machinery's broken.

Who is going to make the legs for him?"

So I hoped that he would not come.

These are the streets of Kabul,
in those days.

But, so I said,
"I will give him some money."

So, the following day,

I went to the orthopaedic center

and I spoke with the gate keeper.

I was ready to tell him,

"Listen, if someone, such and such,
comes tomorrow,

please tell him that there was a mistake.

Nothing can be done.
Give him some money and..."

But Mahmoud and his son
were already there,

and they were not alone.

There were 15,

maybe 20 people like him,
waiting. (Laughter)

And there was some staff too.

Among them, there was
my right-hand man, Najmuddin.

And the gate keeper told me,

"They come every day,
to see if the center would open."

I said, "No, we have to go away,
we cannot stay here!"

They were bombing, not very close,

but you could hear
the noise of the bombs.

So, "We cannot stay here,
it's dangerous.

It's not a priority."

But, Najmuddin told me,
"Listen, now we're here,

at least we can start repairing

the broken prosthesis of the people

and maybe try to do something
for people like Mahmoud."

I said, "No, please, we cannot do that,

it's really dangerous,
we have other things to do."

But they insisted.

When you have 20 people

in front of you, looking at you,

and you are the one who has to decide...

So, we started doing some repairs.

Also, one of the physiotherapists reported

that Mahmoud could be provided with legs,

but not immediately.

[His] legs were swollen,
and [his] knees were stiff,

so he needed a long preparation.

Believe me: I was worried,

because I was breaking the rules.

I was doing something
that I was not supposed to do!

In the evening, I went to speak

with the bosses at the headquarters

and I told them -- I lied --

I told them, "Listen,
we are going to start,

a couple of hours per day,
just a few repairs..."

Maybe some of them [are] here now.

(Laughter)

So, we started. I was working.

I was going every day to work
for the homeless,

and Najmuddin was staying there,

doing everything
and reporting on the patients.

he was telling me, "Patients are coming".

We knew that many more patients
could not come

[because of the fighting],
but people were coming,

and Mahmoud was coming everyday.

And slowly, slowly, week after week,

his legs were improving,

the stumps were cast,

[his] prosthesis was made,

and he was starting
a real physical rehabilitation.

He was coming every day,
crossing the front line.

A couple of times,
I crossed the front line

in the very place where Mahmoud
and his son were crossing.

I tell you! It was something so sinister

that I was astonished
they could do it every day.

But finally, the great day arrived:

the day when Mahmoud was going to be
discharged with his new legs.

It was April, I remember,
a very beautiful day.

Kabul. April in Kabul is beautiful,

full of roses, full of flowers.

We could not possibly stay indoors,

with all these sandbags in the windows.

[It was] very sad, dark.

So, we chose a small spot in the garden,

and Mahmoud put on his prosthesis,

the other patients did the same,

and they started practicing
for the last time,

before being discharged.

And suddenly, they started fighting.

Two groups of Mujahiddeen
started fighting.

We could hear
the bullets passing in the air.

So we dashed, all of us,
towards the shelter.

Mahmoud grabbed his son,
I grabbed someone else.

Everybody was grabbing something.

We ran. You know,
50 meters can be a long distance,

if you are totally exposed,

but we managed to reach the shelter.

(Sigh of relief) Inside,
all of us [were] panting,

we stopped a moment,
and I heard Rafi, telling his father,

"Father, you can run, faster than me!"
(Laughter)

And Mahmoud, "Of course I can!

I can run, and now, you can go to school.

No need of staying with me
all the day,

pushing my wheelchair".

Later on, we took them home,

and I will never forget

Mahmoud and his son, walking together,

pushing the empty wheelchair.

And then I understood.

Physical rehabilitation is a priority.

Dignity cannot wait for better times.

Well, from that day on,
we've never closed a single day.

Well, sometimes
we suspended it for a few hours,

but we've never closed again.

I met Mahmoud one year later.

He was in good shape.

A bit thinner.

He needed to change his prosthesis,

a new pair of prosthesis.

I asked about his son, he told me,

"He's at school, he's doing quite well."

But I understood he wanted
to tell me something.

So, I asked him, "What is [it]?"

He was sweating,
he was clearly embarrassed

and he was standing
in front of me, his head down.

He said, "You have taught me to walk.

Thank you very much.

Now, help me not to be
a beggar anymore."

That was the job.

"My children are growing. I feel ashamed.

I don't want them to be teased at school,

by the other students".

I thought, "How much money
do I have in my pocket?

Just give him some money?
It's the easiest way."

He read my mind,

and he said, "I ask for a job."

And then he added something

I will never forget
for the rest of my life.

He said, "I am a scrap of a man,
but if you help me,

I'm ready to do anything,

even if I have to crawl on the ground".

And then he sat down, I sat down too,

with goose bumps everywhere.

Legless, with only one arm,
illiterate, unskilled.

What job [could I offer] him?

Najmuddin told me,
"Well, we have a vacancy

in the carpentry shop. We can..."

"What?", I said. "Stop..."

[Najmuddin]: "Well, yes, we need
to increase the production of feet.

We need to employ someone

to glue and screw the sole of the feet.

We need to increase the production."

"Excuse me?" -- I could not believe!

And then he said,
"No, we can modify the workbench,

maybe to put a special stool,
a special anvil,

a special device,
and maybe an electrical screwdriver."

I said, "It's insane!

And it's even cruel
to think of anything like this!

That's a production line,
and a very fast one.

It's cruel to offer him a job,

knowing that he's going to fail."

But with Najmuddin,
we cannot discuss, so...

(Laughter)

The only thing I could manage to obtain

was a kind of compromise,

"Only one week, one week trial,

not a single day more."

One week later, Mahmoud was the fastest

in the production line.

I told Nahjmuddin, "That's a trick!"

(Laughter)

"I can't believe it!"
The production was 20% up!

"It's a trick, it's a trick!", I said.

And then, I asked
for a verification: it was true.

[Najmuddin's comment] was:

"Mahmoud has something to prove."

I remember, Mahmoud --
he got the job of course --

is the one sitting on the left.

He got the job, of course,
and then it was incredible.

I understood I was wrong again.
Mahmood looked taller.

I remember him sitting
behind the workbench, smiling.

He was a new man, tall again.

Of course, I understood
that what made him stand tall --

yeah, well, the legs,
thank you very much --

but as a first step, it was the dignity.

He has regained his full dignity
thanks to that job.

So, of course, I understood

and then we started a new policy,
completely different.

Now, we decided to employ as many
disabled [people] as possible,

to train them in any possible job.

It became a policy
of positive discrimination,

[as] we call it now.

And you know what?

It' s good for everybody.

Everybody benefits from that:

those employed, of course,

because they get a job and dignity.

But also for the newcomers.
They are 7,000 every year,

people coming in for the first time.

And you should see
the face of these people

when they realized that
those assisting them are like them.

Sometimes you see them, they look... "Oh!"

And you see their face

and the surprise turns into hope.

And it's easy for me as well
to train someone

who has already passed
through the experience of disability.

They learn much faster.

The motivation, the empathy
they can establish with the patient

is completely different, completely.

Scraps of men do not exist.

People like Mahmoud are agents of change.

And, when you start changing,
you cannot stop.

So, employing people, yes,

but also we started a program
of microfinance education

and -- sorry, this machine.

That's Najmuddin,
the one with the white coat.

Terrible Najmuddin, he's that one.

And when you start you cannot stop,
so you do vocational training,

microfinance, home education
for those who cannot go to school.

Physiotherapy can also
be done at home, not only...

Physiotherapy can be done
in an orthopaedic center,

but also in the houses of the people.

There is always a better way to do things.

I have learned a lot from people
like Najmuddin, Mahmoud, Rafi.

They are my teachers.

I have a wish, a big wish,
that this way of working,

this way of thinking is going to be
implemented in other countries.

There are plenty of countries at war,
like Afghanistan.

It is possible and it is not difficult.

All we have to do is to --

how can I say it? --

is to listen to the people
that we are supposed to assist,

to make them part
of the decision-making process,

and then, of course, to adapt.

This is my big wish.

Well, don't think the changes
in Afghanistan are over.

Not at all. We are going on.

Recently, we have just started a program,

a sport program: basketball
for wheelchair users.

We transport wheelchairs
everwhere in the country.

We have several teams now,
in many parts of Afghanistan.

At the beginning, when Najmuddin told me,

"We would like to start it.",
I hesitated, I said, "No!"

Can you imagine?
I said, "No, no, no, we can't."

And then I asked
the usual question, "Is it a priority?

Is it really necessary?"

Well, now you should see me.

I never miss a single training session.

The night before a match,
I'm very nervous,

and you should see me during the match.

I shout, well like a true Italian!

(Laughter)

What's next? What is going to be
the next change?

I don't know yet, but I'm sure that
Najmuddin and his friends,

they already have [something] in mind.

That was my story. Thank you very much.

(Applauses)