Compassion

Each day in Basateen reminds me of war's brutality. Its sickness and cruelty penetrate everything. War destroys culture, family, art, and, in some people, compassion.

Some who know war firsthand have to close themselves off from the cruelty in order to survive their lives in the camp. They do what they can to make it work day after day. Proud people become beggars. Respected people steal. Compassionate people strangle their hearts. Whatever gets us through the day.

We pulled up to work this morning at the usual time. From the truck I noticed a woman lying on the pavement in front of our office gate, surrounded by three little children, and a teenage girl. The girl was crouched over her, fanning her with a magazine. My coworkers passed her on the way in through the gate. No one stopped.

I got out and looked at her. Her hijab had slipped slightly and revealed her hair. It seemed inappropriate to look longer. I walked through the gate but felt a need to go back.

When I returned the young girl said that the woman had no blood and needed to go to the hospital. I wondered if I heard her correctly; how can someone have no blood? I went inside to find a social worker, someone who supervises the "medical cases" at our agency.

When I found one and told him what was happening, he said, "She's not my case. She's probably Mohammed's case." I found Mohammed, who was searching his briefcase and shuffling papers, and told him about the woman in front and how it was urgent. He said, "In a minute." I yelled and told him the woman is more important than his papers. He ignored me. I pleaded with two other people before anyone responded.

His first question to the woman was, "Which block do you live in?" Responsibility for 'cases' is divided by blocks in Basateen and if a social worker isn't responsible for that block, s/he may refuse to help the refugee and simply tell them to come back later to see the one who is. The woman answered that she doesn't live in Basateen but came here from Kharaz for medical help. Kharaz is the camp in the middle of nowhere, about two hours from Aden. The social worker refused to help her. He stood up and said she'd have to go back to Kharaz or another agency for help. Meanwhile, the woman is lying on the filthy street, her head on a rice bag that contained her family's clothes. The young girl started to cry.

I asked for help to bring the woman inside our compound. The girl helped and we sat the woman on a plastic chair. Almost immediately urine and blood gushed from her. My coworkers still debated about what to do, as the woman's head flopped to her side and her mouth dropped open. I don't think I will forget it. A social worker had his hands crossed on his chest as he watched this woman drift in and out. No one moved but the woman's children, who jumped to avoid the stream coming from her.

I ran inside and told our office director and asked that we get an ambulance. She said the procedure is for us to take her to the clinic in the slum, get a referral, then take her to the hospital. I asked if she would do the same for a gunshot victim. She said I was overreacting.

And that's what they did after a few minutes. They dragged her into the Land Rover to drive her to the clinic to get a referral, then went on with their day.

It overwhelms me.