Just Desert

The day after Yom Kippur, I was scheduled to meet with someone from Physicians for Human Rights-Israel (PHR-Israel). When I first arrived to the clinic in Tel Aviv, I noticed film crews appeared to be eagerly awaiting for something to happen at the door. Inside, the room was filled with people also on the edge of their seats (er, or the edge of the table each was leaning on since no seats were left). One could detect the kindling of anticipation soon to flood the room already in disarray.


When I found my contact among the various individuals rushing back and forth, up and down a tiny circular staircase, he explained that my visit was timely. George Dalaras (pictured above on left with Shimon Peres; photo from Ynetnews.com), a musician from Greece and a UN goodwill ambassador, was to arrive at the clinic at any moment to meet with refugees from Darfur. In an instant, the refugees downstairs in the lobby and the staff at the clinic swarmed around two figures. Some refugees removed themselves from the whirling flurry and appeared to smile; perhaps, that their efforts to cross a dangerous desert on foot and leave a place tormented by genocide ended in the achievement of a plight to which someone is listening. Perhaps, their thoughts were completely different. One refugee removed himself from the disarray and expressed frustration to my contact: I thought this event was for each of us to tell them our story.

I was invited to stay for a medical clinic following the event. In general, the medical complaints were routine for an outpatient clinic--GERD, dermatitis and STI. However, the patients, as is always the case, were not mere diseases to be fed to the medical algorithm. Many of them were refugees from Eritrea who entered Israel seeking a better life. Since Israel stands at the foot of Africa, many refugees see Israel as the best hope for a more prosperous life. The dangers of crossing the Mediterranean to Europe outweigh the walking distance across desert. Many make it to Egypt but worry they will be sent back and attempt to cross the border to Israel. Other refugees at the clinic came from the Ivory Coast, Nepal and the Sudan.

I found myself standing in the waiting room at some point over the busy evening. A young man who looked to be about my age, approached me and asked me in fluent English when I was going to see his friend. I apologized and explained that I was not the physician in charge, that I was a student and that this was my first visit to the clinic. He smiled and asked, Where are you from? I responded that I was from America and was a student in Atlanta, Georgia. He continued to smile. I am from Darfur. I escaped through Egypt and crossed into Israel, where I was taken into custody for one year. Now, I am free.

In one statement this young man about my age captured everything I had read about the plight of Darfur refugees who had made it to Israel. Intelligent and articulate in a language that was not his first, he made me realize the quintessential principle that necessitates one's pursuit of social justice and why I departed from my cozy final year of medical school to come to this land: given our vastly different experiences, we shared a common humanity.

After seeing a few more patients, the physician in the adjacent room requested assistance from the physician I was following. She knew that as an orthopedic resident by day, he would know the severity of her patient's situation. The patient was a young Palestinian who had been shot in the knee a year ago in Gaza and he described pain and limited range of motion in his knee. He received surgery in Gaza City soon after. Given the incisions on his knee, my resident said the surgery itself may have resulted in this man's condition but he did not feel the patient had any signs of acute infection in the knee. Thus, he could be treated with pain management and conservative therapy.

I learned in this small clinic in south Tel Aviv that the differences between individuals quickly fade. The only relationships that remain involve patients, doctors and, occasionally, translators and these connections are tenable at best. My physician never sought to clarify how this patient was shot (IDF? Hamas? Self-inflicted accident?), nor how this patient was in Tel Aviv (e.g., illegally?). Such information was inconsequential to the task at hand; he served to improve the health and well-being of this patient and, in return, this patient provided both a medical and a human education to my physician through his gratitude and smile.

On another note, this was my second to last meal before fasting for Yom Kippur...shakshuka!!