Soundings: No regrets
2000; BMJ; Volume: 320; Issue: 7226 Linguagem: Inglês
ISSN
0959-8138
Autores Tópico(s)Health and Conflict Studies
ResumoSouth Armagh is gaily festooned with army bases. For security reasons these bases are supplied exclusively by helicopter, and the helicopters have to travel in threes to protect each other against ground to air attack. This all makes our skies very congested and noisy, but it's an ill wind; we can often call in these helicopters for the urgent transfer of critical patients to hospital, usually either as a result of a road traffic accident or somebody getting kicked in the head by a cow. I've travelled in them a few times, and it was exciting at first; the noise, the speed, the fun of leaning over the pilot's shoulder and pretending to vomit or yelling, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning.” But the novelty soon palls; it is a bumpy, cramped ride, and when you arrive and hand over the patient's care the hospital staff will patronise you, however tactfully. One minute you are solely responsible for a patient's life, looking death right in the face, desperate eyes clinging to yours, and the next you are just another Joe wandering the hospital corridors waiting for a ride home. Such an abrupt change of role is curiously unsettling. We used to have the added excitement of expecting to be blown out of the air at any moment but now even that little thrill is gone, though it is a thrill I am happy to forgo. To paraphrase Trollope, the troubles have delighted me for long enough. I'm not sure a political solution is really all that vital. As the level of education improves and the standard of living rises and more people travel the world and achieve a sense of perspective, the stupidity of creeds based on slaughter and deceit becomes more obvious; economic imperialism will solve our problems in the end, though in a society where Darwin still has vociferous opponents, it may take some time, as Captain Oates said. So if a political settlement expedites matters even better. I've seen my share of bloody messes, and I'm sick of it. Young lives wasted and ruined, dead faces staring sightless. Fresh blood gleams and newly shed tears glint, but only for a heartbeat. Then the blood clots and turns dull and rusty and the tears dry and disappear. The wounds still gape, but eventually even they will heal; I just want to forget.
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