Perspective
Songs for Wakinesh
Sometimes music is the best medicine.
By Peter Stiles
The following is an excerpt from a journal written between July 4 and August 14, 2004. The account chronicles the events of a six-week medical adventure in the western highlands of Ethiopia when author Peter Stiles was a student at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. Now a medical student at the University of Minnesota, Stiles worked as a premedical intern at Gimbie Adventist Hospital, an outreach mission sponsored by Adventist Health International. His duties ranged from organizing medical gear to assisting in surgery.
August 4
Today, a new face appeared in the private ward. As doctors and nurses filed into the room, her expression remained unchanged. She failed to respond to the physicians’ questions and stared blankly past me. The doctors mumbled a few words to each other, and the medical team retreated. I wondered what bothered the girl, so I stayed back from the group for a moment and asked one of the nurses.
The girl, Wakinesh, arrived late last night after a savage rape left her torn, bleeding, and hollow. Wakinesh is 8 years old. The rapist isn’t even being hunted. Law enforcement is unreliable, and even if caught, the offender would not be given more than a reprimand. The culture simply turns its back, much like the unaffected nurses who fail to give a second glance to the little girl; they have seen the same sad story too often.
Wakinesh had been incontinent since the crime and urinated uncontrollably in her sleep. The ER nurses sutured her ravaged pelvis, but the mental damage she incurred dwarfs the physical harm. I could see pain and fear in her eyes. I wanted to reassure her that the world is an inherently good place, despite what eight years of impoverished hardship has taught her. Her empty expression haunted me the rest of the morning and into the afternoon as I sorted obsolete medical gear. There had to be a way to connect with Wakinesh.
I poked my head into private room 5. Wakinesh’s toddler brother and baby sister perched at the foot of her bed, and her mother rested on a stool in the corner. I had a translator ask if I could break the ominous silence in the stuffy room. Slipping inside with a guitar that had been borrowed from a pair of local nuns, I sat on a stool near her head and smiled. Nothing. I strummed a few chords. Nothing. I started to play and sing. At the end of the first song, she returned my smile. The second elicited mild applause. By the third, she clapped along and glowed with appreciation.
August 5
Wakinesh greeted me with a smile when I entered her room. I pulled a stool near her bed and produced the guitar. Before I even started, she laid her tiny hand on my arm and uttered, “Thank you, Goftu (sir).” Could this be the same girl that sat motionless a day earlier? Riding on confidence from her response, I plucked out some songs. She clapped along so enthusiastically that her blanket fell from the bed. My face hurt from the huge smile we shared.
I later discovered that she didn’t arrive in the hospital until a few weeks after the incident and had been unresponsive and incontinent the entire time; she awoke in a puddle of her urine each morning. One of the nurses pulled me aside and told me that she “properly voided her bladder” last night for the first time in more than two weeks. Compassion had touched a place in Wakinesh that standard medicine could not reach.
August 7
I returned to the hospital at 5:30 p.m., the time I routinely serenade Wakinesh. I looked forward to the event almost as much as she. This brave girl was completely different from the reclusive one who arrived four days earlier. She interacts and laughs, claps and smiles. I played the same few songs each day, but my limited repertoire matters little. By the end of my second song, all the nurses and many patients and families from across the hall had filed in to the small room to listen. Wakinesh was a veritable celebrity now that she had her own ferengi (foreigner) entertainer.
She tugged on my pant leg as I finished playing, so I leaned down and listened to her Oromofic whisper. The nurse translated, “I want to go to America with you.” Touched, I had the nurse respond for me, “You are very special … there are a lot of wonderful people who love you. And God loves you very much. You need to be with the people you love and who love you. You need to stay here and make sure everyone gets to see your beautiful smile!” With that, I offered a hug, acknowledged her grateful parents, and excused myself from the room. A few tears fell on my soiled, sweaty blue T-shirt as I retreated down the hall.
August 8
Because it does not discharge on the Adventist Sabbath, the hospital routinely empties on Sunday. Little Wakinesh, included on the list of discharges, headed out this afternoon. Before her departure, Wakinesh’s younger brother found me and wrapped my legs in a hug. I chased him down the stairs to where Wakinesh and her younger sister waited. The traditional natellas (head wraps) signified they were ready to leave.
The family gathered their few belongings and stood to go. Her father thanked me with a look. They turned toward the door and Wakinesh ran back to drape herself in my arms; tears welled in both of our eyes. I reassured her with a hug, then she walked out of my life. I hope I left her with something that endures. MM
Peter Stiles is a second-year medical student at the University of Minnesota, where he co-chairs the Students’ International Health Committee.