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)