A doctor in disguise - healing Afghanistan's warlords

Sada Mujahideen Camp, the Afghan border with Pakistan: 'I watched the moon rise over the mountains. A halo of light flared over the night-stained crops and the full moon crept into the open sky. Around me sat the Mujahideen staring at this extraordinary creature, freshly arrived from Peshawar.'It was October 1989, the head of the Guildford Surgical Team, a spirited group of medics who gave up their holidays each year to operate on the war-wounded from the Afghan-Russian war, had sent me, a newly qualified doctor, up to a Mujahideen camp. The warriors had requested a woman doctor to treat female refugees. It was my dream to meet the Mujahideen. I had seen them the year before on horseback when I travelled in the mountains of Garam Chashma, taking supplies into Afghanistan. But travelling as a woman in tribal areas wasn't safe, so I bought a drab brown salwar kameez in a bazaar in Peshawar, tucked my blonde plait into a hat and, disguised as a man, clambered into a battered old minivan with my young, bearded, green-eyed guide Alhem.

We drove over the Kohat Pass and stopped amid Kalashnikov fire in Darra, a town whose wooden huts sold rocket-propelled grenades to the Mujahideen, who smuggled them into Afghanistan. We ate freshly baked naan and bananas while buyers checking their wares let off rounds of shot. Further off, we heard weapons fired in anger over the border. I should have been frightened, but I wasn't. I was just excited, and very naïve.

Beyond Darra, the road grew wilder, winding along a river with snowcapped peaks closing around us in the sunset. It was forbidden to drive through tribal Pakistan at night because of the danger, but Alhem knew all the border guards and chatted to them while I hid at each checkpoint. Tarmac became dust as we drove through huge rocky valleys, reaching Sada eight hours later. There I entered a man's world. There were handshakes and endless tea drinking within the iron gates of the camp. We ate on mats beside camp fires before I was shown into a mud-floored room. Around me sat 20 Mujahideen, their Kalashnikovs lined up against the walls. None of them had had much contact with foreigners, or women. We discussed the war, their families and the refugees. They were feeding the refugees of the local camps and each day hordes of children would queue for food.

My job was to tend to the invalid refugees. I routinely dressed as a man, except when treating women and children. Many hadn't seen a doctor for years. They had everything from infertility to psychological problems. One was convinced she had cancer, but it was just a hernia. One had a terrible disease she didn't understand: she was pregnant. Most were malnourished and anaemic.

Sometimes, despite being a terrible rider, I galloped on wonderful Arab horses over wild terrain to remote camps, while my Mujahideen guards spurred their horses on faster and faster. But when I got there, I could hardly help the women I saw. Their needs were so great and I was such a novice. Mine was a swift journey from the exhilaration of being in such an exciting place, to the reality of a people devastated by war. Children, with deadened, joyless eyes, begged me for blankets and food, but what could I do? I had failed.

Twelve years and four children later, I was back in Afghanistan. This time to visit a mother and child clinic in the Panjshir Valley, northeast of Kabul. Afghanistan was in its 23rd consecutive year of war. There were no roads, no electricity, not enough food and devastated hospitals had patients dying under flapping canvas on dusty plains. The refugee camps were sprawling acres of despair. As a mother, I was now even more aware of the terrible plight of the women, some of whom could not feed their children.

I came back to England determined to do something. I started a charity, Afghan Connection, to work in health and education. In September came the Twin Towers attacks and Afghanistan was catapulted back into the news. With the renewed interest came funding. We provided medical training, vaccination programmes, clinic and hospital refurbishments. Since then, we have built 32 schools for over 30,000 children in north, east and central Afghanistan and twinned 20 of them to schools in the UK. Bibi Ayisha, one of our schools in a remote valley in northern Afghanistan, sent 35 girls to university this year. Not one of them has a mother who can read or write. Some have walked up to three hours to school and back every day, so determined were they to get an education. They all want to be doctors, teachers and engineers and to reconstruct their country.

Thanks to my son Alex, we also set up a cricket project, writing to every UK county cricket team for help. It is now backed by the MCC, the Afghan cricket team and a wonderful donor. Just last month, at one of our cricket coaching camps led by the Afghan team, 12,000 children turned up for 50 places. Those who couldn't take part watched from the sidelines. Cricket has brought hope to so many in Afghanistan. The Afghan team doing so well in the World Cup has shown the Afghans that dreams can come true. They have heroes again.

I visited northern Afghanistan again this year. At one school 1,700 children were waiting for us and as we sat drinking tea surrounded by their classrooms – squares of dust partitioned by stones – they asked me to build them a real school. I hope I won't fail them again.

afghanconnection.org