Category Archives: Blog

The right place at the wrong time

Posted on by
http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23969165-peers-wife-i-hid-in-cupboard-as-taliban-searched-hotel.do

In 2011 NATO initiated Inteqal – the process of transition of security responsibilities from ISAF to the Afghan state and its forces. It was launched on the assumption that the Afghan Army, Police and governance system, at national and local level, would have progressed to the point where handover was tenable. President Karzai formally announced transition arrangements to the Afghan people and in March it was welcomed in a joint statement by Foreign Secretary William Hague and Defence Secretary Liam Fox.
NATO aims to complete the transition by 2014, reducing its military presence but retaining a ‘footprint’ in the country beyond that date. Since the announcement of Intequal Osama Bin Laden has been killed – and ‘talks with the Taliban’ have rarely been off the agenda.  Heady stuff – but what do these events mean to Afghanistan’s female population? One British woman went to find out. This is what happened to her.
Fiona Hodgson and her friend walked out of the bloody siege of the Intercontinental Hotel in  Kabul wondering how they had escaped death.
They’d survived the bloodbath in which Taliban gunmen killed 11 people by hiding in a cupboard while slaughter and mayhem took place around them.
Fiona had gone to Afghanistan to connect with women’s organisations and activists and  see for herself what women’s hopes and fears were about transition and its security implications for half the population.
In February this year a travel reviewer wrote of the ‘Intercon’ –  “There are often large official events because of its secure location and plentiful armed guards. There have been no Taliban attacks and the last major incident was a shoot-out in 2003. So, by Kabul standards, it is very safe.”
For those who know the Afghan capital this is not such a surreal recommendation, but when I watched my friend walk out of this ‘safe’ hotel on a TV news channel I was stunned. As the story of the siege and suicide bombing unfolded I knew she was physically unharmed, but it wasn’t until she arrived back in London that I understood how close to death she had been.
Fiona and her companion from Action Aid spent nearly six hours in hiding listening to the sound of gunfire, explosions and screaming just yards away from them.
 “I honestly thought we were going to die,” she recalled. “My heart seemed to be pounding so loudly I felt the gunmen could surely hear it.”
So how did this Kensington mother of four find herself at the epicentre of a bloody siege? Call it displaced guilt, but I feel (very slightly) to blame!
We met a few years ago when I had just returned from a trip to Helmand. Fiona was then Chair of the Conservative Women’s Organisation and already alert to the plight of Afghanistan’s women. From our different perspectives, but with shared interests, we joined forces to co-author The Female Face of Afghanistan, a series of largely unedited opinions from a diverse range of contributors. Fiona became very keen to visit the country, meet some of the women and hear first hand how they felt.
We talked about going together but could never quite co-ordinate it so travelling independently, at her own expense, she went alone. First stop was Kabul where she stayed with Ana Hozyainova, a founder member of the Afghanistan Public Policy Research Organisation.  Seven days, eighteen meetings, several private visits and a joyful Afghan wedding party later, her nightmare began.
Over tea in the garden of her West London home Fiona re-counted the most frightening six hours of her life. In this most English of settings, with Monty the family dog chewing his favourite toy at our feet, a story of horror, courage  – and even occasional humour  – unfolded.                    
“Ana helped me meet some wonderful women in Kabul – mostly from NGOs, activists, former refugees and even a TV presenter. My admiration for these women grew as the week progressed but they are very, very worried about transition. There is generally enormous alarm about what would happen if the Taliban came back.
“Some said they would leave; one said she would get a gun and flee to the hills.  A particularly impressive group was Young Women for Change – aged mainly in their early 20s. One told me ‘It would be like slow death’. They know that activism identifies them but feel they have no alternative and quote the depressing proverb ‘Afghan women belong in a house or a grave’ as their spur.”
On the eve of the suicide bombers’ attack Fiona left Ana’s quiet home in a residential district for the Intercontinental Hotel where she was to meet her new hosts.
“The Action Aid representative had flown out that evening. I was tired but excited and looking forward to the next part of my stay. We were due to leave for Bamiyan early the next morning and had a full programme.”
After a buffet dinner with members of the Action Aid team and Kabul MP Shinkhai Karokhail, Fiona and her friend retired early to their rooms on the second floor. The hotel is on a hilltop and Fiona had left her curtains open to look at the panoramic view of Kabul.
Then the gunfire started. She crawled to turn her bedside lights out before cautiously leaving her room. “I remember there was a man in the corridor, his body language was all wrong – he turned and looked at me, his arm flapping, then he ran past me. I knew then that something was going on and banged on my friend’s door.
“I don’t know why but I said ‘we’ve got to get into the cupboard’ – it was behind the door to the room which would swing back against it. And so we sat there, in the dark, still dressed in the clothes we’d worn to dinner while the firing continued. We rang the Action Aid security officer who had only recently left and he said he’d come back for us straight away.”
But it was to be nearly six hours before the women were able to leave.  Huddled in the confined space they heard shooting above them, on the ground floor, in the stairwell and along their own corridor. At first they thought it was the hotel security team fighting off attackers.  The shouting was harsh, aggressive and close, but incomprehensible.
“We put our phones on silent because we were terrified of being discovered,” recalled Fiona whose strangest moment was seeing a call come in from her husband Robin. “ I decided not to take it. Then he sent a text – and I replied saying that I was fine. I didn’t want to worry him.”
A man whose calls she did take was to prove a rock that night. “I suddenly remembered that we had registered our visit to Afghanistan with the FCO and had a number to call at the Embassy ‘in emergencies’.
“Rather hesitantly I rang it, thinking how mad I would sound saying ‘Hello, this is Fiona Hodgson; I’m in the wardrobe of Room 206 in the Intercontinental Hotel’ .”
The man at the Embassy did not laugh however, he simply asked for details. “He was wonderful; very professional and calm and as the night went on it was reassuring  to have him to talk to. Sometimes he asked us to leave the phone on so that he could hear what was happening, but he told us not to move until someone official came for us.”
Alternately whispering and lapsing into silence the two women strained to hear what was happening; the gunfire was intermittent but the stillness too was threatening. Then the unimaginable happened – it got worse.
“Suddenly we could hear doors being kicked in and shots. Then the helicopters came and the most massive explosions. The hotel rocked and we felt the floors below were giving way. We’d no idea what was going on. We were past thinking and in extreme terror. Later we learned that the explosion above us was what set the hotel on fire. We felt helpless but between us we managed to hold it together!”
A loud knock and a voice in broken English told the women to come out. “But we were beyond movement until the man on the phone ‘instructed’ us that it was alright. I slid the door open and put an arm out first, then went into the corridor where there was an Afghan soldier and a line of people.  A New Zealand Special Forces soldier met us at the stairwell, we went through the lobby and into the kitchen.”
                                                                                                                                
At last they were allowed to leave. “Dawn was coming up and we just walked down the hill towards the police checkpoints and past them. I still didn’t feel safe; I feared there could be gunmen in the bushes but when we got to the second police barrier the Security officer from Action Aid was waiting for us. He had been there all night.”
He drove the women to a rendezvous with the Embassy vehicle where they were provided with body armour. Fiona laughed. “I thought ‘we could have used this last night’!”
The journey home was not comfortable for either woman. Luggage at Kabul airport suddenly looked sinister; the clatter of suitcases pulled along a hotel corridor in Dubai sounded like gunfire. While we spoke in Fiona’s garden sudden noise on a nearby construction site made her twitch.
At Gatwick the women were met by their husbands and the CEO of Action Aid. Fiona said “They took us to a quiet room and that was when I was able to tell Robin the full story. I‘m fine talking about it all, but perhaps part of me is in emotional lockdown. So as for how I really feel – I don’t know. For a while I was numb. It’s OK for me – I can get on a plane, but for the people I’ve left behind, it’s different. So many women are psychologically damaged, so many are fearful. No woman will vote for the Taliban. ”
After Fiona’s return I spoke to Afghan journalist Bilal Saraway in Kabul. He said  “The gunfire could be heard by residents in all the surrounding neighbourhoods and it has shattered confidence in security. Everyone is asking how this could have happened. What was pretty upsetting was that the Minister of the Interior had been warned of a possible attack and despite that they were able to get in through the back entrance, past a police checkpoint.
First to die was a hotel driver and an old guard who had worked there for more than 50 years.”
Saraway added “There were renovations going on in the main lobby which may account for the lack of security, but people are asking senior police how it is they managed to take in so many heavy weapons – nine people are understood to have had RPGs while the Afghan police were only lightly armed with AK47s.
“It’s clear too that the attackers were prepared for a long siege; their backpacks contained cans of Red Bull and biscuits. But if there is a positive aspect to this, it is that the Police Chief arrived straight after the attack; local forces did well.”
Fiona echoed this. “I don’t blame anyone; we were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone was wonderful – Action Aid, the Embassy staff, the Afghan police/army and the New Zealand Special Forces. I just feel so very sorry for those who lost loved ones or did not survive.
“Will I go back? I hope I have the courage to return and finish what I set out to do. I don’t want this tragic incident to overshadow the real issues, Afghanistan’s women must not be forgotten. We can help them in all sorts of ways, through networking and information hubs as well as practical support. Women must be involved in the peace process in a meaningful way and not just as window dressing. ”
Her companion doesn’t want to be identified but added “The best way to ensure that the rights Afghan women have gained over the last 10 years are not swept away is to make sure that women are at all peace and reconciliation negotiations and are able to represent their interests. This is their right, but it is also the only route to a just and lasting peace. Any deal that excludes women does not deserve the name of peace.”
So, as the Intequal process takes it’s course all eyes should be on those women and the West’s ears open to their very real concerns about a return to the ‘ground zero’ of human rights abuse in Afghanistan. To many, exhausted by the demands of yet another long engagement in a country where no-one has ever ‘won’ a war, the death of Bin Laden might signify ‘mission accomplished’. If it leaves Millennium Development Goals for Women unaddressed it will be a job far from done.
ENDS
Lady Fiona Hodgson is a member of the Conservative Human Rights Commission and the Chair of the Advisory Board of GAPS:  (Gender Action in Peace and Security), President of the National Conservative Convention and former Chair of the Conservative Women’s Organisation. She is also a patron of Afghan Connections.  She is the wife of former Tory MP Lord Robin Hodgson.

Off the grid

Posted on by
A couple of weeks ago I left my London flat to go to a meeting.

Five days later I got home, with a scar, a large dressing on my abdomen and a strong feeling of dislocation. Things looked the same, but they were not. I had been somewhere – mentally, physically and spiritually. I had been ‘off the grid’.

In physical terms my journey was not a long one – psychologically I travelled far.
I’m not special; just spectacularly lucky. A middle (!) aged woman with interesting friends, a healthy income, a rewarding life and all her own teeth. I’m a slim, fit, vegetarian with good eyesight. I swim, travel, write, make films – and generally behave much as I did 30 years ago. The fact that my body has generously allowed me to do this without retaliating is an arrangement I have never questioned.
Then, about a year ago I began to feel unwell. Not ‘ill’ – but definitely ‘not well’. The symptoms were vague; headaches, constipation, bloating, sickness, nausea, lower backache and an occasional burning sensation in my upper abdomen.

I don’t smoke, but am in routine denial about ‘units of alcohol consumed’ so addressing this was my first move. My second was a visit – the first of many – to my GP. During the months that followed I was prescribed medication; proton-pump inhibitors to control production of gastric acid; antibiotics for infections; fluoxetine for stress/depression and paracetamol for pain. Eventually I was sent for an endoscopy.

Fear of this procedure haunted me for weeks. I have worked in war zones which fazed me less. Sadly it revealed nothing that would explain my symptoms – and probably reinforced the GP’s suspicion that my malaise was nothing more than textbook hypochondria.

The slow erosion of ‘wellbeing’ is hard to describe; like some vital essence quietly draining away. I moved more slowly, I felt sluggish, fuddled, depressed. I slept a lot.

After my last trip to Afghanistan (during which I enjoyed an unexpected respite from these symptoms) I turned to Dr Google. At least he didn’t turn a baleful eye and ask if I was worrying about anything . . . but the internet is a fickle friend when it comes to self diagnosis and I was reluctant to accept what I was finding; a range of choices from appendicitis to bowel cancer.

I struggled on, convinced that maybe my (very real) symptoms were perhaps no more sinister than indigestion.

But if the medical fraternity was losing interest in me, my friends were not. A collective chorus of indignation, and a bout of sickness that kept me bedridden for a week, prompted my return to the GP. Although the diagnosis was yet another ‘mystery tummy bug’ she ordered blood tests. Weeks passed. I felt a little better – and then the sudden, cholicky pains began. This time it hurt to walk and I became aware of a localised tenderness on the right of my lower abdomen. All the usual suspects arrived – constipation, bloating, nausea, burning pain, headache, backache, sickness – and I resolved, once more, to brave the surgery . . . if only to collect my test results.

The fact that they were ‘clear’ and described a person in rude health did not auger well for my announcement that I was once more ‘unwell’. After a brief abdominal examination my GP looked at the clock; already I was trespassing on the next patient’s time. We had the exchange: The one that goes “Well – what do you want me to do?” followed by “Well – I don’t know, you’re the doctor!”

We locked eyes. I gripped my bag ready to leave. She sighed. “I can book you a scan . . . but that will take 8 to 12 weeks. Or I can send you to A&E.” Apologetic for presenting so many unsatisfactory symptoms I was about to accept the CT scan offer and limp back to work with my ‘hypochondria’ when the doc made a sudden decision and picked up the phone.

It was a defining moment. Ten minutes later I was in a taxi en route to A&E; 48 hours later I was recovering from emergency surgery having lost an appendix and part of my bowel. I also underwent something of a catharsis.

The time that passed between leaving home on foot for my GP’s appointment and being returned, in a friend’s car, five days later, changed my view of myself, my neighbourhood, the NHS, my colleagues, immigration laws, the media and the human spirit. Like Scrooge, I have been returned to a world that will never look quite the same again.

OK, I’m a journalist – and for five days I was a scared one. The ‘this can’t be happening to me’ monologue was a constant accompaniment. It began when I was tagged, debagged and tested in A&E.

Our clothing defines us. I arrived in tight black jeans, a figure hugging lycra top and a scarf: I left for X-Ray wearing an androgynous floral gown, a wristband and a canula; what was left of ‘me’ stuffed into a plastic Tesco bag that the triage nurse supplied.

For 48 hours I was Nil by Mouth in anticipation of surgery that never took place. My reprieves both came in the evening when kindly staff advised me that ‘food had finished’. A slice of white bread and a yogurt scavenged from the nurses station kept me going for two days. Only later did I recall that a friend had brought me crisps and biscuits that had disappeared into the depths of my bedside locker.

Here beginneth the 1st LESSON.

WAITING

Large London hospitals feature a lot of waiting. This process involves shepherds and sheep. Sheep far outnumber shepherds and can be identified by their haunted faces, glazed eyes and flapping clothing that reveals their bottoms. Sheep are often cold (who wouldn’t be, wearing a theatre gown with at least one of the ties missing!) and uncomfortable. Discomfort is exacerbated by the provision of hard metal chairs. Sheep loiter aimlessly but rarely stray further than the nearest WC or coffee machine. Those in obvious pain or discomfort are absorbed in their own distress. Some moan, vomit or chat to their police minders. Others play obsessively with mobile phones, sharing details of their domestic lives with all who care (or don’t care) to listen.

Example: “I told you, I’m in A&E; I can’t feed the f*****g cat. Where the bloody ‘ell are you anyway? So who’s gonna pick the kids up from school? Not your mother that’s for sure!Lazy cow, never done nuffink for us she never . . . “

Shepherds on the other hand wear ID cars, reveal no embarrassing areas of anatomy, move purposefully and with authority. They greet one another with bonhomie and are a great source of information about other members of staff.

Example: “You know what he called me? He called me ‘pondlife’. That wasn’t very nice was it. Stuck up git. Swannin round here like he’s somebody. He’ll get his eventually. I was upset, like. Know what I mean?”
My first stint in the waiting pen enabled me to identify both ‘pondlife’ and ‘git’ which made the subsequent conversation much more meaningful. I made a kindred connection (‘Chest Pains’) after initial processing from A&E but we were soon separated. (Good luck with the photography course by the way!).
When my turn came to be examined my morale was low. When the doctor who first examined me had finished, it was even lower.

Here beginneth the 2nd LESSON

AGE &GENDER

Junior doctors are, in the main, YOUNG. Women over 40 are OLD. Women of my age are INVISIBLE. There was some reluctance to accept that I was on no medication, had no allergies or ‘conditions’ and had never had surgery. My given name has never been used so failure to respond to it with due alacrity was seen as evidence of confusion and I was provided with a second wristband.
While doctors A and B argued sotto voce about whether ‘IT’ was, or was not, appendicitis I began to fantasise about food. So did my already rioting stomach until a further discussion ensued about whether to send me for an ultrasound or a CT scan.
Example: “Because of the radiation we don’t usually send younger people for CT scans, but they do reveal more than the ultrasound. I think we’ll send you for a CT . . .




TO BE CONTINUED . . . 







Hospital is another country . . .

Posted on by

HEALTH: To people who are never ill, hospitals are as unreal as a TV soaps. They are on the map but have no real relevance. But as Glyn Strong discovered when she found herself admitted for emergency surgery, they have an inner life of their own . . . and it’s not at all like Holby City! When you are you really are OFF THE GRID

A FEW weeks ago I left my London flat to go to a meeting.

I never got there.

Five days later I was home, with a scar, a large dressing on my abdomen and a strong feeling of dislocation. Things looked the same, but they were not. I had been somewhere – mentally, physically and spiritually. I had been ‘off the grid’.

I’m not special; just spectacularly lucky. A single, middle-aged woman with friends, a reasonable income, a rewarding life and all her own teeth. I’m a slim, fit, vegetarian with good eyesight. I swim, travel, write, make films – and generally behave much as I did 30 years ago. The fact that my body has generously allowed me to do this without retaliating is an arrangement I have never questioned.

Then, about a year ago I began to feel unwell. Not ‘ill’ – but definitely ‘not well’. The symptoms were vague; headaches, constipation, bloating, sickness, nausea, lower backache and an occasional burning sensation in my upper abdomen.

I don’t smoke, but like many of my friends am in routine denial about ‘units of alcohol consumed’ so addressing this was my first move. My second was a visit – the first of many – to my GP. During the months that followed I was prescribed medication; proton-pump inhibitors to control production of gastric acid; antibiotics for infections; fluoxetine for stress/depression and paracetamol for pain. Eventually I was sent for an endoscopy.

Fear of this procedure haunted me for weeks. I have worked in war zones, which fazed me less. Sadly it revealed nothing that would explain my symptoms – and probably reinforced the GP’s suspicion that my malaise was nothing more than textbook hypochondria.

The slow erosion of ‘wellbeing’ is hard to describe; like some vital essence quietly draining away. I moved more slowly, I felt sluggish, fuddled, depressed. I slept a lot.

After my last trip to Afghanistan in June (during which I enjoyed an unexpected respite from these symptoms) I turned to Dr Google. At least he didn’t turn a baleful eye and ask if I was worrying about anything . . . but the internet is a fickle friend when it comes to self diagnosis and I was not attracted to what I was finding; a range of choices from appendicitis to bowel cancer.

So I struggled on, convinced that maybe my (very real) symptoms were perhaps no more sinister than indigestion.

But if the medical fraternity was losing interest in me, my friends were not. A collective chorus of indignation, and a bout of sickness that kept me bedridden for a week, prompted my return to the GP’s waiting room. Although the diagnosis was yet another ‘mystery tummy bug’ she ordered blood tests. Weeks passed. I felt a little better – and then the sudden, cramp like pains began. This time it hurt to walk and I became aware of a localised tenderness on the right of my lower abdomen. All the usual suspects arrived – constipation, bloating, nausea, burning pain, headache, backache, sickness – and I resolved, once more, to brave the surgery . . . if only to collect my latest set of test results.

The fact that they were ‘clear’ and described a person in rude health did not auger well for my announcement that I was once more ‘UN-well’. After a brief abdominal examination my GP looked at the clock; already I was trespassing on the next patient’s time.

We had the exchange: The one that goes “Well – what do you want me to do?” followed by “Well – I don’t know, you’re the doctor!”

We locked eyes. I gripped my bag ready to leave. She sighed. “I can book you a scan . . . but that will take 8 to 12 weeks. Or I can send you to A&E.” Apologetic for presenting so many unsatisfactory symptoms I was about to accept the CT scan offer and limp back to work with my ‘hypochondria’ when the doctor made a sudden decision and picked up the phone.

It was a defining moment. Ten minutes later I was in a taxi en route to A&E; 48 hours later I was recovering from emergency surgery.

The time between leaving home on foot for my GP’s appointment and coming home by car five days later was like a trip to another country – one without visible borders, but alien nonetheless.

Already, like the neat pink line on my stomach, the memory is fading, but I will never pass a hospital again without a fleeting flashback to those five lost days! The speed with which I lost my identity when detached from all that was familiar still astounds me.

The ‘this can’t be happening to me’ monologue was a constant accompaniment. It began when I was tagged, debagged and tested in A&E. Our clothing defines us. I arrived in tight black jeans, a figure hugging lycra top and a scarf: I left for X-Ray wearing an androgynous floral gown, a wristband and a canula; what was left of ‘me’ stuffed into a plastic Tesco bag that the triage nurse supplied.

For 48 hours I was Nil by Mouth in anticipation of surgery that was postponed again and again. My reprieves both came in the evening when sympathetic nurses advised me that ‘food had finished’. A slice of white bread and a yogurt scavenged from who knows where or whom kept me going for two days. Only later did I recall that a friend had brought me crisps and biscuits that had disappeared into the depths of a temporarily assigned bedside locker.

This was not familiar territory. I had much to learn.

Large London hospitals feature a lot of waiting. This process involves shepherds and sheep. Sheep far outnumber shepherds and can be identified by their haunted faces, glazed eyes and the flapping floral tunics that reveal their bottoms. Sheep are often cold (it is de rigueur for these tunics to have at least one tie missing making it impossible to secure closure or decency) and uncomfortable. Discomfort is exacerbated by the provision of hard metal chairs whose construction guarantees nothing but striated rumps for those forced to occupy them long term

Sheep loiter aimlessly but rarely stray further than the nearest WC or coffee machine. Those in obvious pain or discomfort are absorbed in their own distress. Some moan, vomit or chat to their police minders. (Yes, one of the flock did sport an ankle tag and a pair of handcuffs). Others play obsessively with mobile phones, sharing details of their domestic lives with all who care (or don’t care) to listen.

Example: “I told you, I’m in A&E; I can’t feed the f*****g cat. Where the bloody ‘ell are you anyway? So who’s gonna pick the kids up from school? Not your mother that’s for sure!”

Shepherds on the other hand wear ID cards, reveal no embarrassing areas of anatomy, and move purposefully and with authority. They greet one another with bonhomie and are a great source of information about other members of staff.

Example (Porter on junior doctor): “You know what he called me? He called me ‘pondlife’. That wasn’t very nice was it. Stuck up git. Swannin round here like he’s somebody. He’ll get his eventually. I was upset, like. Know what I mean?”

 My first stint in the waiting pen had enabled me to identify both ‘pondlife’ and ‘git’ which made the subsequent conversation much more meaningful.

I made a brief kindred connection (‘Chest Pains’) after initial processing from A&E but we were soon separated. (Hey CP – good luck with the photography course by the way! Hope you made it!)

The hours passed slowly. When my turn came to be examined my morale was low. When the doctor who first examined me had finished, it was even lower.

Junior doctors are, in the main, YOUNG. Women over 40 are OLD. Women of my age are INVISIBLE. There was some reluctance to accept that I was on no medication, had no allergies or ‘conditions’ and had never had surgery. My given name has never been used so failure to respond to it with due alacrity was seen as evidence of confusion and I was provided with a second wristband.

While doctors A and B argued sotto voce about whether ‘it’ was, or was not, appendicitis I began to fantasise about food. So did my already rioting stomach until a further discussion ensued about whether to send me for an ultrasound or a CT scan.

Example: “Because of the radiation we don’t usually send younger people for CT scans, but they do reveal more than the ultrasound. I think we’ll send you for a CT . . . ”

In the event I got no further than a holding ward that night, following an (unexpected) ultrasound that confirmed ‘a large swollen mass’ around my appendix area and a definite requirement for surgery. “Although you are rather OLD for appendicitis!” I was told by the technician.

 Safely installed in bed the processing began. I was weighed, asked to answer questions about my sexual orientation and other presumably vital information. Blood pressure was taken and a thermometer inserted . . . in my ear. This was soon followed by squeals of disbelief. “No, no this can’t be, you have a fever – 98.6 – you are burning . . . ?”

I would have explained that this was not spontaneous combustion but what used to be called ‘normal’ back in the days of pre-decimal currency and Fahrenheit thermometers, but my frightened carer was long gone in search of help.

Caught without reading material or laptop my only connection to the ‘real’ world was my iPhone. I watched anxiously as its battery life leached away. My wardmates were either ill or locked into daytime TV; the nursing staff were busy with the intricacies of their lottery syndicate and as news of my surprise incarceration spread the communication situation became more parlous. Every text or email I received required a reply; failure to reassure might lead to panic, Chinese whispers about my death – or even worse, VISITORS!

Now don’t misunderstand me – some visitors played a blinder; brought necessities like toothpaste, wets wipes and books – but I was unwell and in no mood to be sociable. I was also reluctant to be seen in my unflattering grey DVT stockings, monster theatre-gown and paper slippers, but that’s another story . . .

Pain killers and anti-nauseants were offered at regular intervals (in lieu of food perhaps?) but I needed a clear head. Between working ‘virtually’ on my dying phone and tying to make contingency plans for delivery of new bathroom furniture ahead of the arrival of my Polish plumber there was no time to do ‘grape gratitude’ or repeated explanations of how I had got there.

Eventually, like the Stasi, ‘they’ came for me – in the middle of the night. At 2.am a green-gowned figure appeared at the end if my bed. “Number 19?” he intoned. “Prepare yourself. It’s time.”

Prepare myself? As he disappeared down the corridor a nurse appeared and I timidly asked what was required. “Shall I take my knickers off?” I ventured innocently. The look of horror on her face still haunts me. “Of course not!”

My last memory as I was wheeled down to theatre was the sound of my own whimpering as the iPhone that was welded to my palm was removed. Happily I was reunited with it in the recovery room.

As for my Calvin Klein panties? I never saw them again.

Now this is the bit where things should have got better. I was in no real pain; I could smell food the offending appendix had been dealt and I would soon be able to go home. In fact it was some time before I saw a doctor – two females in fact. A hearty Anglo Saxon blonde and a gentle F1 wearing a hijab. I never again met the man who had performed the surgery, or the consultant whose team he was part of. (Another TV myth exploded!)

Aided by a cartoon of a balloon and a wiggly worm the senior of the two junior doctors indicated what had been removed; not just my rotten appendix but a chunk of infected bowel. And no, it wasn’t all over because bowel cancer was still a strong possibility. “This was not a routine appendectomy”

Oh Dr Google . . . if only I’d heeded you!)

When I left the hospital I was still in limbo. Biopsy results took two, three, four . . . weeks. The kindly FI offered to call me at home if they came in any earlier and the news was good, but I had already figured out that this was a dubious strategy. If they came in and the news was bad presumably she wouldn’t call me?

These post op days were leaden. I go out of bed as soon as I could; ate all the ‘soft food’ I was allowed to and drank a lot of water. Posters of ‘Mr C. Difficile’ and ‘Mr MRSA’ reminded one and all to wash their hands. Focused only on escape I was more assiduous than Lady Macbeth in this respect.

The visitors were good value. Not mine so much as those of my neighbours who played out the dynamics of family discord with more dramatic flourish than the cast of East Enders. But underlying it all was fear. Fear that my ‘real life’, outside this place – where nurses arrived and departed with military precision, ‘lights out’ put us to sleep like parrots having their cages covered, and the highlight of the day was the arrival of food – had gone for good.

Pleading and good behaviour got my sentence commuted and I was allowed to leave a day early. I was given a small carrier bag filled with medication and a letter for my GP explaining that she had to ensure ‘my clips were removed’ in a few days time. Having already taken a sneak preview of my ‘wound’ and seen that there were none I was intrigued by this, but loath to do anything to delay my escape.

So – minus some organs, my favourite knickers and (I was later to discover) my phone charger, I ventured back into the world. It was rush hour. As we drove towards Tower Hill I realised how hot and quiet it had been in the hospital.

In the days that followed two things happened. My concierge and Polish plumber got used to the sight of me in some very dodgy pyjamas – and my GP rang. The biopsy result had come back early.

It was clear.

ENDS

 

CITRICA PAIR AIM TO CLEAN UP FOR VETERANS AID

Posted on by
The Business Development Manager of top UK cleaning company, Citrica, is taking four days off work to raise funds for Veterans Aid (www.veterans-aid.net )
Accompanied by his brother Tom, Jack Buckley is swapping his city suit for cycling gear in a bid to complete a sponsored 300-mile cycle ride for the London-based charity.
Between them the Buckley brothers hope to raise £7,000.
“We’re absolutely delighted by what they are doing for us,” said CEO of Veterans Aid Dr Hugh Milroy. “This is real commitment and an amazing gesture for two busy men to make.”
Privately owned Citrica is the UK’s Greenest Commercial Cleaning Company, renowned for the comprehensive and professional service it provides to many SME’s and blue chip clients. It is also a staunch supporter of Veterans Aid and has provided help quietly, behind the scenes, in a variety of ways. This time its efforts will be more public however as Jack and Tom need as much sponsorship as possible to reach their target.
“We’re leaving on 10 August from Crystal Palace” said Jack “and our ride will end at the Arc de Triomphe, in Paris.”  
The brothers will depart at 0630, covering around 100 miles a day, passing through small villages, towns and magnificent countryside.

Both are already fit but putting in regular practice sessions to get in peak form for the ride. They’ve done a gruelling 10k run in the past but this will be their first charity cycle ‘marathon’. 

“We’ve always had mountain bikes so didn’t have to buy anything specially for this,” said Jack. “We run four times a week and we’re doing a long bike ride together too before the event.”
Citrica has excellent CSR credentials and has helped many organisations on an ad hoc basis since its foundation, but after discovering Veterans Aid the company, headed up by Tom and Jack’s father Danny Buckley, decided it had found ‘the one’.

Jack said, “I believe that this is a great charity and I know that anything donated will not be spent on expenses or the management’s next pay rise. It will go to the people who need it the most. It will pay for anything from housing, medical help, rehabilitation to a warm meal a bath or some clean, new clothes.
“We’re doing this as a personal challenge, but we’re also championing VA because we’ve had a good insight into what it does and know it’s a worthy cause.”
“Veterans Aid has been around for almost 80 years and represents everything that a charity should be about, supporting those who need help during times of crises, who are homeless or likely to become homeless. While the name suggests giving immediate help to ex-Servicemen, woman and their families, the ultimate aim is to get people back on track and leading a stable lives. Veterans Aid’s staff really are at the real sharp end of charity work.”
If you’d like to help please publicise this wonderful gesture wherever you can and visit the Just Giving site to support Tom and Jack. Everything raised will go directly to the ex-Servicemen and women seeking help from Veterans Aid.

Double vision, double standards.

Posted on by
                                          Picture by John Turner

A friend from Gloucestershire sent this image to me. He took the snap after listening to a news item about alcohol control zones.

The sign to the right threatens fines of up to £500 for drinking ‘in this area’ – just yards away from the advertisement in the supermarket window promoting half price booze. 
 *    *     *

I

US blocks visit from Malalai Joya

Posted on by


Malalai Joya at London’s Frontline Club with Sue Turton in 2008
Pictures by Glyn Strong 

Just nine days after International Women’s Day internationally acclaimed Afghan human rights activist Malalai Joya has been refused entry to the United States – allegedly because she is ‘unemployed and living underground’.

Joya –  an author, former member of the Afghan parliament and one of TIME magazine’s ‘100 most influential people in the world in 2010’ – was due to begin a three week book tour to promote an updated version of her memoir ‘A Woman Among Warlords’ on 20th March.
At the age of 27 she was the youngest woman elected to Afghanistan’s parliament in 2005. Because of her harsh criticism of warlords and fundamentalists in Afghanistan, she has been the target of at least five assassination attempts.
Sonali Kolhatkar of the Afghan Women’s Mission (AWM) said “Malalai has never before been denied a visa to the US. She has come to the US several times at our invitation with no problems. AWM is a lead sponsor for this latest tour – we sent her the formal invitation letter for the visa and bought her air tickets to and from the US. Frankly I’m shocked that she would be denied. What are the immigration authorities afraid of? I can only speculate that they are afraid of the effect of her words at a time when the US war in Afghanistan is more unpopular than ever – in fact a majority now favor withdrawal.
“The reason Joya lives underground is because she faces the constant threat of death for having had the courage to speak up for women’s rights – it’s obscene that the U.S. government would deny her entry.”
Kolhatkar, co-author of the book ‘Bleeding Afghanistan’ continued “Malalai’s visa denial also exposes the hypocrisy of the US’s stated desire to liberate Afghan women. What does liberation mean when in reality the government is busy silencing Joya? I hope they do the right thing and allow her into the country for the mere three weeks she was scheduled to be here. Audiences in 13 different US states have worked so hard to organise a national tour so that she can shed light on what’s really happening in Afghanistan.”

Malalai Joya with MP Jeremy Corbin (left) and 
Derrick O’Keefe outside Portcullis House, London.
Ms Joya has twice visited London – first in 2008 to receive the RAW in WAR annual Anna Politkovskaya Award and again in 2009 to promote her book, published in the UK by Ebury Press. During that visit she met MP Jeremy Corbin and Baroness  Warsi who warmly commended her efforts to get justice on behalf of her people, particularly its oppressed women and girls.
Her calls for NATO troops to withdraw from Afghanistan have made 32-year-old Ms Joya a controversial figure outside her country. Internally she has dangerous enemies  – but also many supporters .
On 21 May 2007 Joya was indefinitely suspended from parliament after she criticised it for failing to accomplish enough for the Afghan people, saying, “A stable or a zoo is better [than the legislature], at least there you have a donkey that carries a load and a cow that provides milk. This parliament is worse than a stable or a zoo.”
She had no faith in the recent electoral process and declined to stand for re-election. In 2009, at the wedding of a young rape victim to one of her bodyguards,  Joya confided that she planned to channel her energies into activism on behalf of her people.
Alexis Gargagliano, at US publisher Scribner said of the visa decision “We had the privilege to publish Ms. Joya, and her earlier 2009 book tour met with wide acclaim. The right of authors to travel and promote their work is central to freedom of expression and the full exchange of ideas.”
‘A woman among warlords’ has been translated into over a dozen languages and widely acclaimed. Ms Joya has toured widely – to  Australia, the UK, Canada, Norway, Germany, Italy, Spain, Portugal, France, and the Netherlands – to promote it and state her case.
Colleagues of Joya report that when she presented herself as scheduled at the U.S. embassy, she was told she was being denied because she was “unemployed” and “lives underground.”
Organisers of the latest US tour argue that the denial of Joya’s visa appears to be a case of what the American Civil Liberties Union describes as “Ideological Exclusion,” which they say violates Americans’ First Amendment right to hear constitutionally protected speech by denying foreign scholars, artists, politicians and others entry to the United States.
Events featuring Malalai Joya are planned, from March 20 until April 10, in New York, New Jersey, Washington DC, Maryland, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Minnesota, Oregon, Washington and California. Organizers of her speaking tour are encouraging people to contact the Department of State to ask them to fulfill the promise from the Obama Administration of “promoting the global marketplace of ideas” and grant Joya’s visa immediately.

The quality of mercy is not strained . . . but it’s often tested!

Posted on by




In the New Year an ex-submariner who slept on a park bench for seven years is due to start a degree course at Ruskin College . . . a former RAF engineer who spent last Christmas sleeping in a car is looking forward to a successful acting career and an ex-soldier whose addictions and violent behaviour were ruining his life has a job and a future. All three say they owe their new lives to Veterans Aid.

On a scale of 1-10 ‘veterans’ are pretty high up the worthy causes list. Whatever, as individuals, we feel about current operations, most of us are objective enough to realise that the men and women involved in them are doing a difficult job in dangerous and hostile conditions.


So donating to veterans charities is a no-brainer, right?
Well, maybe. The fact is that an alarming number of people in Britain today don’t actually know what a ‘veteran’ is. This may seem a strange thing to say in the wake of 11/11 and Remembrance Sunday, but it’s true. And what’s even more alarming is that if they did know they might be less likely to support charities for those in crisis  – like Veterans Aid.
The official definition of a veteran in the UK is “Anyone who has served in HM Armed Forces at any time, irrespective of length of service (including National Servicemen and Reservists). ”
There are around 5.5 million veterans in the UK – teenagers and octogenarians; most transit seamlessly from Service to civilian life and never need help. But a tiny number do. Veterans are not all brave young men who have seen active service, or proud elderly gentlemen sporting chests full of medal. The decorated and the injured are humbling reminders of the sacrifices made – but there is another war, one that scars people equally visibly; one that many of us would rather not know about. And it is taking place all around us.
Imagine – a Friday afternoon in summer. Drinking weather. The video entry phone at Veterans Aid has framed a succession of faces; some familiar, some first time callers, some aggressive and drunk. This is the face of a tense young woman. Moments later, as she manhandles her buggy up the almost vertical stairs to VA’s cramped, shabby offices, the baby tucked under her arm begins to cry. This is a woman at the end of her tether. With only the clothes she stands up in, and a bag of baby items, she faces a night on the streets.
The sequence of events that led her to VA’s doorstep had nothing to do with military service  . . . just a sudden eviction, a lost wallet and a broken marriage.  
But this young mother was a veteran, who served honourably for three years in the British Army. She needed nappies, reassurance and food – and she received all three, instantly. Within an hour the pair were in a taxi to a hotel where they would remain until her problems were sorted out.
Most of the people who come to Veterans Aid are male, middle aged and ex-Army. Some have had lives derailed suddenly, without warning – others have more deep rooted problems that have worsened over time. Typically those who seek help do so many years after discharge, ranging in age from 19 to 85.  Generally life, poverty or social isolation brings them to VA – not PTSD or Service-related issues.
Some are what, in 1563, would have been described as ‘the deserving poor’ (i.e. “Those too old, young or ill to work”). Somehow this phrase has become embedded in our consciousness, becoming a permission slip to ignore the scruffy, smelly supplicants who roam our streets or ambush us outside supermarkets. Disturbingly, some of these people wear items of military clothing or veterans’ badges.
A light year away from the homecoming heroes of Afghanistan, a tiny number of them really do share the right to call themselves ‘veterans’. Yet they, along with many other victims of life, have ceased to be attractive recipients of the nation’s largesse. To some people this presents a dilemma. It’s easy to understand why heroes should be supported, but the most courageous thing some veterans have done is pluck up the courage to ask for help.

Perhaps, as Christmas approaches, it’s time to revisit the stereotype of a veteran.  Do former Guards Officers become alcoholics or get into debt? Do ex-Servicemen on six-figure salaries ever become mentally ill or unemployable? Do female veterans ever face life on the streets? Indeed they do. Some are heartbreakingly deserving, astoundingly resilient and almost too proud to ask for help – others would be deemed, by some, definitely ‘undeserving’  . . . but they are still human beings in need.

CEO of Veterans Aid Dr Hugh Milroy says, “We represent the military family looking after its own. Our philosophy is ‘hand up’ not ‘hand out’. Yes, we address basic needs like provision of new clothing, food and accommodation, but some problems are deep rooted and nuanced. Our staff has the patience and expertise to guide people through the slow ‘unpacking’ process necessary to deal with more complex issues.”
And that expertise includes the services of a barrister, a drug and alcohol adviser, a military psychiatrist and a social worker. Milroy himself is a Gulf War veteran and Senior Visiting Research Fellow at King’s College.
Veterans Aid doesn’t care how people arrive at its door – only how they leave. It’s there for all ex-Servicemen and women  – anytime, at any stage of their life; not just at Christmas, or around Remembrance Day. It knows that for many Veterans Aid is the Last Chance Saloon – but it has an astounding track record of success in mending broken lives.
‘Nigel’ who was homeless and ill for 30 years now lives in Fulham, in his own home. “I would be dead now if it hadn’t been for Veterans Aid” he reflects, recalling the bitter winter day he moved into the charity’s New Belvedere House hostel.
A film about Nigel and two other formerly homeless veterans who’ve trod the same path is being released for Christmas. ‘Veterans Voices: A Christmas Carol’ will be on www.veterans-aid.net from Christmas Eve.)
ENDS