True Heroes - Dr Bashir's Trip To Ishaka

Sometimes I come across a blog which touches me deeply.

I went to school briefly with Dr Bashir Ahmed in Uganda. He is a Somali national and now a powerful activist for better health systems his war-torn country. His blog  SomaliHealthWatch has many true and personal stories; stories of survival, sufferings and heroism. True heroes who have been forced to endure hunger, killings, rape and insecurity on a daily basis for more than 20 years. One in particular was about his account of getting through medical school despite all the hardships and about his triumph against all odds to realize his dream of becoming a doctor.

A Trip To Ishaka

Our plane touched Ugandan soil at 6.00pm local time. Immigration formalities were uneventful. Officers behind a high desk asked why we were entering Uganda. We showed them our admission letters. That was satisfactory. They stamped our passports with student visas and wished us good luck in our studies.

The taxi driver guessed right where we were from without any inquiries. “How is Mogadishu?” He asked. “Not bad, how do you know we are from there?” I asked. “You people, your faces are passports. You look like our brothers here in Uganda, in the west” he replied as he scrutinized our faces even more through the rearview mirror. In the subsequent weeks, we have learnt that Uganda is a beautiful country, Ugandans friendly humans. And within one year, I visited almost every corner in Uganda.

I was anxious to see what the University that admitted me to the noble profession looked like. I called the admissions office. “Please come to our offices in the main campus” a lady said and hanged the phone up. “Where is the train station?” I tried to inquire at a nearby kiosk. “We are not in Ethiopia” He thought we were from Ethiopia. “Ssebo Boda!” He clapped towards a passing by motorcycle. That was the first time I came across the term. “Brother, where do you want to go” The kiosk owner asked. As I sat on the motorcycle, I went into a brief but vivid dream that took me to Cairo. The black and white painted caps, executive air-conditioned bus services, numbered government high speed buses, on ground trains, underground bullet trains. All come back to me in slow motion flashbacks. Within 15 minutes a big signpost, green and white, greeted us. “Welcome to Kampala International University (KIU), main Campus” It read.

I joined a long queue of fresh men and women in front of the admissions office. There was nothing impressive. A young lady behind a PC called us one by one. “Have you paid the fees” she asked without any effort to familiarize with my face. She behaved as if she were demoted from a senior post. She looked discontented. Abbas and Zakarie joined me after I completed my paper work. They had a long night from Nairobi.  

The following morning, a gentleman addressed us in the university hall. “I hope you all have jerigans and mattresses” He started his speech. “We are not rebels” Someone at the back bench murmured.

During the 6 hours journey to Bushenyi, many things crossed my mind. Madinatul Nasr high school, MacDonald’s massive burgers and the cool breeze in Cairo all plunged me into fantasy of the past. Occasionally, gunshots and blood spurts interrupted my sweet dreams. I think it was episodic attacks of Post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). 

We reached Ishaka at 8.00pm local time. There was no electricity so we couldn’t see the surroundings. Dean of student gave us the room numbers. We got room number 26. During the rest of the night, we had to fight rats, clear spider webs and remove dust from our new home. The remarks of the person who had murmured “we are not rebels” back in the University hall threw me into involuntary but brief giggles.  

I woke up early in the morning. There were green sceneries and beautiful landscapes all shaped by interlocking mountain foot interrupted by vast sways of banana plantations. In some areas, I couldn’t see the belly of background hills as they were covered by a thick fog. “Waw, I think I like here” I thought.

Late that morning, I found myself in office of dean, school of health sciences. “You think you can be a doctor” He wondered. “Somalia has been in war for many years, so I don’t I know about the educational system there” He continued. “Well, try your luck” He concluded before I got a reply to my inquiries. “Next person” he raised his voice. That was Prof Jonathan Nshaho, the brains behind KIU medical school.

Three years passed and Ishaka became home, at least for some of us who are thousands of miles away from home and the daily carnage back home captured international headlines. We didn’t have an alternative.

When end of 3^rd year pathology exam marks were pinned, I was in Kampala trying to avoid the stress that usually comes with bad results. Dr Abbas, as he is now, called me. “We all passed” he screamed on the other end of the phone. I missed a leap of my heartbeat, felt light-headedness and big drops of thick sweat lined up on my forehead creases.  I have learnt since than 3^rd year Pathology units are the hardest to break and once you are behind that barrier, ‘rest’ assured you are going to be a DOCTOR.

When I passed 5^th year MBchB exam, I was quite withdrawn. I went to bed and stared at the ceiling. I started to remember all the major events that shaped my life in the past. And the pictures came in a movie-like fashion. Childhood events, the many times I survived diarrheal illnesses, The bullets that simply refused to hit me, the faces of childhood mates that dreamt of big things in life but their dreams cut short by malnutrition, starvation or major injuries from missile shelling, the teenage friends who chose guns over books, my trip to Egypt, the Ishaka experience and so on.

The following morning we attended induction ceremony. At the main hospital gate, Prof. Nshaho greeted me through his car window. “I think you passed, congratulations” he smiled. “It is known you Somalis are hard working, good at books and entrepreneurship” he commented. “Your main problem is fighting” He added as he drove down the road.

I left Somalia when our country was in its lowest moments in history. Every day militias clashed and killed civilians. Rape and looting became a tool to terrorize ordinary people. Concentration has been a hard phenomenon to maintain. I couldn’t afford to lose track. I’m from a poor country, from a poor family.

At a local airfield in Mogadishu many years ago, Uncle Jama told me “Reading is the only way out, go and escape poverty” He tapped me on the shoulder as I walked towards an old Russian commercial plane enroute to Egypt. 

Today as I write this article, I have 7 weeks to complete the 12 months internship program that started last year, May.

Unlike before, there is much good news coming from home. There is a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. The government is exerting its control almost all over the country, the neighboring countries are sending more troops to consolidate the gains, many international NGOs are going back to Mogadishu to restart humanitarian efforts, hospitals are re-opening and life is slowly but surely going back to normal. All of these are telling me “go home and do surgeries out there!” Although the situation is still precarious and things can change any time for the worst, I have never been more optimistic!

Please read more of Dr Bashir's words on somalihealthwatch.wordpress.com