| Or, they may
have been medical technicians, sent out to the province, trained only in
vaccination, but who wind up serving as general practitioners in remote
villages. They may have been "pharmacists" people who sell prescription
drugs, over the counter, often with little or no knowledge of medicine.
I have actually interviewed more than one drug seller who was illiterate,
and had just learned to recognize various drugs by the shape and color
of the bottle.
In the provinces,
many women rely on traditional midwives for all of their medical problems.
Khmers often refer to these women as "lady-doctors" or "woman-doctors"
when in actuality most have no medical training at all. A friend, whose
sister is a "lady doctor" told me that among services she offered
to her patients was "Make the virgin again."
According to
a recent report by a foreign, health related NGO, many of the fatal complications
in childbirth stem from a lack of basic hygiene. The midwives don't know
that it is important to wash their hands and keep the mother and birth
area clean. According to the same report, the umbilical cord is often cut
with bamboo.
When I asked
Samat what the exact diagnosis was, he said "pain in my intestines."
This didn't
sound particularly scientific, so I pressed again, for the name of the
disease or aliment. He didn't know, and claimed that the doctor only told
him that he had pain in his intestines.
A forty year-old
woman, named Ruhuan, also complained about non-descript internal problems.
She said that unlike most of the others, "I have even been to the doctor
in Vietnam." But they told her she was untreatable.
Khmers with
money will often go to the big hospital in Ho Chi Min City when they need
specialized medical advice. Once again, however, this woman didn't
know what was wrong with her. The illness had no name, just "pain in
here." She said, pointing at her abdomen. When I pressed her further,
it turned out that she hadn't been to Ho Chi Min. Instead, she had visited
the same quality, provincial medical practitioner as all of the others,
except that hers had been on the other side of the border. She claimed
that after her first treatment by the monk, her troubles had decreased.
And she was now waiting for the monk to see her again.
"Do you
really believe this monk can cure you?" I asked her.
"Oh, yes!"
She assured me. "One lady was brought here by family. The doctor in
her village had already said that she was dead. But the monk brought her
back to life."
Mum, 60
years old, told us that she was suffering from infection in her intestines,
which had spread to her heart. She had seen the monk once, and was
also waiting for her second session. She had already been in the makeshift
camp for one month.
Most of
the people had no idea what was wrong with them. And clearly, they
hadn't been properly diagnosed or treated. I wondered how many could have
been saved by a single western doctor and a truckload of drugs.
Although some
of them seemed to believe in the monk's powers, without any question, one
man may have spoken for many when he told me, sadly. "I can't afford
to go to the hospital. So, I have no choice but to believe."
I was very
curious to meet the monk, and see what he had to say about all of this.
Unfortunately, we were told that he had gone home for Pchum Benh.
We did, however, meet an Ajan, a teacher of monks, named Chem Jan. He was
65 years old, and although still a layperson, was serving as chief of the
religious community in the pagoda, as well as, working as an assistant
to the monk. Chem Jan told us that the monk, whose name was Luke Mao, was
only 31 years old. He had been born near the temple. Luke Mao had
been identified as a healer before formally taking his vows, and becoming
a monk. He only became an actual monk a few months ago, and because of
Pchum Benh the Buddhist festival, the religious authorities had asked him
to move into the pagoda. Normally, monks are expected to remain inside
of the pagoda for the remainder of the festival.
His patients
had followed him from his previous location, near the scared caves at Pnom
Kompong Trach. "More and more cars are coming." Said Jan Chem, "So
many people come for help." According to Jan Chem 30-40 new people
arrive each day.
I asked
if Luke Mao was charging money for his services, but both Jan Chem and
a number of sick people I interviewed assured me that Luke Mao was giving
away traditional medicines for free.
The people did have to buy their own food, however. According to Jan Chem,
the number of patients now exceeded one thousand, and with most of them
accompanied by their family, this make-shift village now had a population
of two or three times that number. A large market had sprung up beside
the pagoda to service them all. But waiting could be a costly business,
particularly for the patients who said they had already been there for
one month.
Basically,
the pagoda itself had become a biohazard, waiting to erupt in epidemic.
You had a high concentration of frightfully ill people, living on top
of each other. To make matters worse, there seemed to be only two toilets
at the pagoda. "We just go in the bushes." One boy told me. There
was no running water. Patients said they were drinking and washing with
the ground water.
Jan Chem told
me that they were trying to build more toilets. "Local authorities came
to help." He said.
Thinking
like the former investment banker that I am, I tend to quantify things,
dealing only with numbers and cold fact. Fact: you can't treat an illness
if you don't know what that illness is. Fact: lots of sick people living
together is a really bad idea. Fact: there was no proof that this monk
had cured anyone. Fact: if basic education and medicine were available
to these people, they wouldn't need faith healers.
Being a New
Yorker, I am also extremely judgmental. "These people must be desperate
to believe in this fairytale."
While we were
interviewing Jan Chem, a crowd of patients had gathered around us. Suddenly,
my translator, Thavrin, went white, and pointed behind me, as if he wanted
me to see something.
I turned
around, and saw a woman, holding an extremely underweight baby. He
was all skin and bones, and malformed. He was crying, clearly disturbed,
and in great pain. She told us that he was five years old, but he looked
as if he were less than one year. His mother and grandmother stood sadly
by, as they helplessly watched this tiny, innocent child who was irrevocably
sentenced to death.
And here
was the human element thrown up in my face. These weren't numbers,
facts, or figures. These were people. This was a mother who loved her infant
son. And this was a grandmother who wanted nothing more than to shower
love and affection on a healthy young boy who could run and play with other
children.
It wasn't
the child's fault that he had been born in Cambodia, to parents who couldn't
read and who couldn't afford to take him to a proper hospital in Phnom
Penh or Ho Chi Min City. My experience with provincial people was that
the family's entire saving, however small, had probably already been cleaned
out by charlatans and witchdoctors who prey on the poor and the ignorant.
To the extent
of their economic means and their limited knowledge, the parent had done
everything they could to save the life of their son, the same as parents
would have done in New York, Paris, or Toronto. Their resources were
limited, but the depth of their emotion wasn't. When this little boy died,
and he would surely die, they would feel the same pain and anguish as parents
anywhere.
They say the
hardest thing for a parent is burying a child. How much harder must it
be then for a grandparent?
And what
if you blamed yourself? What if you knew that there were modern medicines
and doctors who could save your child, but you couldn't afford them? This
mother and child were a portrait of the fourth world, the poverty afflicted
residents of undeveloped countries, struggling to cope with a modern world,
beyond their perception, beyond their ability to adapt. They would eventually
be ground into dust, which would be used to make the foundations of a modern
world.
But this mother
didn't think that far ahead. She had no use for moralistic philosophy.
She just wanted her baby to live.
The following
are the previous articles that Antonio wrote for the magazine:
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