I've been in Afghanistan for 21 years. I work for the Red Cross and I'm a physical therapist. 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 the physical rehabilitation then with the 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.
Esmu Afganistānā jau 21 gadu. Es strādāju Sarkanajā Krustā un esmu fizikālais terapeits. Mans darbs ir izgatavot rokas un kājas, labi, tā nav pilnīga taisnība. Mēs darām ne tikai to. Mēs nodrošinām pacientiem, afgāņu invalīdiem, pirmkārt, fizikālo rehabilitāciju, tad iekļaušanos atpakaļ sabiedrībā. Tas ir ļoti loģisks plāns, taču tas ne vienmēr tāds ir bijis Daudzus gadus mēs viņus apgādājām tikai ar protēzēm. Tas prasīja programmai diezgan daudzus gadus, lai tā kļūtu tāda, kāda tā ir pašlaik.
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, but it was for any kind of patient. I was also working in the orthopedic center, we call it. This is the place where we make the legs. 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. But as soon as the fighting intensified, the physical rehabilitation was suspended. There were many other things to do. So the orthopedic center was closed because physical rehabilitation was not considered a priority. It was a strange sensation. Anyway, you know every time I make this speech -- it's not the first time -- but it's an emotion. It's something that comes out from the past. It's 21 years, but they are still all there.
Šodien es vēlētos jums pastāstīt stāstu, stāstu par lielām pārmaiņām un stāstu par cilvēkiem, kas padarīja šīs pārmaiņas iespējamas. Es ierados Afganistānā 1990. gadā, lai strādātu slimnīcā karā cietušajiem. Un tad, ne tikai karā cietušajiem, bet tā bija visu veidu pacientiem. Es arī strādāju ortopēdiskajā centrā, kā mēs to saucām. Tā ir vieta, kur mēs izgatavojam kājas. Tajā laikā es atrados savādā situācijā. Es nebiju īsti gatavs šādam darbam. Bija tik daudz, ko mācīties. Daudz kas man bija jauns. Taču tas bija lielisks darbs. Taču tiklīdz karadarbība pastiprinājās, fizikālā rehabilitācija tika atlikta. Bija daudz citu darāmu lietu. Ortopēdisko centru slēdza, jo fizikālā rehabilitācija netika uzskatīta par prioritāti. Tā bija savāda jutoņa. Lai nu kā, katru reizi, kad es saku šo runu, šī nav pirmā reize, bet tas ir saviļņojums. Tas ir kaut kas, kas uzrodas no pagātnes. Tas ir 21 gads, taču tie vēl joprojām ir tepat.
Anyway, in 1992, the Mujahideen took all Afghanistan. And the orthopedic center was closed. I was assigned to work for the homeless, for the internally displaced people. 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. You know, when you want to forget, you don't want to see things, so 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 big noise. And everybody disappeared from the street. The cars disappeared as well. I ducked. And only one figure remained in the middle of the road. It was a man in a wheelchair desperately trying to move away.
Lai nu kā, 1992. gadā modžahedi pārņēma visu Afganistānu. Un ortopēdisko centru slēdza. Es tiku norīkots strādāt ar bezpajumtniekiem, garīgi slimiem cilvēkiem. Taču kādu dienu kas atgadījās. Es atgriezos no lielas pārtikas izdales mošejā, kur desmitiem cilvēku bija saspiesti šausmīgos apstākļos. Es gribēju doties mājās. Es braucu. Zināt, kad jūs vēlaties aizmirst, jūs nevēlaties redzēt lietas, jūs tikai gribat doties uz savu istabu, ieslēgties tajā un sacīt, "Man pietiek." Netālu no manas mašīnas nokrita rokas granāta, labi, patālu, taču troksnis bija pamatīgs. Un visi pazuda no ielas. Arī mašīnas pazuda. Es sarāvos. Un ceļa vidū palika tikai viens cilvēks. Tas bija vīrietis ratiņkrēslā, izmisīgi cenšoties pazust.
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, red in the face in an effort to push the father. So I took him into a safe place. And I ask, "What are you doing out in the street in this situation?" "I work," he said. I wondered, what work? And then I ask an even more stupid question: "Why don't you have the prostheses? Why don't you have the artificial legs?" And he said, "The Red Cross has 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, whose name was Rafi, left. And then I said, "Oh, my God. What did I say? The center is closed, no staff around. Maybe the machinery is broken. Who is going to make the legs for him?" So I hoped that he would not come. This is the streets of Kabul in those days. So I said, "Well I will give him some money."
Es neesmu sevišķi drosmīgs cilvēks, tas man jāatzīst, bet es vienkārši nevarēju viņu ignorēt. Es apturēju mašīnu un devos palīgā. Vīrietis bija bez kājām un ar tikai vienu roku. Aiz viņa bija bērns, viņa dēls, nopūlējies sarkans, cenšoties pastumt tēvu. Es nogādāju viņu drošā vietā. Un jautāju, "Ko jūs darāt ārā uz ielas šajā situācijā?" "Es strādāju," viņš teica. Es brīnījos, ko tieši? Un tad es pajautāju vēl muļķīgāku jautājumu: "Kāpēc jums nav protēzes? Kāpēc jums nav mākslīgās kājas?" Un viņš teica, "Sarkanais Krusts vairs nedarbojas." Bez vilcināšanās es viņam atbildēju, "Atnāciet rīt. Mēs jums pagādāsim kāju pāri." Vīrietis, viņa vārds bija Mahmuds, un bērns, kura vārds bija Rafi, devās prom. Un tad es teicu, "Ak, mans Dievs. Ko gan es pateicu? Centrs ir slēgts, nav neviena darbinieka. Iespējams, ka iekārtas ir salūzušas. Kurš viņam izgatavos kājas?" Es cerēju, ka viņš neieradīsies. Šādas bija Kabulas ielas tajā laikā. Es teicu, "Labi, es iedošu viņam nedaudz naudas."
And so the following day, I went to the orthopedic center. And I spoke with a gatekeeper. I was ready to tell him, "Listen, if someone such-and-such comes tomorrow, please tell him that it was a mistake. Nothing can be done. Give him some money." But Mahmoud and his son were already there. And they were not alone. There were 15, maybe 20, people like him waiting. And there was some staff too. Among them there was my right-hand man, Najmuddin. And the gatekeeper told me, "They come everyday to see if the center will 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 prostheses, the broken prostheses 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 ...
Un nākamajā dienā es devos uz ortopēdisko centru. Un es runāju ar vārtu sargu. Es biju viņam gatavs pateikt, "Klausieties, ja kāds tāds un tāds rīt ierodas, pasakiet viņam, ka tā bija kļūda. Neko nav iespējams darīt. Iedotiet viņam nedaudz naudas." Bet Mahmuds un viņa dēls jau bija tur. Un viņi nebija vieni paši. Tur gaidīja 15, varbūt 20 tādi cilvēki kā viņš. Un bija arī daži darbinieki. Starp tiem bija arī mans palīgs Nadžmudins. Un vārtu sargs man pateica, "Viņi nāk katru dienu, lai redzētu, vai centrs tiks atvērts." Es teicu, "Nē. Mums jāiet prom. Mēs nevaram te palikt." Ne pārāk tuvu notika apšaude, taču varēja dzirdēt granātu troksni. Tā nu, "Mēs nevaram šeit palikt, tas ir bīstami. Tā nav prioritāte." Bet Nadžmudins man teica, "Klausies, mēs esam šeit." Mēs vismaz varam sākt labot protēzes, cilvēku salauztās protēzes un varbūt censties kaut kā palīdzēt tādiem cilvēkiem kā Mahmuds." Es teicu, "Nē, lūdzu. Mēs to nevaram darīt. Tas ir patiešām bīstami. Mums ir darāmas citas lietas." Bet viņi uzstāja. Kad jums priekšā ir 20 cilvēki, kas skatās uz jums, un jūs esat tas, kuram jāizlemj ...
So we started doing some repairs. Also one of the physical therapists reported that Mahmoud could be provided with a leg, but not immediately. The legs were swollen and the 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.
Tā nu mēs sākām veikt labošanu. Viens no fizikālajiem terapeitiem arī ziņoja, ka Mahmudam varētu tikt sadabūta kāja, bet ne uzreiz. Kājas bija uztūkušas un ceļgali bija stīvi, tāpēc viņam bija nepieciešama ilga sagatavošanās. Ticiet man, es biju noraizējies, jo es pārkāpu noteikumus. Es darīju kaut ko tādu, ko man nevajadzēja darīt. Vakarā es devos runāt ar priekšniekiem galvenajā pārvaldē, un es viņiem teicu -- es meloju -- es viņiem teicu, "Klausieties, mēs sāksim katru dienu pāris stundas veikt dažas atjaunošanas." Iespējams, ka daži no viņiem tagad sēž te.
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
So we started. I was working, I was going everyday 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, prevented by the fighting. But people were coming. And Mahmoud was coming every day. And slowly, slowly week after week his legs were improving. The stump or cast prosthesis was made, and he was starting the 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 he could do it every day.
Tā nu mēs sākām. Es strādāju, katru dienu es devos uz darbu palīdzēt bezpajumtniekiem. Un Nadžmudins stāvēja tur, darot visu un ziņojot par pacientiem. Viņš man teica, "Nāk pacienti." Mēs zinājām, ka daudz vairāk pacientu karadarbības dēļ baidās ierasties. Bet cilvēki nāca. Un Mahmuds nāca katru dienu. Un lēnām, lēnām, nedēļu pēc nedēļas viņa kāju stāvoklis uzlabojās. Tika izgatavota amputācijas stumbra jeb atlējuma protēze un viņš sāka īsto fizikālo rehabilitāciju. Viņš nāca katru dienu, šķērsojot frontes līniju. Pāris reižu es šķērsoju frontes līniju tajā pašā vietā, kur Mahmuds un viņa dēls to šķērsoja. Es jums saku, tas bija kaut kas tik draudīgs, ka es biju pārsteigts, ka viņš to dara katru dienu.
But finally, the great day arrived. Mahmoud was going to be discharged with his new legs. It was April, I remember, a very beautiful day. April in Kabul is beautiful, full of roses, full of flowers. We could not possibly stay indoors, with all these sandbags at the windows. Very sad, dark. So we chose a small spot in the garden. And Mahmoud put on his prostheses, the other patients did the same, and they started practicing for the last time before being discharged.
Bet beidzot pienāca lieliskā diena. Mahmuds gatavojās izrakstīties ar savām jaunajām kājām. Es atceros, ka bija aprīlis, ļoti skaista diena. Aprīlis Kabulā ir skaists, pilns rožu un ziedu. Mēs nespējām palikt iekštelpās ar visiem šiem smilšu maisiem priekšā logiem. Ļoti skumji, tumši. Mēs izraudzījāmies mazu vietiņu dārzā. Un Mahmuds uzlika savas protēzes, pārējie pacienti izdarīja to pašu, un viņi sāka trenēties pēdējo reizi pirms izrakstīšanas.
Suddenly, they started fighting. Two groups of Mujahideen started fighting. We could hear in the air the bullets passing. So we dashed, all of us, towards the shelter. Mahmoud grabbed his son, I grabbed someone else. Everybody was grabbing something. And we ran. You know, 50 meters can be a long distance if you are totally exposed, but we managed to reach the shelter. Inside, all of us panting, I sat 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.
Pēkšņi viņi sāka šaut. Divas modžahedu grupas sāka apšaudi. Mēs dzirdējām, kā gaisā svilpa lodes. Mēs visi metāmies skriešus uz patvertni. Mahmuds saķēra savu dēlu, es saķēru kādu citu. Ikviens kādu saķēra. Un mēs skrējām. Zināt, 50 metri var būt garš attālums, ja esat pilnīgi atklātā vietā, bet mēs spējām sasniegt patvertni. Iekšā, visiem mums elšot, es brīdi sēdēju un dzirdēju Rafi sakām savam tēvam, "Tēvs, tu vari paskriet ātrāk par mani." (Smiekli) Un Mahmuds atbildēja, "Protams, ka varu. Es varu paskriet, un tu tagad vari iet uz skolu. Tev nevajag ar mani palikt kopā visu dienu, stumjot manu ratiņkrēslu." Vēlāk mēs aizvedām viņus mājās. Un mēs nekad neaizmirsīsim Mahmudu un viņa dēlu ejot blakus un stumjot tukšo ratiņkrēslu. Un tad es sapratu, ka fizikālā rehabilitācija ir prioritāte. Cieņa nevar gaidīt labākus laikus.
From that day on, we never closed a single day. Well sometimes we were suspended for a few hours, but we never, we never closed it again. I met Mahmoud one year later. He was in good shape -- a bit thinner. He needed to change his prostheses -- a new pair of prostheses. I asked about his son. He told me, "He's at school. He'd doing quite well." But I understood he wanted to tell me something. So I asked him, "What is that?" 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 said, "Okay." I thought, how much money do I have in my pocket? Just to give him some money. It was 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 goosebumps everywhere.
No tās dienas mēs nevienu dienu nebijām slēgti. Reizēm mēs pātraucām uz pāris stundām, bet mēs nekad, nekad to neslēdzām. Es satiku Mahmudu pēc gada. Viņš bija labā formā — nedaudz slaidāks. Viņam vajadzēja nomainīt protēzes -- jaunu protēžu pāri. Es pavaicāju par viņa dēlu. Viņš man teica, "Viņš ir skolā. Viņam iet diezgan labi." Bet es sapratu, ka viņš man kaut ko vēlējās pateikt. Tāpēc es viņam pajautāju, "Kas tas ir?" Viņš nosvīda. Viņš bija acīmredzams kauns. Un viņš stāvēja manā priekšā ar nolaistu galvu. Viņš teica, "Jūs man iemācījāt staigāt. Liels paldies. Tagad palīdziet man vairs nebūt ubagam." Tas bija viņa darbs. "Mani bērni aug. Man ir kauns. Es negribu, lai skolā viņus citi skolnieki ķircinātu." Es teicu, "Labi." Es nodomāju, cik daudz naudas man ir kabatā? Jāiedod viņam nedaudz naudas. Tas bija vienkāršākais veids. Viņš lasīja manas domas, un viņš teica, "Es gribu pieteikties darbā." Un tad viņš kaut ko piebilda, ko es savā dzīvē nekad neaizmirsīšu. Viņš teica, "Es esmu atlieka no cilvēka, bet ja jūs man palīdzēsiet, esmu gatavs darīt visu, pat ja man būtu jārāpo pa zemi." Un tad viņš apsēdās. Es arī apsēdos, un man viscaur uzmetās zosāda.
Legless, with only one arm, illiterate, unskilled -- what job for him? Najmuddin told me, "Well we have a vacancy in the carpentry shop." "What?" I said, "Stop." "Well yes, we need to increase the production of feet. We need to employ someone to glue and to 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, special vice, and maybe an electric screwdriver." I said, "Listen, 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 the only things I could manage to obtain was a kind of a compromise. Only one week -- one week try and not a single day more. One week later, Mahmoud was the fastest in the production line. I told Najmuddin, "That's a trick. I can't believe it." The production was up 20 percent. "It's a trick, it's a trick," I said. And then I asked for verification. It was true.
Bez kājām, ar tikai vienu roku, analfabēts, bez prasmēm -- kādu darbu viņam dot? Nadžmudins teica man, "Mums ir vakance galdniecības izstrādājumu veikalā." "Ko?" es teicu, "Pagaidi." "Labi, jā, mums vajag palielināt pēdu ražošanas apjomu. Mums kāds ir jānoalgo, lai tas līmētu un saskrūvētu pēdu apakšas. Mums jāpalielina ražošanas apjoms." "Atvaino?" Es nespēju noticēt. Un tad viņš teica, "Nē, mēs varam pārveidot ēvelsolu, iespējams, ievietot speciālu krēslu, speciālu laktu, speciālas skrūvspīles, un varbūt elektrisko skrūvgriezi." Es teicu, "Klau, tas ir neprāts. Un tas pat ir cietsirdīgi domāt par kaut ko tādu. Tā ir ražošanas līnija un pat ļoti ātra. Ir cietsirdīgi piedāvāt viņam darbu, zinot, ka viņam tas neizdosies." Bet ar Nadžmudinu nebija jēgas strīdēties. Vienīgās lietas, ko es spēju sarunāt, bija sava veida kompromiss. Tikai vienu nedēļu, izmēģināt vienu nedēļu un ne dienu vairāk. Pēc nedēļas Mahmuds ražošanas līnijā bija pats ātrākais. Es teicu Nadžmudinam, "Tā ir viltība. Es tam neticu." Ražošana bija pieaugusi par 20 procentiem. "Tā ir viltība, tā ir viltība," es teicu. Un tad es prasīju pēc pierādījumiem. Tā bija patiesība.
The comment of Najmuddin was Mahmoud has something to prove. I understood that I was wrong again. Mahmoud had looked taller. I remember him sitting behind the workbench smiling. He was a new man, taller again. Of course, I understood that what made him stand tall -- yeah they were 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 -- a new policy completely different. We decided to employ as many disabled as possible to train them in any possible job. It became a policy of "positive discrimination," we call it now.
Nadžmudina komentārs bija, ka Mahmudam ir kaut kas, ko pierādīt. Es sapratu, ka atkal esmu kļūdījies. Mahmuds bija ar augstāk paceltu galvu. Es atceros viņu smaidošu sēžam aiz ēvelsola. Viņš bija cits cilvēks, garāks. Protams, es sapratu, kas viņu tādu padarīja. Jā, tās bija viņa kājas, liels paldies, taču pats pirmais solis bija pašcieņa. Pateicoties šim darbam, viņš atguva pašcieņu. Tāpēc, protams, es sapratu. Un tad mēs sākām jaunu politiku -- pilnīgi citādu jaunu politiku. Mēs nolēmām pieņemt darbā tik daudz invalīdus, cik vien iespējams, lai mācītu viņiem visus iespējamos darbus. Tā kļuva par "pozitīvās diskriminācijas" politiku, kā mēs to saucam tagad.
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 for the first time. And you should see the faces of these people when they realize that those assisting them are like them. Sometimes you see them, they look, "Oh." And you see the faces. And then 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. Poof, they learn much faster -- the motivation, the empathy they can establish with the patient is completely different, completely. Scraps of men do not exist.
Un zināt ko? Tā ir laba ikvienam. Ikviens no tā ir ieguvējs, nodarbinātie, protams, jo viņi iegūst darbu un cieņu. Tomēr arī jaunatnācēji ir ieguvēji. Viņu katru gadu ir 7,000 -- cilvēki, kas ierodas pirmo reizi. Un jums vajadzētu redzēt šo cilvēku sejas, kad viņi saprot, ka tie, kas viņiem palīdz, ir tādi paši kā viņi. Dažreiz jūs viņus redzat. viņi izskatās, "Oho." Un jūs redzat sejas. Un tad pārsteigums pārvēršas cerībā. Un arī man ir viegli apmācīt kādu, kurš jau ir izgājis cauri invaliditātes pieredzei. Puf, viņi mācās daudz ātrāk — motivācija, līdzjūtības saikne, ko viņi izveido ar pacientu, ir pilnīgi citāda, pilnīgi. Nav tādas cilvēku paliekas.
People like Mahmoud are agents of change. And when you start changing, you cannot stop. So employing people, yes, but also we started programming projects of microfinance, education. And when you start, you cannot stop. So you do vocational training, home education for those who cannot go to school. Physical therapies can be done, not only in the orthopedic center, but also in the houses of the people. There is always a better way to do things. That's Najmuddin, the one with the white coat. Terrible Najmuddin, is that one. I have learned a lot from people like Najmuddin, Mahmoud, Rafi. They are my teachers.
Cilvēki kā Mahmuds ir pārmaiņu nesēji. Un kad tu sāc mainīties, tu nevari apstāties. Jā, nodarbināt cilvēkus, bet mēs arī sākām veidot mikrofinanšu, izglītības projektus. Un kad tu sāc, tu nevari apstāties. Jūs veicat profesionālo sagatavošanu, mājas apmācību tiem, kuri nevar doties uz skolu. Fizikālo terapiju var veikt ne tikai ortopēdiskajā centrā, bet arī cilvēku mājokļos. Vienmēr ir kāds labāks veids, kā paveikt lietas. Tas ir Nadžmudins, tas baltajā mētelī. Tas ir briesmīgais Nadžmudins. Es daudz iemācījies no cilvēkiem kā Nadžmudins, Mahmuds, Rafi. Viņi ir mani skolotāji.
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 listen to the people that we are supposed assist, to make them part of the decision-making process and then, of course, to adapt. This is my big wish.
Man ir vēlēšanās, liela vēlēšanās, ka šis strādāšanas veids, šis domāšanas veids tiks ieviests citās valstīs. Ir daudz tādu karadarbības valstu kā Afganistāna. Tas ir iespējams un tas nav sarežģīti. Viss, kas mums jādara, ir jāklausās cilvēkos, kam mums jāpalīdz, lai padarītu viņus par daļu no lēmuma pieņemšanas procesa un tad, protams, pielāgotu. Tā ir mana lielā vēlēšanās.
Well don't think that 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 the wheelchairs everywhere. We have several teams in the main part of Afghanistan. At the beginning, when Anajulina told me, "We would like to start it," I hesitated. I said, "No," you can imagine. I said, "No, 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 like a true Italian.
Nedomājiet, ka pārmaiņas Afganistānā ir beigušās, nepavisam. Mēs turpinām. Tikko mēs sākām programmu, sporta programmu— basketbols cilvēkiem ratiņkrēslos. Mēs nogādājam ratiņkrēslus visur. Mums lielākajā daļā Afganistānas ir vairākas komandas. Sākumā, kad Anadžulina man teica, "Mēs to gribētu sākt," es vilcinājos. Es teicu, "Nē," jūs varat iedomāties. Es teicu, "Nē, nē, nē, nē, mēs nevaram." Un tad es uzdevu parasto jautājumu: "Vai tā ir prioritāte? Vai tā tiešām ir nepieciešamība?" Jums būtu vajadzējis mani redzēt. Es nekad neizlaižu nevienu treniņu. Naktī pirms spēles es esmu ļoti uztraucies. Un jums mani vajadzētu redzēt spēles laikā. Es kliedzu kā īsts itālis.
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
What's next? What is going to be the next change? Well I don't know yet, but I'm sure Najmuddin and his friends, they have it already in mind.
Kas ir nākamais? Kas būs nākamais, ko mainīsim? Es vēl pagaidām nezinu, bet esmu drošs, ka Nadžmudinam un viņa draugiem, tas ir jau prātā.
That was my story. Thank you very much.
Tāds bija mans stāsts. Liels paldies.
(Applause)
(Aplausi)