After a decade of working in conflict zones, McIntyre finds herself in personal crisis. Compelled to act following the survival of her son from the 89th floor of the World Trade Towers on 9/11, she goes to Afghanistan in January 2002. The American military has just begun its invasion. Her job is to lead the humanitarian response for America as she struggles to reconcile her own internal turmoil. Follow her journey of personal healing as she provides lifesaving assistance to Afghan civilians caught in war. Experience with McIntyre as she finds a poet in a warlord, known as “the butcher of the north.” Learn how she deals with village elders who won’t sit with her. Read how collapsing tunnels, fishnet dresses and pink princess phones make for surprising Afghan days. This book provides a unique window into America’s early months in Afghanistan from the perspective of a woman and a humanitarian.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S.C. McIntyre began her international work after raising three children and having a successful career as a physical therapist. She turns to bringing humanitarian assistance to people in desperate need. She is the mother of a 9/11 survivor and is determined to find a way for herself to emerge without hate from the ruins of the World Trade Center. Facing fears and challenges, McIntyre goes to Afghanistan as the U.S. Government’s team leader in disaster response and succeeds in returning stronger than when she left. She has 30 years of international experience with 20 of them in the U.S. Government specializing in disaster relief. She has a B. Sc. degree from Boston University and a M. Ed. degree from the University of North Carolina. She is now retired and living in Washington, N.C.
“The way has been cleared for you,” he said in a calm voice. “You cannot refuse to go through the tunnel. I am told that a meeting has been arranged on the northern side for you. They will be waiting for the ‘visiting dignitary’ – you.” That was all he said. As usual, all the men that I was to meet in Afghanistan were men of few words, even the interpreters, whose job it was to talk.”
“As we traveled deeper inside (the tunnel), I smelled the foul air and remembered that the ventilation system had been destroyed. My mind began to rush, imagining all kinds of calamities. Without lights, ventilation, or drainage, I feared getting stuck in this icy cave. It smelled damp and cold. Condensation collected on the cold walls and froze along the sides, creating a tube of ice and icicles that further narrowed the tunnel and turned it into a wet, slippery, frosty tube. I felt the Jeep slipping and sliding from side to side. No sun had ever touched the inside of this cold passageway. Even the best, bravest and most stalwart of Afghan drivers were at high risk of becoming the driver of the next wedged truck. I wonder if that would be us.”