A beautiful flower. almeen bano

I trained at the hospital. My teacher was Mika, who is Dr. J’s wife. She took me under her wing and was very patient with me. Eventually, I knew enough to work on my own with the patients. I don’t have a degree, but I do have knowledge.

      It felt terrific to express what she needed to hear and even more rewarding to speak from the heart. We were silent for the next few moments, perhaps pondering the new bond that had just formed between us.

      Before we left, Mohammed came over to see how we were doing. He asked me, “Is there anything you would like to know about Za’atari?”

      “Why don’t you enlighten us with some interesting facts?”

      “Certainly, we currently have about eighty thousand refugees here, making it the largest refugee camp in the world. Did you know that we have had so many babies before here that half of our population are children?”

      “Wow. Who takes care of all these children?”

      “Besides Elaina, many charities, including the United Nations, lend a hand.”

      “And what is your story? How did you end up here?”

      “I was a restaurant owner in Aleppo. My wife and I fled here after the government started bombing the city. We have adopted three children.”

      “You have a kind heart, Mohammed, even though I know you will try to sell me more tea and take my money.”

      Mohammed laughed. “Yes, I will. Enjoy your stay here, Joe.”

      “Shukran.”

      After the tea, we continued our journey, with Elaina diligently showing me around and sharing insights about how electricity and water were supplied to the camp.

      We reached the hospital thirty minutes later, signaling the end of our time together. Although we had spent the whole day with each other, it felt as though only a few hours had passed.

      “So, this was the tour of the camp, Mr. Joe,” she giggled.

      “Is it? I guess my luck has run out,” I attempted to flirt.

      “But seriously, I had a wonderful time.” I praised her with a smile. "Taking a walk around the camp was nothing short of magic. You're a terrific guide, Elaina. I hope that from here on, the two of us cross paths more often.”

      “Thank you,” she blushed.

      “Shukran,” I said, attempting to thank her for her time in my less-than-fluent Arabic.

      “Not bad,” she laughed. “Don't worry, I'll teach you some Arabic.”

      “Looking forward to it,” I replied, tipping my beach hat.

      With those words, we bid our farewells and went our separate ways.

      ***

      Elaina

      Once the tour was finished, Elaina went to see Dr. J. She went into his office and sat across from him.

      “How did it go?” Dr. J asked.

      “Everything was fine. There were no problems at all.

      “Good. What did you think of Joe?”

      “I only met him today.”

      “I know that. I don’t want to know your personal feelings for him—but do you think he can work and survive here?

      “Probably. He’s very curious about everything in Za”atari and appears to want to learn more about my culture. He seems like a good guy.”

      “Who did he meet?”

      “We met Salah, Ishmael, and Mohammed from the tea place.”

      “All right. I guess the day was fine. I’d like you to please keep an eye on him and help him out if he needs anything. I will handle his medical training, but you know a lot more about Za’atari than I do.”

      “OK. I will help him if he needs it. Right now, he’s doing fine and making contacts.”

      “Thanks for stopping by. You can rest now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      Elaina left and went to her room to rest. One thing she didn’t tell Dr. J was how interested he seemed to be in her. Maybe that’s just his personality. Yet, she felt she would like to learn more about Joe. He had been very kind and gave her many compliments.

      Chapter 4: The Daily Routine of Za’atari

      During the next few days after the tour, there was little time to converse and socialize with Elaina. We would occasionally share meals in the mess hall, but always in the company of other hospital staff. Most of our conversations focused on work or Ishmael. Private conversations remained elusive.

      As Dr. J’s intern, I adhered to his rigorous schedule, often spanning sixteen-hour days. The operating room became my classroom, where the delicate choreography of life and death unfolded with each precise incision. Dr. J’s unwavering focus impressed me; he seamlessly performed multiple surgeries daily, never faltering or showing emotion. His tools spoke for him, orchestrating the intricate ballet of healing and recovery.

      Deciding whether to save a limb was a constant battle of ethics and emotions. The world's harsh reality, so relentless and unforgiving, starkly contrasted with my idealistic notions. The scenes of suffering and trauma shattered my preconceptions, forcing me to confront the raw and unfiltered nature of reality.

      During the operations, I often observed Elaina, a nurse with a unique aura of diligence and compassion. Her mere presence seemed to uplift everyone’s spirits. Elaina would gently grasp patients’ hands, offering comfort and solace with her soothing words spoken in Arabic. Remarkably, her compassionate approach consistently yielded positive results. Even when faced with patients who had endured the loss of a limb, Elaina’s empathetic demeanor managed to coax a smile from their weary faces.

      One morning, I was assigned to observe an operation on a young boy named Ali. His eyes bore witness to the unspeakable horrors of war, and now he faced the necessity of having part of his leg amputated. To my astonishment, Elaina would also be part of the surgical team for this procedure. My task was to prepare Ali in his room for the operation while Elaina took on the delicate role of comforting and explaining the procedure to him and his anxious mother. The weight of responsibility settled upon us as we stepped into that room, knowing our actions would shape Ali’s future. When I first observed him, he looked extremely nervous. His lips quivered, and his forehead was sweating.

      As Ali faced the impending amputation of his leg, mentally preparing for a life without the physical freedom to run through the streets whenever he pleased, I couldn't shake the arrogant comparison I drew between his fragile form and my privileged childhood. The room hung heavy with the weight of Ali's suffering and my shame.

      As I assisted another nurse in putting in the IV line, Eliana patiently spoke in Arabic to Ali and his mom. She was able to coax a smile from him.

      During a momentary break, I asked Elaina, “What did you tell him? He is in much better spirits since you spoke to him.”

      “I told him he was strong and could get through this. Also, I spoke the truth. I told him that if he wanted to grow up, he must go through with this. Then I told him the hospital staff, including myself, would be here to comfort him and how much I admire his courage.”

      “Wonderful words for the boy. Good job.”

      Elaina and I escorted Ali to the operating room, where Dr. Schmidt would perform the critical surgery. Elaina provided comfort, holding Ali’s hand until the anesthesia gently lulled him to sleep. As the room hushed, Dr. Schmidt assumed control. He beckoned me to his side, inviting me to witness the stark reality—the damage inflicted upon Ali’s leg.

      He pointed to the scar above his knee. “You see all the rough texture. Over here, pointing to another area is untouched skin. Notice the contrast. You can also see remnants of stitches with the scar, which hints at previous attempts to mend the leg.”

      “Is there no possibility of saving the leg?” I asked.

      “No. Believe