In this photo taken Thursday, June 11, 2009, Lt. Michelle Smith, of Boise, Idaho, holds hands with 8-year-old Razia at Bagram Air Base, north of Kabul, Afghanistan. Razia was evacuated to the hospital in May after she was severely burned when a white phosphorus round hit her home in the Tagab Valley, killing two of her sisters during fighting between French troops and Taliban militants. (AP Photo/Rafiq Maqbool)
The 8-year-old's skin was smoking from white phosphorus, a lethal chemical. Her hair was burned away. Her face, head, neck and arms were scorched yellow, pink and black.
When the doctors tried to scrape away the dead tissue, flames leapt out.
More than 15 surgeries later, Razia is scheduled to be released Wednesday from the U.S. military hospital at Bagram.
She can smile again. She has learned to say "ice cream" in English and play catch with nurses. But her skin will remain scarred, her hair will never grow back and the mystery behind her tragedy remains unsolved: Who fired the white phosphorus?
After months of care, her nurse, a mother of three girls back in the U.S., considers Razia her fourth daughter.
"You're just not even sure whether this child is going to make it or not," said Capt. Christine Collins. "And then seeing her actually walk for the first time, taking her outside for the first time ... it's one of those life-changing things that you'll never, ever forget."
Razia had just finished breakfast when U.S., French and Afghan forces appeared near her village March 14 in the Tagab Valley of Kapisa, north of Kabul. Abdul Aziz, a father of nine, told his children to get inside their mud-brick home.
But two shells ripped through the house. Fire, smoke and dust filled the room.
"The sound of the blast was very strong and I was almost unconscious. I couldn't think. My children were shouting at me: 'Wake up! You're burning!" Aziz said.
Flames engulfed Razia. Aziz dumped a bucket of water on her but the chemicals burned on. Two of Razia's sisters lay dead. Five other family members, including the mother, were seriously wounded.
Aziz took Razia to the Afghan soldiers near his home, but they could do nothing. A private Afghan vehicle took Aziz and his daughter to the nearby French base. Razia slipped in and out of consciousness as her father poured water on her face to keep her awake.
White phosphorus burns until it's gone. It can burn right down to the bone.
U.S and NATO troops use white phosphorus to illuminate targets, create smoke screens and destroy old bunkers, but say they don't use it as a weapon. While white phosphorus is not banned under international law, human rights groups denounce its use in populated areas. U.S. officials allege that militants have used white phosphorus in mortars or rockets at least 12 times in the last several years.
Aziz is convinced international forces fired the round that destroyed his home. French troops in green armored personnel carriers, U.S. troops in tan Humvees and Afghan soldiers gathered nearby before the attack, Aziz said. The Taliban in his region have only AK-47s, heavy machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades, he said.
A U.S. military spokeswoman with NATO's security force said military officials can't be certain whether it was their own round or an enemy round that hit Razia's house.
"Either scenario is possible, and equally regrettable," Maj. Jennifer Willis said. "One thing is certain: Razia will have the best care that we can give her."
Two U.S. officials told The Associated Press that the battle was primarily a French operation. They spoke on condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to release the nationality of the force involved.
In Paris, military spokesman Christophe Prazuck said French troops don't have white phosphorus bombs but do have rounds to create smoke screens or illuminate targets. He could not immediately say whether such devices were used in the March 14 battle.
A U.S. medevac helicopter stopped at the French base to pick up Razia. Medic Sgt. Stephen Park looked in a waiting ambulance and saw the girl burned "from head to waist."
"And the first thing I said to them was, 'Is she still alive?'" Park said.
A father himself, the 33-year-old from Reno, Nev., picked up the girl and told his pilots to fly at top speed. They arrived at Bagram's SSG Heath N. Craig Joint Theater Hospital 20 minutes later, only a couple of hours after the battle.
"It was intense, very emotional," said Park. "When we got (to Bagram) I think even all the ER staff and all the doctors and nurses didn't think she was going to make it."
Victims with burns covering more than 50 percent of their bodies don't survive. Razia had burns on 40 to 45 percent of her body. Capt. Autumn Richards, a pediatrician from Fort Bliss, Texas, who first saw Razia in the operating room, didn't think the girl would live. White powder covered her skin, and flames shot out from her body.
"It was a very surprising thing to us, and very scary," said Richards. "I do remember trying to keep the oxygen off her, because of course that's a flammable gas, and we all realized after the fact that it was a very dangerous situation."
Capt. Collins served as Razia's primary nurse during the first weeks of care. Razia, who was hooked up to a feeding tube, wouldn't respond to the nurses or doctors even after a week in the hospital. Collins used her experience as a mother to reach out. Nurses carefully lifted Razia out of bed, and Collins rocked her for an hour.
"After that she was a completely different child," she said, her voice cracking. "She smiled for the first time. She was looking at her father and started talking to her father a lot more. And at that point I knew we would have this bond that would probably last a lifetime with her," Collins said.
Every day Collins had a goal: Get Razia out of bed. Sit her in a chair. Create a moment of normalcy. A month into Razia's recovery, Collins decided it was time for her to walk. The first day she took three steps, an effort that exhausted her. Within weeks she could walk to the hospital kitchen. Ten weeks after being injured, she could run.
In the moments of pain, Collins rocked Razia, sang to her, and wiped away the girl's tears.
The American team has tried to help Razia feel normal. Nurses painted her fingernails red, a splash of color next to scarred skin. A friend in the U.S. sent a black wig, which Razia wore with a wide smile.
Razia still appears shy, and is reluctant to answer questions. Her nurse says she has her good days and bad days.
But on a recent sunny day, Razia led nurse 1st Lt. Michelle Smith to the cafeteria, where she loaded kiwis, bananas, a Gatorade shake and an ice cream bar into her wheelchair. Doctors and nurses gave the tiny patient high fives and smiles.
Doctors expect Razia to recover — barring any serious infections — but the scars will remain. The skin on her arms, legs, chest and face are a scaly red. Most of her head is scarred red scalp. Much of her left ear is burned off.
The staff quietly worries that Razia may never have a normal life in Afghanistan, where women in the countryside are mostly defined by the marriage they enter.
"Burns are horrific. They're so disfiguring, and when you put those burns on a child you just wonder what their lives are going to be like," said 1st Lt. Gary Webb, an Air Force nurse stationed in Colorado Springs. "It just really is heartbreaking. You just don't know what's going to happen."
At the hospital, Razia's father overheard a police officer tell another official: "No one will marry her."
"I was so angry I wanted to run after him and punch him," Aziz said. "Instead of saying something good, they only wanted to say something negative. I hadn't even thought of (her marriage situation) before."
When Razia is released from the hospital, she won't find her old home. It was destroyed by the rounds that disfigured her body. Her wounded relatives have recovered but show signs of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Her father once ran a vegetable shop, but he has no more money. He is thankful to the U.S. team for the extraordinary medical care but remains laden with worry.
His family's future — and Razia's — is uncertain.