LAST
NIGHT
I am sitting outside the Red Crescent sharing a chocolate roulade
with Rebecca, who has been riding in the ambulances in Jenin for
a month now. There is a soft breeze blowing offering some relief
from the powerful Palestinian sun. Jenin has appeared peaceful
for hours. Without any warning, the medics (all men) are lunging
towards the ambulance."Injury!" they shout, and Rebecca
pulls me over to get in the ambulance with her. "Just one,"
the driver tells us. Suddenly, I am handed a vest, and the door
slams shut. Within moments we are speeding down a rocky dirt road,
trying to find someone who I've been told has been shot. I try
to brace myself. I've only seen gun shot wounds in photographs.
We are flying over potholes, thrashing about in the back of the
ambulance. It seems like we've been driving for ever. We are in
the hills searching. We can't find the victim. We are driving
in circles. I look down at myself, unbelieving. I am in an ambulance
in Jenin. Finally after more than thirty minutes we come across
a carful of waving people. The victim has not been shot, she has
fallen and seriously injured her back, is nine months pregnant,
crying in panic, and in labor. They load her into the back of
the ambulance, and I sit at her head, petting her forehead and
squeezing her hand. She says she has to push. All of a sudden,
I am thrown a pair of gloves. "You do it."
The
mother's headscarf is still pinned under her chin. She is in a
heavy black velvet dress and covered in a sheet. Only her undergarments
have been removed. I am perplexed. How am I to do an exam under
a sheet at sixty miles an hour on an unbelievably bumpy road with
male medics staring on at woman who is horribly and terribly ashamed?
I try patting her reassuringly, cooing to her in English. I
have yet to learn the Arabic words for breathe and relax. She
is very distressed, but still insisting that she has to push.
I ask the driver to please tell her that I cannot help her if
I cannot see. She consents, but only if I work under the sheet.
The baby is not crowning yet, I am relived...we still have time.
We get the mother to the hospital, and both mom and baby are stable.
As we pull out, I can see the red glow of gun fire from a tank.
We ask the locals exactly where it is so we can get to the next
call safely. More often than not the ambulances are stopped and
search, but tonight we escape the watchful eyes of the Israeli
army.
TODAY
I will go to interview at the maternity hospital today, and hopefully
ask them questions that will help me bridge the gap between cultural
sensitivity and being able to give adequate care. I am scheduled
to work the ambulances from 6-11pm tonight and will also be teaching
a summer camp for children from 8-11am. Last night several houses
were destroyed again, but no one really cares. I hear explosions
all morning; a baby cries at the sound of a fighter jet. I am
told this is not news, this is just the way things are.
I am looking forward to my shift tonight.
I feel very comfortable in the ambulance, and am enjoying the
privilege of working directly with the people.
