Basil by Olha Tepliuk

Have you ever saved a life?

I have been saving people every day. Wounded, broken, burnt - no matter what, I could fix anything, and never asked questions. The lives are too short not to prolong them as much as I can. Or at least relieve some pains.

I’m Basil, a doctor. An average-looking man with olive skin, black curly hair and a medium, yet growing, stubble - a mark of this new place’s requirements. My name means brave, valiant - qualities of a decent Arab that my parents had been growing me up with. The sacred memory of them. 

There’s not that much to attach to when you’re an immigrant. So applying to the Red Cross medical volunteer wasn’t a big deal. And now I’m here, trying to trace the footprints of my origins.

Once colourful mandalas on houses are covered with cheap, peeling white paint. The pomegranate flavour is tainted with gunpowder. Afghanistan. My forever-lost homeland. It is projected by the United Nations OCHA that over 14.4 million people in the country require humanitarian health assistance during 2025. Decades of conflict have left the health system heavily dependent on international assistance. I was supposed to take part in the Basic Emergency Care training programme for local men.

The days were passing by, as I learnt the rules. Riffles were always looking, not forgiving a mere disobedience. The August sun’s lashes were nearly as cruel as the laws here, as I was walking to the Basic Health Clinic that I was appointed to. Always escorted by the eye of steel. 

I knew what would happen that day, but we were prohibited from talking to residents, so I obeyed, having witnessed the consequences of not doing so. Would I save anyone if I were a bit braver?

It all started with a slight vibration of the ground. The pushes went gradually more and more intense. No one could even stand still on the ground. The earth roared in despair, consuming fruits of the regime. The rotten pomegranates, that once cherished in flavour. The earth consumed it all, devouring buildings together with the maggots inside.

Chaos. All ran. 

I saw a woman begging for help under debris. A woman in our vision, not in theirs. The blue burka was hiding a “shadow of a man” here. A shadow must not speak. A man must not approach a woman.

The riffles were always looking, not forgiving a mere disobedience. Would I save anyone if I were brave enough? Gunshot. No more cries.

Am I still worthy of my name? Basil, that means the “brave”.