When showing fear seems to become a luxury

We have now completed another two intensive weeks in Sanya Juu at the Charlotte Hospital in Tanzania.

We now know this place well, and we love it – as well as the people who live here. The sisters show us anew each day what it means to act with unwavering compassion and love, and to be there for all who need medical help, even under the most humble circumstances.

We travel with a group of doctors assembled by Father Bennett, who work within his organization Medical Mission Network .

This year I would like to tell you about a small but very memorable experience.

A woman arrived at the emergency room. She was carrying her 14-month-old child in a traditional Maasai sling. The child had a deep, severely festering wound on its cheek. In fact, the cheek was practically eaten away by pus, leaving a large cavity. The wound had already been opened – when and where exactly remained unclear.

Like most of the patients there, the woman was Maasai. She spoke Maa, her own language, and understood some Swahili, but only to a limited extent. So, translators were needed.

As I approached her, I noticed – as I had in similar situations in previous years – her completely neutral expression. No visible worry, no compassion, no emotional connection with the child or with us.

And I notice how this triggers something in me. Thoughts that arise almost automatically: This is such a poor area, perhaps the people have less access to their feelings. Perhaps they don't care. Perhaps they simply accept illness as fate.

These thoughts make me angry. I ask myself:

Why didn't the mother come earlier?

Why wasn't the wound better protected?

Why this dirty rag, why the flies?

Why does no one demand more from life?

I'm telling you this because these reactions, and what followed, have given me pause and also made me feel ashamed. It has happened to me time and again that I mistakenly perceive indifference in patients who are undoubtedly among the poorest people imaginable.

We were very fortunate to have a dentist with additional training in oral surgery on our team. Together we decided to operate on the child.

Imagine: In our country, simply anesthetizing a 14-month-old child would be a major undertaking. The location, the infrastructure, the numerous safety considerations – all of that is taken into account. Here, however – because there is no alternative – there is no hesitation.

The nurse, who administers all anesthesias at Charlotte Hospital and is trained for it, calmly stated that he had extensive experience with children. He would administer a mask anesthetic; we shouldn't worry. And that's exactly what was done.

We thoroughly cleaned the wound and applied an appropriate dressing. Mother and child remained in the hospital for a few more days so that the wound could be rinsed and treated daily.

It's always amazing how quickly wounds heal here. Significantly faster than back home. Here too: fresh tissue formed after only a short time, the depth of the wound decreased, and you could see the healing progressing from the bottom up.

Of course, it will take weeks for the skin to heal completely. And a scar will remain.

But the truly impressive thing happened on another level.

The moment the mother saw that her child was getting better – that he was being helped – her face changed. The child was no longer apathetic and, after the operation and the antibiotics, no longer had a fever.

And suddenly something opened.

Her face was full of happiness, relief, and gratitude.

One could see how much worry she must have carried beforehand – a worry for which there is hardly any room in this country. For here, people live with the constant acceptance that modest circumstances bring with them blows of fate against which one is powerless.

But now there was this sunny face. And you could feel how much love this mother had for her child – a love that had been put to a severe test.

Since then, she has taken great care of her wound healing. She lives in the Maasai region, on the plains between Mount Meru and Kilimanjaro. There, also run by the Holy Spirit Sisters, is a dispensary called St. Hildegard's Dispensary.

We were able to continue caring for and monitoring the child there.

And I am sure: It will be a success story – one of many quiet success stories of our work here in Tanzania.

Asante sana.