What Comes Next

On the 9th of July, 2011, South Sudan became a country.  It wasn't clean, although the proposed lines had been drawn up years ago by the British.  But those are just lines on a map, not on the earth.  It reminds me of what Arthur said to Merlin as he was allowed to see with the eyes of a hawk.  Merlin had asked him 'what do you see?'  and Arthur replied, 'I don't see any borders.'   These borders are just as difficult for  nomadic peoples to recognize.  So they argue about them, and sometimes fight about them.

There are oil reserves in South Sudan.  But there is no port.  To get the oil out of the country to be sold, requires a pipeline, and this pipeline goes through Sudan to the Port of Sudan.  Sudan has told South Sudan that it is OK to use the pipeline as long as they are willing to pay for its use.  Most pipelines in the area ask for about 1 dollar per barrel.  Sudan is asking for 38 dollars per barrel.  South Sudan thinks that is a bit too much, so to save money, they have stopped shipping oil.  However, oil is the primary means for South Sudan to make any money.  As a result, they don't have much money.  Which is not good for infrastructure.
About two weeks ago I was asked to go to South Sudan with Doctors Without Borders, to help with taking care of war wounded and others needing medical and surgical help.  So I will go.  It is tough.  The operating room is in a tent.  There are no real bathrooms.  There are latrine pits that require squatting over a hole.  The temperature is 120 to 130 degrees.  I'm afraid that it will make the heat of Sri Lanka seem like the north shore of Lake Superior.

Remember hearing of Darfur?  The Lost Boys of Darfur?  The genocide in Sudan?  2 million people dead?  4 million people displaced?  So here I go...

She Smiled

Colombo is the capital of Sri Lanka.  It is trying to be a modern, cosmopolitan city.  There are shops and hotels, and some of them are pretty expensive.  There are cars and motorcycles, and more tukk-tukks that you can count.  There are rich people, nouveau riche, and poor people.  And there are beggars.

We were having a bite for lunch at a local restaurant.  Around the corner from where we were seated, there was a woman sitting on the curb, looking at the people passing by her with a gentle longing in her eyes.  I'd seen beggars before.  They have them in New York, and Philadelphia, and Chicago.  There was one in Decorah, once, I think, but I'm not sure.  I have always been told to ignore them, to look the other way.  To give them money would be the same as encouraging their bad habits.  They would buy drugs, and booze.  So to soothe our guilt at passing them by, we would give them food.  Perhaps an apple, or a muffin.  At least it wasn't drugs.

But in Colombo, it is different.  I watched the people approach this woman, and give her some money.  They would greet her, and look at her, not look away and pretend to be busy.  Business men in nice suits would reach into their pockets and find some rupees to donate.  I watched one man give her a larger bill because he didn't have a small one.  He asked her for change, and she held out her hand with her money in it, and he took a couple of smaller bills.  She smiled and nodded at him, grateful for his honesty.

She was unfortunate.  Somehow misshapen in an accident of birth, or of life.  Unable to work or create a living for herself, she was dependent on the kindness of others.  And they stepped up to the plate.  As I watched, hardly anyone went by without acknowledging her.  If they didn't have the money to give her, the greeted her with a nod, a smile, a gesture or a touch.  As we got up to leave, we all went out the other door, so that we could give to her.  I didn't have much, maybe 20 rupees.  I nodded, as I didn't know the correct greeting in Singala.  I gave her the 20 rupee note, and as she reached up to me, the white guy, she smiled at me in thanks.  Her eyes were dark chocolate brown, and her face was contorted from whatever had affected her.  She put her hands together and gently bowed her head in the traditional greeting.Yet through it all, she smiled.  There was a gentleness there.  She didn't ask for pity.  She didn't look critically at the few who passed her by.  It seemed that the sun shined on her, and she returned that glow, reflecting the warm rays back into the people on the street.

The Salt in the Ocean

The blue of the Indian Ocean is a gentle blue.  Not that fierce, cold blue of the the Atlantic, but rather the warm colors we see in friendly eyes.  Those waters can change from the gentle caressing of the sands to waves that slap the shores and can be heard like rolling tympani.  In 2004, the waters became angry and slipped onto the land in the tsunami.  The ocean has a way of reminding us of our hubris.

It is warm, this ocean.  It licks our legs like an innocent puppy's soft tongue.  The small crabs in the sand scuttle back and forth, avoiding the waves in what appears to be a game of tag.  Small fish jump as they try to escape the unseen predators below.  It is a living thing, beating like a heart, pulsing through arteries that are made up of currents and tides, ebbs and flows.  It is where life began.

There is something almost primal about the ocean.  I am drawn to it, in all of its complexity, and yet in its unassuming simplicity.  It warms me, and surrounds me, like a hug from a friend who is glad of my return. There is also a sadness there, somewhere.  The feeling that somewhere, sometime, I have left something there.  Something that was a part of me at one time.  Something that I now miss in my being, that is now absent.  Perhaps it is a memory of a different time, of a different place.  All I do know is that the taste of the salt in ocean is the same as the taste of salt in my tears.  Maybe that is why the ocean is so big.  It has to contain the tears of so many.  And it stills welcomes us back without judgement or criticism, mixing together the tears of our souls.

The Game Changer

She asked me the hard question.  She, the two time Olympic medalist, who knew what questions to ask, who had proved more than ever needed to be proved.  She who always smiled at me, yet had an intimate knowledge of the dark places where most fear to go.  She understood the depths of pain as well as the victories that happen when that pain is ignored.

She tried to send me coffee, when I was in a place that didn't have any.  Just the thought of that effort makes me smile.  But yet she asked me the question, I think, already knowing the answer.

Karen Kraft asked me if it was a game changer, this experience with MSF.  I took that to mean, was this experience enough to change my ideals, my attitudes, and perhaps, my life?  Was medalling in two different Olympic competitions a game changer to her?  Damn right it was.  But there are only a few who can relate to her experience.  And there are only a few who can relate to the MSF experience.  Was it the medalling that changed her, or was it the journey to get there?  For me, was it being in Sri Lanka with MSF, or was it the process that made that possible?

So the answer is an emphatic YES, this is a game changer.  But how do you change the game?  The rules of the game may not change.  What changes is how we play.  And how we play depends on who we are, and who we are depends on our experiences, and that is why this is a game changer.  So how do we change how we play?  We reach into those places where no one else dares to look, and we bring out the best of ourselves.  We ignore the comforts of home and we strive to be better.  We look at our scars, and we remember where we got them.  Sometimes those scars may hurt, but they are what paint the picture of who we are, and who we will become.  The more scars, the prettier the picture.

So the game has changed.  She knew it had.  But she asked, knowing the answer, because she could.  And I answered her because I could, that, yes, it was a game changer.

We Are the World

A bunch of strangers showed up in Sri Lanka at the request of Medecins Sans Frontiers to help a population in need.  The Tamil people, nearly exterminated, are trying to scratch a life from the red clay.  They carry with them the wounds of the war.  They have limbs that are missing, or non-functional.  They have pieces of steel lodged in their muscles and sinews.  They have memories that they can't forget.  And yet somehow they are able to smile at us, we strangers.

There were a couple of Japanese, a Hong Kong Chinese, Western Europeans, and a couple of Americans and an occasional African.  I have wondered at what has bonded us together.  Why did our friendships blossom and grow?  We didn't know each other.  I'm not sure that I ever learned people's full names.  We didn't even speak each other's language well.  But we tried.  And we smiled at each other, and we created a bond between us that will be hard to break.  I'm sure that our reasons for being there were as different as the countries that we represented.  But I believe that there was a common thread.  Somehow, we felt driven to help people in need.  We felt that we could let go of our comforts of home, to become strangers in a harsh land, in order to make a positive difference to a people who were uncertain of their tomorrow.

In a way, we were the refugees, the strangers in the new land.  We shared the bond of exiles, the bond of the dispossessed.  Our belongings were shared, we didn't really own anything.  And we shared a hope for a future, not only for the Sri Lankan people, but for ourselves;  for the world that we live in, and for the friendships that have formed.  I hope that the bond between us never breaks.

The Risks of Helping People

The Singala people, the majority in Sri Lanka, refer to the Tamils as terrorists.  The rebel faction, called the LTTE, for the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, were rebels.  And I suppose at one time they did use some tactics that would be called terrorist.  But so did the SLA (Sri Lanka Army), although they deny it.  The Tamil people lost the war that started in the early eighties, and lasted until 2009.  Many Tamil people lost their lives, and near the end of the war, the few who remained, fled into the jungles around Mullaitivu.  The Tamil people were, and are defeated.  They have lost nearly everything except their pride.  The MSF project that I have been working on has concentrated on the Tamil people who are now being repatriated into the area.  They have nothing.

Sometime after 9/11, international law made aiding terrorist groups illegal.  This is referred to as the criminalization of humanitarian care.  There are groups who have been labelled 'terrorist', but have no access to medical care.  So MSF evaluates the needs, and if the need is there, helps to provide care to the people who need it. They don't care which side of the line people are on.  They want to help people who need help.  They help people on either side.  They help people of any religion, of any ethnicity, of any race.  They look at people as people.  Some people are in situations where they need help, and cannot get it.  And so MSF is there trying to help, and takes the risk of helping.

The Daniels

The whole time that I was in Sri Lanka, I was either referred to as 'the surgeon,' or as Dr. Daniel.  They didn't really use last names in the way that we do.  But that was fine.  In fact, it was refreshing for me.  But I was not the only Daniel.  There were two others, and I include them here.  Daniel with the glasses, was a translator, and a very excellent one at that.  His sense of humor was relentless, and he never stopped giving me a hard time.  Daniel, the other Tamil guy, worked with the mental health team, and was an excellent counselor.  I know of many people who requested him and him alone.  He had a special way with the people who were hurting, and didn't know where to turn.  His empathy for the Tamil people was so real, that many times we all shared their tears.

It is a huge honor to be sitting between them.  I don't think that Daniel was really their name, but I was sure proud that they had chosen that name to go by.