Alberto Cairo
In his mid-30s, Alberto Cairo picked up his life as an Italian lawyer and physical therapist to move to Kabul, Afghanistan, to oversee an International Committee of the Red Cross rehabilitation center for victims of the war with the Soviet Union. Since then, Cairo, 55, has overseen the opening of five more Afghan clinics that have cared for 95,000 patients, including non-war victims. Nearly all of his 320 staff members have similar disabilities as their patients, a practice Cairo calls “positive discrimination.” He sat down with The Examiner to share why he gives what he gives, and how more of us could, too.
Do you consider yourself to be of a specific faith?
I’m a Christian, but that’s not the reason I’m doing what I’m doing. As a human being, I feel it is my duty to do something for other people in need. To believe or not to believe is something else, but I feel it is my duty to do something for people who are less fortunate, who are in bad situations.
The majority of Americans have been blessed by quality health care to the extent we can almost take it for granted. What have you learned from your patients, many of whom have not had that luxury?
Afghans come to the Red Cross centers expecting us to be able to do something for them, knowing that we’ll try. But at the same time, they’re often quite fatalistic — if they cannot be healed, they accept that. Many have not been used to receiving any care. They come to us full of hope, but if they don’t achieve their dreams, they accept it, and say thank you, and they go. And sometimes that’s very sad — you understand they’re disappointed, but still they say thank you. Mothers come with children who have polio and one leg is paralyzed — at that point there’s nothing to do. With a leg caliper or a splint brace they can walk again, but they can’t expect a complete recovery — even if you go to the moon to help. You can see they’re disappointed, but still they tell you thank you, and you see that they’re grateful. And that — sometimes it hurts.
You’ve been doing this for nearly 20 years, and people continue to stream through the clinics’ doors. How do you and your staff keep from saying, “This is too much — I need to wash my hands of this”?
How can you? No, no, no — it never comes to our minds. When you choose such a job, you cannot wash your hands of it. We cannot solve things for everyone, but not being able to do something — no. Sometimes it’s enough just to talk to patients. Some people come to us never having found someone to listen to their stories — sometimes it’s enough to listen. There are cases where we can’t do anything — it’s too complicated, they’re severely disabled. So you invent things — there’s always a way to do something. “Wash your hands of it,” this is an expression I don’t want to listen to. There’s always something — with imagination, with kindness.
Many people move to Washington, D.C., hoping to make a difference, but they find themselves frustrated by too much time in the office and without the satisfaction that they’ve actually changed a thing. What is your advice for those people?
I say there is always a moment when you can do something. When people tell me, “You’re such a lucky person. I’m stuck, I’d like to do something practical,” they’re lying. There’s always something you can do. You just have to roll up your sleeves. Or there’s always a moment to listen to people, to speak with someone.
I know a lady in Italy; she’s quite old, and every day she goes to a seniors home to read the newspaper aloud. “I would read it myself anyway, so why not read it to someone else?” she says. And she’s made a lot of friends that way. Of course there are people who are busy with work or family obligations, but even if it’s every month, every week — it keeps you in touch.
At your core, what is one of your defining beliefs?
Give something. You will get in return a lot, and you will be so very happy. That would be enough for a life.
