Okay, perhaps the title of this post is a bit irreverent for Islam's holy month, but I try to take as good as I give, and after all, I kid because I love (I also apparently love cultural references dated by half a decade).
Since Ramallah is a religiously mixed city (not meaning that it is compulsively churned, but rather that many faiths peacefully coexist here) many of the shops and restaurants are still open, although out of deference to the Muslim faithful they close their patio seating areas. During the month Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset in order to practice restraint and to purify themselves, refraining from, amongst other things, food, smoking, even drinking water during the day. At least I've got the smoking one down pat...
Not being Muslim, of course, I was eating breakfast (and still not smoking) in the hotel restaurant this morning. It was still early (the only time I have a regular sleep-wake schedule is when I'm abroad; having normal human hours is actually kind of nice) so I was seated by myself , when the restaurant's only other patron walked over and introduced himself. At first I couldn't discern his accent, but when he said his name, "John McDonald," it all clicked and I recognized his Scottish burrrrr.
That's one of the beauty things about travel. The hotel we're staying in is a bit shabby (if one were to be kind one might call it "comfortable") - for example, the other morning I was using a washcloth which tore to shreds in my hands, and I have very soft skin so I don't think it's my fault - but it's occupied by all sorts of honest, hard-working NGO-types who are the kind of lovely people who don't give a second thought to coming over, shaking your hand and asking where you're from.
It turns out that John is actually "Professor McDonald", in public health, and he was in town on one of his biannual, ten-day long visiting professorships teaching at Birzeit University, which he's been doing for the past 14 years or so. I forgot to ask what Birzeit's mascot was. I gave him one of my business cards (handing out cards is kind of a novel thing in emergency medicine. We typically hope our patients don't need to come back, but over the past couple of years we've discovered that giving cards to our patients makes us look more professional and gives them a name to the face, a much more humanizing experience. I've recently taken to instinctually flipping out cards when meeting new people, almost reflexively, like a ninja throwing knives at a surprise assailant). But we sat and chatted for five minutes or so about our respective countries (he actually lives in Australia), about Palestine, about the people.
As I'd mentioned in a previous post, I've never worked in an office before, but I am familiar with little bits of corporate-speak, one of which is that any organization is only as good as its individuals. So even if you have an excellent corporate structure established, its full potential depends on the quality of the actual individuals working in it; in that respect, Palestine's got it made.
The people are pretty terrific. I know I've already said that, but it bears saying again: the people are the best resource here. In Qalqilya we met a general surgeon who'd trained in Jordan, and was the only general surgeon who covered the entire hospital. In addition to performing general abdominal surgeries, he also does all of the thyroid surgeries, the pediatric surgeries, the breast surgeries, the trauma surgeries. Taking time out from his day, he walked around the hospital with us, "do you see this picture? This young man was in a car accident, and the next day he developed a fever, and had pain in his abdomen, I did a laparotomy, this was his pancreas, he had lacerated his pancreas, and I did a distal pancreatectomy. He now has diabetes," he says, to which I reply, "yes, but he's alive!" and to which he responds, "yes, this is the point, he is alive!" We both smile and keep walking, "there was a child, he had been in a very bad accident, he had infarcted much of his small bowel, I resected three meters of his bowel and then a jejuno-colonic anastamosis, he is now on TPN because of short bowel syndrome," and grinning at each other, we finish, "yes, but he is alive!" He rarely has a day off. I give him a business card.
Growing up pale and chubby the way I did gives me a particular heart for the weak, for the underdog. These people are certainly the underdogs, but they are by no means weak. I am grateful to know them.
Refraining from bringing guns in to the emergency department isn't just for Ramadan - it's kind of a year round thing.
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