On cultural awareness

Recently attended a MUHI Crossing Borders, Cultural Awareness program, which provided valuable insight and, simply said, perspective, on asylum seekers and refugees living within Australia, focussing especially on the difficulties they experience after arrival, cultural differences, and how we, as medical personnel, will best be able to speak to them, gain trust, establish rapport and help them find their footing in an alien nation.

The workshop concluded with a simulated patient, who was suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. After the interview, we had a chance to speak to the SP as herself, not in character, for feedback and analysis.

She covered her mouth, a wide bright smile flitting about, "Am I allowed to speak as myself yet?" Soft-spoken and full of laughter, she explains her role and the story behind her character, "This poor lady, whilst trying to flee her homeland, she accidentally stepped on a landmine and in the process, lost her baby. At night, the memories come flooding back - her baby, why didn't she protect her baby better? Then she worries about the rest of her family - her mother, father, sisters - are they well? Are they safe? Her husband is always working to support them here and always sending money back home. She sits all day at home, staring at the wall. Praying, always praying. Always, the guilt. It could have been us. Why did we live and they die? Why are we living in safety when our family members back home cower, fearing for their lives?"

This is not uncommon.
If not, one of the less horrific stories.

My goodness, the scale and depth of a world I cannot even hope to grasp even a wisp of.

I've begun to appreciate the depth and scope of all the fiction I read as a young child. You don't understand it back then, it's just a story. And you love merely the story. You never understand what teachers say when they talk 'themes' explored, but you love the story for being what it is - wonderfully painted in your mind's eye. As with all things they come with age, understanding, at last. The recent first MD student conference has drilled this thought into me.

After years and years, I finally understand.

The Phobia

Kyoko's blog is one of my favourites.

I can't remember exactly how I first stumbled upon her blog, but it was through endless tumblr pages that I clicked brain-food.

She thinks she hasn't made a difference. But to me, she already has.

I've never said it aloud. 

Never quite found the right words.

But I'll try my best.

Dear Kyoko,

Most of the time I read your blog posts with a huge smile plastered over my face. (I love your vegie garden, by the way.) Other times, my heart squirms a little inside because you've articulated what I've felt but could not express for so long. Sometimes when I look through your travels, read through your thoughts and am overcome by an urge to run away. Sail uncharted oceans, throw caution to the wind and run free.

To the hundreds, thousands, maybe eventually even millions of people that have clicked and scrolled endlessly through your 'Writings' page, admired your photography, adored Rufio, laughed over your 'Oh, Dad' posts. To the people you pass by in the streets, to the ones who walk into your comic book store, the ones you've made coffee for... Not to mention to your family and friends, and many, many more.

Kyoko, you have already made a difference. 

More than you think you know.

My favourite writer is still missing.

"Will be back. Wait if you can."

I scoffed internally when I beheld this sentence for the first time. Of course I can wait, I thought. I shall be here when you return.

But seven months have past.
Still no other word from you.

Now what I have left are snippets of your words.
Wait if you can. The last words reverberate through my mind. Leaving echos, trailing lightly through my mind, leaving indelible yet subtle traces as a memento of their existence.

It's been seven months.
Come back soon.

I'll be here waiting.