A badly scratched oxygen tank is propped up against a bed. The white sheets are alive with swarms of black flies. This is the medical clinic for this camp of more than 80,000 Afghan refugees, but it's little better than the sea of squalid tents made from discarded plastic bags where the Afghans live. Their only latrines are holes in the ground, surrounded by sheets strung up to provide a bit of privacy. The scenes of sickness and despair at this camp in northwest Pakistan can only reinforce Lubbers' description.
Dysentery is on the rise, and small children scratch blistering sores on their arms, neck and faces.
Inside a tent of dirty plastic bags, a woman complains of a lack of medicine as she tends her tiny, feverish son. I am sick. My two sons are dead. All I have left are their four small children. Everyone else is dead.