A beautiful flower. almeen bano

with no thoughts at all. I needed some rest, and his rigid stance made me wonder if he thought I was some tireless mutant.

      As the landscape of Jordan rolled past our car window, I reclined my car seat and prepared for much-needed rest. Although the seat was far from ideal for sleeping, it was the best option I had encountered in the past twenty-four hours. Fatigue washed over me, and soon, I surrendered to a nap.

      ***

      I felt a hand on my shoulder and then a voice. “Wake up, Joe. We are outside the gate to Za’atari. I need your passport.”

      I stretched momentarily, retrieved my passport, and gave it to Dr. J.

      Dr. J stepped out of the car, his face tense, and handed over a document and my passport to the stern-faced Jordanian authorities. Their eyes scanned the pages with practiced efficiency. I held my breath, waiting for their verdict.

      Finally, a nod—a silent permission to proceed. We were cleared to enter.

      As we drove deeper into the camp, the landscape shifted. The road wound through a maze of tent homes, their canvas walls weathered by sun and wind.

      Children played near the entrance, their laughter echoing off the makeshift soccer field nearby. The goalposts were crooked, the net frayed, but the players' passion was unwavering.

      Women in colorful abayas carried water jugs on their heads, their footsteps leaving imprints in the dusty earth. Men in thobes walked purposefully, their sandals kicking up small dust clouds. Their conversations flowed in a melodic blend of Arabic, punctuated by laughter and occasional gestures.

      Few cars passed us. Instead, the camp thrived on foot traffic—the pulse of life moving along the narrow paths.

      Dr. J said, “You will be given a tour of the camp tomorrow. I suggest you take the time to acclimatize yourself to the camp's people and culture. Once a refugee enters, it’s not easy to leave. For your information, you may want to know that over twenty thousand babies have been born here since we opened in 2012. That means many children have never seen Syria.”

      “Wow. I look forward to seeing the camp and hope I do some good while here.”

      “That’s a good attitude to have. The people here have tried to establish some resemblance to a normal life, whatever that means to them. This refugee camp stands as a testament to the strength and endurance of those displaced by the conflict in Syria, and I’m sure you will learn a lot about the people and the culture.”

      We drove for about five more minutes before arriving at our destination, the hospital. Dr. J arranged for an assistant to guide me to my assigned room in a separate building. It looked like it had been constructed similarly to an army barrack. I tried not to set my hopes too high but held out for one simple wish: that the room would be equipped with an air conditioner. Za’atari was known for its scorching heat,

      Dr. J's assistant sighed as he showed me to my room. A single bed, one dresser, and a desk were all there was. There was no air conditioner. Damn

      The assistant must have noticed the shock or disdain on my face. “Well, if you were expecting the Four Seasons Hotel, I’m sure this will be a shock for you. Make yourself at home.”

      With that, he handed me the room keys and started to leave without offering any further guidance or details. He suddenly turned around as he reached the door and said, “Oh, and meet us at the hospital lobby in thirty minutes. Dr. J will be waiting for you. Make sure you’re not late, as he doesn’t like it.”

      Emotions churned within me—a storm of frustration and exhaustion. But instead of yielding to tears or tantrums, I took decisive action. My bags, heavy with the weight of my journey, were flung aside. Determination fueled my steps as I reached for the essentials: a shirt, a pair of boxers, and a towel. The bathroom beckoned—a compact haven where I could wash away the weariness.

      I examined the shower. A glass partition separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom, creating an open and airy feel. A slip rainfall showerhead hung from the ceiling, providing a gentle cascade of water. I imagined standing there, eyes closed, as water enveloped me—a baptism of renewal.

      There was one hook on the wall for a towel. But fortune smiled upon me: clean towels lay neatly folded on my bed, a soft promise of comfort.

      Within those modest confines, I shed the dust of the road. Water embraced me, and for a fleeting moment, I was suspended—between weariness and hope, between the past and the unwritten future.

      After my shower and a clean shave, I put on a crisp white formal shirt and black pants. Then, it was off to my meeting.

      As I walked to the hospital, its three-story structure loomed before me. I could only speculate that it encompassed roughly fifty thousand square feet. Upon entering the lobby, I noticed the entrance also served as a patient's family waiting room. Dr. J waited for me as expected and led me down a corridor. We passed several operating and recovery rooms. At first glance, The equipment appeared to be very modern. I didn't see any patient rooms, so I was sure they were kept on the two floors above.

      Dr. J led me into the conference room. The door creaked open, revealing a space that defied the polished elegance of NYU’s conference rooms. At its heart stood a round wooden table, its surface etched with decades of conversations. The chairs encircling it bore the weight of countless visitors. The room’s walls were unadorned, and their pale paint chipped in places. A clock hung near the entrance.  Unlike NYU’s bustling corridors, where screens glowed, and fingers danced across keyboards, this room embraced simplicity. No computers hummed; no phones buzzed. Instead, the silence settled like dust on the window ledge.

      I counted thirteen individuals around the table, including Dr. J. My gaze swept briefly over each attendee—six men and seven women. About half were dressed in doctor’s outfits and half in nurse’s outfits. Dr. J gestured, prompting me to take my place next to him.

      He spoke softly to me so the other people in the room would probably not hear him. “I'm sorry if this gathering caught you off guard. We don’t waste money on elaborate furniture. This is our Shangri La conference room, as you can see.”

      I nodded, waiting for Dr. J to speak further.

      Dr. J looked at everyone in the room. Some were engaged in small talk. “May I have your attention, please?” Immediately, everyone quieted down.

      “Everyone, this is Joe Gold from New York. Joe will be interning with us for one year. To be transparent, he is my best friend's son and mentor from many years ago. Having said that, please treat him as you would anyone else who works here. He will be a third-year medical student, so we will start him with easy tasks until he builds up his skills. Welcome, Joe.” They clapped and said, “Welcome, Joe. Or “Nice to have you with us, Joe.”

      “Thank you, “I said.

      Dr. J began speaking again. “I’m not going to bore you by introducing you to every single person in the room. You can meet them and learn their names while doing your rotations and work here. However, I do want you to meet two people. To my immediate left is Dr. Schmidt. He’s like the Vice President of this hospital. Dr. Schmidt, who is from Germany, and I work closely together. He is a well-respected trauma surgeon who performs many amputations and reconstructive surgeries. I glanced at Dr. Schmidt, who must have been around fifty years old.

      Dr. Schmidt waved at me and said, “I look forward to working with you, Joe.”

      “Same here.”

      Dr. J gestured toward the woman seated to my right. “Meet Dr. Salama,” he said. “She’s a top surgeon from Egypt.” Her eyes held a quiet confidence, and I wondered about the countless lives she had touched with her skilled hands and if I would have the opportunity to work with her.

      “Our surgeons and nurses are fluent in both Arabic and English and some in French. That is true for everyone except me. I’m not fluent in Arabic, although I can converse in it. When I meet with Arabic-speaking patients, I use an interpreter, which you will also use. Half of our doctors are from the Middle East. Some of our patients prefer to have someone like them as their doctor, and we try to grant that wish.”

      Dr.