Tim Cunningham gives us a glimpse of Abdul, a teenage Rohingya refugee he encounters in a Bangladesh camp, in Intima‘s “Vicious.” Cunningham notes that his “belly was swollen like the rice fields” and “[t]hough described by many as non-literate because he had no official access to school, he could read the Quran with ease. His recitation of its Surahs was exquisite.”
When Cunningham meets Abdul in clinic, his pain is “everywhere,” as if “[h]is genocide had shifted internally, an annihilation of his once-healthy cells.” Abdul had lost his appetite entirely, did not “miss dahl and rice, mangos and bananas, though he knew that he should. ”
Cunningham imagines where he might transfer Abdul, had he the resources: “They would have diagnostics for his hepatomegaly and cachexia. They would have 24-hour staff, teams of nurses and physicians to treat and listen his life-story. The providers would all speak Rohingya. These thoughts were but daydreams. For extraordinary diseases, with extraordinary measures and extraordinary means, there are ways to treat illness. If you are Rohingya, there is nothing.”
Cunningham’s prose elicits a visceral response to his patient’s physical and emotional trials, but it is Abdul’s word of response to a difficult intravenous stick that give both Cunningham and the reader pause: “Vicious.”
Writing Prompt: If you’re a medical provider, are there certain assumptions you make about a group of patients you see? How did you feel when Abdul repeatedly says “vicious?” What do you think that word might mean to him? What does it mean to you? Have you worked in a resource-poor setting or with a marginalized group of patients before? Recall an encounter with a patient. Write for 10 minutes.
