Al Qusayr, Syria; Doctors Without Borders

1

I pulled the crummy airplane blanket over my torso for maybe the five hundredth time. Again, I wrapped the scratchy-airplane pillow over my ears. Maybe it would help to block out the cries of the angry baby. I thought babies were supposed to be the most innocent, in no way as demonic as this baby seemed to be. I looked up at the flight-map, only two more hours before we landed in Beirut. Once I got off the plane I would have to hurry, on top of getting to the airport late, my medical instruments barely got past security. Because of this I had missed my flight and had to run to a whole other wing of the airport to catch the next one going to Beirut.

This is how it was every year since I had signed up for Doctors Without Borders in the summertime. Cluttered and always a rush. Sure it was good but working in my normal suburban hospital was better in my opinion. I was still helping people there as well.

But, every other year I had been mainly okay with the locations and the crummy facilities. Not this year, they had signed me up to go to Al-Qusayr, Syria; located in the midst of the Syrian Civil War. I hated violence, the primary reason I had chosen the profession of surgeon. In fact, I wouldn't have gone on this mission if not for my wife. She talked me into it, saying that it would be good to help people who had just come from violent situations. I hoped everything would be okay, the news was saying the violence was heating up in Syria. "More digits to the death count everyday." Was how the New York Times had put it. I was aware of this at home and