Internally displaced Somali women carry their children as they stand outside their makeshift shelter in the capital Mogadishu
It caught me by surprise, a feeling tugging from the back of my throat. It was completely unexpected. my chest felt constricted. my breathing became shallow and then, I couldn’t see – blinded by my tears.
I was, at a temporary clinic set up by SA charity Gift of the Givers near an overcrowded refugee camp in Mogadishu, Somalia. for the past five days I’d been reporting for South Africa’s eNews Channel on starving babies, sick babies, babies with measles.
I’d witnessed a litany of medical conditions; TB, gastro, cholera, leprosy, pneumonia – they all jostle for space here. I had looked mothers in the eye as I asked them about the treacherous journeys they’d undertaken for weeks, barefoot and dehydrated.
They told me how they’d buried their children in strange lands along the roads. I felt pity for them, yes, but I didn’t cry. I had stories to file for 13:00 and 19:00 deadlines. I needed to write, edit, do live shots, work with my cameraman, all the while staying alert and alive as sporadic gunfire clamoured just down the street, as common to Mogadishu as a dog’s bark is in suburban Johannesburg.
Then, I met Baby Salamo. She wasn’t nearly as sick as the other babies we had reported on. Her mother wasn’t as shabbily dressed and had a smiling, hopeful face as she watched the Gift of the Givers paediatricians insert an intravenous drip into her daughter’s tiny hand. the baby whimpered, her petite lips circled into a tiny, emaciated yell, and she stretched out her free hand. I reached toward her outstretched hand with my index finger and she gripped it tightly, looking me right in the eye and screaming bloody murder. I was overwhelmed. It all went blurry after that.
The paediatrician continued with his work unperturbed by the weeping wannabe war correspondent. Salamo and I cried together. Her mother looked at me, a concerned look on her face, and rubbed my shoulder affectionately. this kind gesture from a person who had nothing forced another torrent of tears.
Baby Salamo was undergoing the first step to recovery. the doctors rejoiced when the mother, with a panicked look on her face, lifted up her baby to reveal a big wet spot. When a child gives an almighty wail and real tears pop out of her eyes, it’s an achievement because dehydrated babies don’t cry tears. some are so listless they don’t have the energy to do anything other than whimper.
Looking back now, I’m not sure if it was the kindness of the doctors, dieticians, paramedics, and nurses that pushed me over the edge that day. Everyone was so tired and emotionally exhausted I assumed they had gone (like me) into robotic mode.
Then, I noticed Ismail Vawda fussing over Baby Salamo, chatting patiently via translator to her concerned mother, finding out if she was still breastfeeding and what the baby’s symptoms were. the young doctor looked so concerned and so sincere. then it dawned on me. this man, dressed in his Islamic “topee” hat, scrubs and beard, who looked more like a kindly Papa Smurf than a paediatrician in a warzone, really did care about this baby. They all do.
The tender way they assess these patients, you soon realise is not a mechanical act learned from some textbook. the joy they feel when a tiny patient starts to respond and begins to perk as the IV fluid runs into its veins, is all real. I struggled to believe the reality of it – here are people who are giving everything, asking for nothing and seeing genuine pleasure in their patients’ recovery. these medical practitioners are all volunteers, taking either special leave or vacation leave to make the trip.
It is one thing to pray, but it is another to help and then pray. to have unwavering faith. – this is an abridged version. Free African Media