As I wrap up my month at Baragwanath, what has
shocked me the most about the violence here is not the volume but the culture
of acceptance.
 |
| I wish I could say this were a joke. |
Let me showcase what I mean with an example: A
few nights ago I stitched up a gentleman’s lip, wondering if I could possibly
get second-hand drunk from his delightful breath. As I took him back to the
pit, he pointed out a fella with a massive forehead laceration. “See that guy?
He did this to me." Then, in disbelief, I watched them clap each other on
the back and share a good laugh. Not only were there no hard feelings, it
almost seemed like good sport. Just another Friday night ending at Bara.
I am still baffled when patients with
penetrating wounds lay quietly in the resus bay, telling their stories with a
calmness bordering on nonchalance, as if they were grizzled veterans. Well,
perhaps they are.
What has been exceptionally appalling is the
tide of domestic violence. Women here are not economically empowered, there is
no public female leadership, and the legal system is in shambles. Men abuse
women without fear. A young couple came in one day. The man complained loudly of
pain in his knee; his wife had scratched him during an argument. In return, he
had beaten her head in with a brick. In contrast to his theatrical display, she
waited without words. I have now sutured some 20+ men and women here. Without fail, the men always yell and squirm while the women bear the needle silently,
pain tolerance built up through years of voiceless suffering.
And the children – I do fear they get the worst
of it. So many children hit by crazy Soweto minibus drivers. So many burns
coming in with legs looking like a calico kitten. Where is the parents' indignation? Where is the outcry? Just a room full of mothers and their kids,
one silent because they they know better, one silent because they don’t.
Sometimes, however, the violence is necessary.
The policing authority here would be laughable if it weren't true. So a mob
justice phenomenon has arisen where the people govern themselves. A young gentlemen came in with widespread bruises all over his body. He had hit a baby
with his car and tried to drive off. The mob had pulled him out of the car and
served a healthy dose of vigilante justice.
Patricia, my barber/hairdresser, thinks that the
“culture starts in the home.” Fewer than 1 in 100 black South African young
folks are married. Many children grow up in single parent households. They follow
the example set for them. One of Patricia’s friends is an orphaned girl who is
beat by her uncle and aunt for every little thing done wrong. They also beat
her baby sometimes too. If this is all she has ever known, how can she even
aspire to want better?
Bara, and every county hospital worldwide,
serves to treat the symptoms of deeper societal issues at hand. And the doctors here are heroes, toiling tirelessly to make even the smallest of differences. But without
addressing the root causes, it is a losing battle.
