- -
- 100%
- +
As the plane touched down and I exited the tunnel, the sight of people embracing their loved ones made an impression on me. Everyone was reuniting with the people they cared about while I scanned the crowd for Dr. Johnson.
A thought of concern occurred to me. I was a Jew in a predominantly Muslim country. I couldn't help but wonder if the refugees would accept me. However, the immediate concern at that moment was Dr. Johnson. It struck me as foolish that I hadn't brought a photo of him, and I wished for a sign or banner with my name, as the alternative would have been quite awkward— having to call him and ask him to identify himself. After all, I needed to uphold my father's image.
“Joe!” a robust voice called out from my left. I turned to see Dr. Johnson, who waved from the midst of the crowd. He was easy to spot: an African American, tall like me. I noticed he didn’t have a banner with my name, suggesting that my father had shared my pictures with him.
I approached the man I hoped to be, Dr. Johnson, with a practiced smile. Internally, I was a bundle of nerves, praying he was the one I sought. If not, I hoped he would be here soon. As we drew closer, I offered my hand in anticipation of a handshake. Yet Dr. Johnson, it seemed, preferred a warmer welcome, and thus, we stumbled into an embrace.
“It’s a pleasure to meet and see you, Joe Gold,” with an enthusiastic smile. “You look like your father did thirty years ago.”
I replied, “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Dr. Johnson,” though my tone revealed my shyness.
Dr. Johnson looked at me thoughtfully. “You’ve grown so much now. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-four,” I admitted, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Twenty-four?!”
Dr. Johnson looked at me thoughtfully as if trying to discern my age.
“Has it really been this long? I should pay America a visit. The last time I saw you was when you were four years old. I don't think you'd remember me, but I remember you well. I was in the hospital when you were delivered.”
So, Dr. Johnson genuinely had a close relationship with my father, and I may have met the man. Strangely, his name had never been mentioned, but then again, Dad had never been one for gossip.
Dr. Johnson's vibrant energy and optimism seemed out of place for someone who had been and still was a surgeon in a country surrounded by war. He was the same age as my dad, in his fifties, and looked in good shape.
“I hope you are prepared for the journey ahead, Mr. Joseph Gold,” he teased as he began heading to his car, pulling half of my luggage.
“Yes, sir. I’m really excited about this internship opportunity,” I said as I followed him.
“Oh no, no. I was talking about the drive. It's a two-hour drive to the camp even though it’s only fifty miles.”
A two-hour drive after a ten-hour flight? This had to be some form of punishment. I could barely keep my eyes open.
“And as far as the internship is concerned,”– he paused, his lips curving into an enigmatic smile— “our patients desperately need us. Just make sure you're motivated enough to help and keep them living.”
I gulped nervously and replied, “Yes, Dr. Johnson.” We headed to his car and began the two-hour ride.
“By the way, you don’t have to call me Dr. Johnson all the time. You can call me Dr. J.”
“OK.” I settled into my seat to endure the torment of the ride to the camp; I couldn't help but feel a growing interest in Dr. Johnson's connection with my father.
“So, you and Dad are close?”
“We were once inseparable, but the tides of time and space have pulled us apart. In our hearts, we remain best friends despite the rarity of our meetings.” His smile softened as he reminisced, “Our paths crossed in college, and frankly, my initial impression of him was less than favorable. He was reserved, which I mistook for arrogance. His penchant for witty retorts was, I’ll confess, somewhat irksome. Yet, his intellect was undeniable. He was always buried in his studies; debating him was an exercise in futility. Our first encounter? A trivial quarrel over bacteria. It was an inconsequential clash, but your father was a wellspring of knowledge. His most memorable feat, however, was compelling me to end things with my then-girlfriend.”
“Really? How?”
“That’s a long story I prefer not to share right now. Perhaps one day I will.”
“Well, that's terrible of him.”
“Not really. If it weren't for him, I'd have never met Mika. She's my wife, and you will meet her soon.” Dr. Johnson's smile grew warmer. “He introduced the two of us and, it seems, put in a good word for me, which I only found out years later through Mika. I don't know if this was his way of apologizing or if he genuinely believed I was the right match for her. He held Mika in high regard, partly because she was a nurse working for him. He treated her like a sister. So, I think he truly trusted me, even if I believe he was the reason behind my breakup.”
Maybe my dad was the reason for my breakup, although I seriously doubted that.
Dr. J’s willingness to make the long trip from the camp to pick me up showed the depth of their friendship. It reinforced my decision to spend most of my time at the camp for my father's sake.
“Is he still as stubborn as he was?” Dr. J inquired.
“I'd say he's even more stubborn now, especially with me,” I chuckled.
“Just a month ago, he called me out of the blue with an unusual request. He wanted me to arrange for his only son to come here for an internship. I had a hard time believing it. I tried to convince him that it wasn't right, that a refugee camp in Jordan might be too depressing for a New Yorker, but he is, as you mentioned, quite stubborn. I owed him a great deal, and he is usually right about things, so I agreed.”
I fell silent, still unable to fathom my father's true intentions, but I had resolved not to question his judgment and refrained from asking Dr. J for more details, even though my curiosity burned within me.
“But don’t worry much, Joe. You will be all right here. Sure, you are not in the place you imagined you would be, but trust me, for the career that awaits you, this will be a good experience for you. By the way, did you sleep on your flight?”
“I would not regard it as sleep. I just closed my eyes for an hour.”
“Well, then, what did you do for ten hours? Please don't tell me you stayed awake just because you found yourself sitting next to an attractive young woman,”
I felt a slight blush creeping into my cheeks. “Oh, no, not at all. Unfortunately, I was seated beside a tall, heavy man and a woman with a baby who cried nonstop.”
“I wonder, who cried more, the woman or the baby?”
His humor might not have been of the highest caliber, but it felt genuine and comforting after a long flight.
“Anyways, I’ll show you your room once we reach camp. You can take a shower and refresh a bit, and then I will take you to meet some doctors,”
“Can't that wait? I haven't slept in a while and feel quite worn out.”
Without hesitation, he dismissed my plea, stating, "No chance."
His swift refusal took me aback.
“Why? I’m exhausted. Surely, a few hours won’t make much difference. I intend to work hard, do everything you ask, and learn as much as possible.”
“I’m sorry for your discomfort, but I have already scheduled an introductory meeting with a group of doctors and nurses you will be working with. They are giving up their free time to meet with you. So, again, I'm sorry, but doctors who work with me are often more exhausted than you.”
“Understood.”
“We have ninety minutes left in our journey. How about you take a nap during the ride? I will wake you up when we arrive. Either that or, if you prefer some company, we could chat while listening to some classical Arabic music, with maybe a Taylor Swift song in there somewhere.”
“I think I’d better take a nap.” Even though I enjoyed conversing with him, nothing was more enticing for me then than a sound sleep with no dreams, pitch black with no thoughts at all. I needed some rest, and his rigid stance made me wonder if he thought I was some tireless mutant.
As the landscape of Jordan rolled past our car window, I reclined my car seat and prepared for much-needed rest. Although the seat was far from ideal for sleeping, it was the best option I had encountered in the past twenty-four hours. Fatigue washed over me, and soon, I surrendered to a nap.
***
I felt a hand on my shoulder and then a voice. “Wake up, Joe. We are outside the gate to Za’atari. I need your passport.”
I stretched momentarily, retrieved my passport, and gave it to Dr. J.
Dr. J stepped out of the car, his face tense, and handed over a document and my passport to the stern-faced Jordanian authorities. Their eyes scanned the pages with practiced efficiency. I held my breath, waiting for their verdict.
Finally, a nod—a silent permission to proceed. We were cleared to enter.
As we drove deeper into the camp, the landscape shifted. The road wound through a maze of tent homes, their canvas walls weathered by sun and wind.
Children played near the entrance, their laughter echoing off the makeshift soccer field nearby. The goalposts were crooked, the net frayed, but the players' passion was unwavering.
Women in colorful abayas carried water jugs on their heads, their footsteps leaving imprints in the dusty earth. Men in thobes walked purposefully, their sandals kicking up small dust clouds. Their conversations flowed in a melodic blend of Arabic, punctuated by laughter and occasional gestures.
Few cars passed us. Instead, the camp thrived on foot traffic—the pulse of life moving along the narrow paths.
Dr. J said, “You will be given a tour of the camp tomorrow. I suggest you take the time to acclimatize yourself to the camp's people and culture. Once a refugee enters, it’s not easy to leave. For your information, you may want to know that over twenty thousand babies have been born here since we opened in 2012. That means many children have never seen Syria.”
“Wow. I look forward to seeing the camp and hope I do some good while here.”
“That’s a good attitude to have. The people here have tried to establish some resemblance to a normal life, whatever that means to them. This refugee camp stands as a testament to the strength and endurance of those displaced by the conflict in Syria, and I’m sure you will learn a lot about the people and the culture.”
We drove for about five more minutes before arriving at our destination, the hospital. Dr. J arranged for an assistant to guide me to my assigned room in a separate building. It looked like it had been constructed similarly to an army barrack. I tried not to set my hopes too high but held out for one simple wish: that the room would be equipped with an air conditioner. Za’atari was known for its scorching heat,
Dr. J's assistant sighed as he showed me to my room. A single bed, one dresser, and a desk were all there was. There was no air conditioner. Damn
The assistant must have noticed the shock or disdain on my face. “Well, if you were expecting the Four Seasons Hotel, I’m sure this will be a shock for you. Make yourself at home.”
With that, he handed me the room keys and started to leave without offering any further guidance or details. He suddenly turned around as he reached the door and said, “Oh, and meet us at the hospital lobby in thirty minutes. Dr. J will be waiting for you. Make sure you’re not late, as he doesn’t like it.”
Emotions churned within me—a storm of frustration and exhaustion. But instead of yielding to tears or tantrums, I took decisive action. My bags, heavy with the weight of my journey, were flung aside. Determination fueled my steps as I reached for the essentials: a shirt, a pair of boxers, and a towel. The bathroom beckoned—a compact haven where I could wash away the weariness.
I examined the shower. A glass partition separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom, creating an open and airy feel. A slip rainfall showerhead hung from the ceiling, providing a gentle cascade of water. I imagined standing there, eyes closed, as water enveloped me—a baptism of renewal.
There was one hook on the wall for a towel. But fortune smiled upon me: clean towels lay neatly folded on my bed, a soft promise of comfort.
Within those modest confines, I shed the dust of the road. Water embraced me, and for a fleeting moment, I was suspended—between weariness and hope, between the past and the unwritten future.
After my shower and a clean shave, I put on a crisp white formal shirt and black pants. Then, it was off to my meeting.
As I walked to the hospital, its three-story structure loomed before me. I could only speculate that it encompassed roughly fifty thousand square feet. Upon entering the lobby, I noticed the entrance also served as a patient's family waiting room. Dr. J waited for me as expected and led me down a corridor. We passed several operating and recovery rooms. At first glance, The equipment appeared to be very modern. I didn't see any patient rooms, so I was sure they were kept on the two floors above.
Dr. J led me into the conference room. The door creaked open, revealing a space that defied the polished elegance of NYU’s conference rooms. At its heart stood a round wooden table, its surface etched with decades of conversations. The chairs encircling it bore the weight of countless visitors. The room’s walls were unadorned, and their pale paint chipped in places. A clock hung near the entrance. Unlike NYU’s bustling corridors, where screens glowed, and fingers danced across keyboards, this room embraced simplicity. No computers hummed; no phones buzzed. Instead, the silence settled like dust on the window ledge.
I counted thirteen individuals around the table, including Dr. J. My gaze swept briefly over each attendee—six men and seven women. About half were dressed in doctor’s outfits and half in nurse’s outfits. Dr. J gestured, prompting me to take my place next to him.
He spoke softly to me so the other people in the room would probably not hear him. “I'm sorry if this gathering caught you off guard. We don’t waste money on elaborate furniture. This is our Shangri La conference room, as you can see.”
I nodded, waiting for Dr. J to speak further.
Dr. J looked at everyone in the room. Some were engaged in small talk. “May I have your attention, please?” Immediately, everyone quieted down.
“Everyone, this is Joe Gold from New York. Joe will be interning with us for one year. To be transparent, he is my best friend's son and mentor from many years ago. Having said that, please treat him as you would anyone else who works here. He will be a third-year medical student, so we will start him with easy tasks until he builds up his skills. Welcome, Joe.” They clapped and said, “Welcome, Joe. Or “Nice to have you with us, Joe.”
“Thank you, “I said.
Dr. J began speaking again. “I’m not going to bore you by introducing you to every single person in the room. You can meet them and learn their names while doing your rotations and work here. However, I do want you to meet two people. To my immediate left is Dr. Schmidt. He’s like the Vice President of this hospital. Dr. Schmidt, who is from Germany, and I work closely together. He is a well-respected trauma surgeon who performs many amputations and reconstructive surgeries. I glanced at Dr. Schmidt, who must have been around fifty years old.
Dr. Schmidt waved at me and said, “I look forward to working with you, Joe.”
“Same here.”
Dr. J gestured toward the woman seated to my right. “Meet Dr. Salama,” he said. “She’s a top surgeon from Egypt.” Her eyes held a quiet confidence, and I wondered about the countless lives she had touched with her skilled hands and if I would have the opportunity to work with her.
“Our surgeons and nurses are fluent in both Arabic and English and some in French. That is true for everyone except me. I’m not fluent in Arabic, although I can converse in it. When I meet with Arabic-speaking patients, I use an interpreter, which you will also use. Half of our doctors are from the Middle East. Some of our patients prefer to have someone like them as their doctor, and we try to grant that wish.”
Dr. Salama looked at me and shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Joe.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Her skin complexion was dark brown, which I thought was probably indicative of someone from her country.
Dr. J then looked at the six people on the other side of the table facing him. All of them were dressed in traditional nurses' scrubs.
He pointed to them and said, “These are some of our nurses. We have twelve in the hospital, but some are working now as we speak. Please meet one particular nurse who sits closest to you. That is Mika, and she’s my wife. Mika and I met in the Philippines years ago.”
Mika and I made eye contact, and we shook hands. She said, “Nice to meet you, Joe. I know your dad well.”
“Really? Nice to meet you, too.”
Dr. J continued. “Some of our nurses come from Syria. They may be refugees, too, but they are well-trained and have the respect of the entire community, and we couldn’t do what we do without them. The last three in the row are from Syria.” I waved, and then it hit me. I was looking at a young woman with the most radiant smile I have ever seen. My heart skipped a beat, and my tired eyes snapped wide open.
In that fleeting moment, her beauty was a snapshot etched into my heart. My sole mission was to draw closer to her. Her hair, black as the darkest night, flowed like the silkiest charmeuse. Beauty radiated from her. However, regardless of how much I wanted to meet her, this was the wrong place to say anything. I waved at everyone and smiled. I definitely hoped she liked the way I smiled.
Dr. J went on. “This is primarily a surgical hospital. Although we can handle just about any emergency sent to us, Our examining, operating, and recovery rooms are all on the first floor. The second and third are used for patients who stay overnight. We don’t have a twenty-four-hour emergency room like they do in the States, but we are open twenty-four hours a day. We have a few more medical facilities where people with everyday maladies and needs can get excellent care. Please let me know if you would like to visit these places. Now, I’m going to dismiss everyone except Joe, who I need to talk to for a few minutes. Thank you for coming, everyone.”
All the doctors and nurses dispersed, probably returning to work with their patients.
I was sure to learn an awful lot from such a distinguished company. My stomach churned with a sense of queasiness. Perhaps I didn't belong with these heroes.
“If you keep staring at her like that, she'll call the cops,” Dr. J playfully interrupted me.
“What—what do you mean?” I stammered, my face burning.
“Oh, come on, kid. What do you take me for? I was your age once and was far smoother with the ladies than you are. You really are Robert Gold’s son. You can walk around the hospital for an hour, and then we can meet for dinner in the mess hall. I have a few things I need to take care of.” He stood up and left.
Seriously, he was relentless. I couldn’t tell if my dad had sent me here to learn something or just to be teased by Dr. J. Was it that obvious I was staring at her?
After an hour of looking around the hospital, I joined the dinner crowd. I noticed that Dr. Johnson had saved a seat beside him, and much to my surprise, it was meant for her— the girl who had captured my heart with a single smile.
“Elaina, meet Joseph Gold,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Joe, meet Elaina.” Dr. Johnson, you sly fox. Elaina, so that’s her name. It's a beautiful name, a match for that flawless face.
“I'm glad,” I awkwardly nodded. Seriously, Joe? That's the best response you could come up with? I continued smiling, and she reciprocated until the old, boring doctors started bombarding me with questions again.
“Joe Gold will be with us for a year.” Dr. J said.
Elaina smiled at me. “Nice to meet you, Joe. I look forward to working with you. We need all the help we can get.”
“Thanks.” Her smile was so contagious that I could barely breathe.
“Elaina, Joe will join us tomorrow; please give him a tour of the camp in the morning and explain how we do things. I don’t want him to fall behind, and I don’t want to go easy on him. I want to make sure he's up to speed.”
“I will, Doctor.”
I gave Dr. J a funny look. Was he trying to match me up with this woman? She was going to give me a tour of the camp. Was this a dream? Filled with anticipation for the day ahead, I went to bed, eager to start tomorrow's adventure. I could feel my palms sweating, and for some reason, I was nervous.
Chapter 3: A Tour of the Camp
Joe
After a restless night, my first night in a strange bed far from what I was accustomed to, I awoke to the sunlight pouring through my window. I dressed in casual clothes and sneakers. Walking to breakfast, I noticed a group of men speaking Arabic and stepping into the mosque near my location, no doubt heeding the call to prayer. I had always admired the intense devotion to prayer that Muslims showed. While I attended Sunday school and had had a bar mitzvah, I'd rarely attended services in the last few years. The High Holidays were basically it for me. Studying and sports always kept me busy.
With a sense of excitement for the day ahead with Elaina, I headed to the mess hall for breakfast. The hall accommodated fifty people across several tables. As I entered, approximately twenty individuals were already seated—some in groups, others alone. The cafeteria-style setup offered an enticing spread: a buffet featuring a mix of Arabic delicacies and traditional American breakfast fare.
My choice for the morning was Shakshuka, a delightful dish that beautifully blended cultures, with poached eggs nestled in a spiced tomato and bell pepper sauce. The rich flavors and warm spices made it a perfect start to the day. Alongside, I sampled a small dish of hummus, a staple in Middle Eastern cuisine, which I paired with fresh pita bread. To complete the meal, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the nearby machine and settled at a table, ready to savor my breakfast and enjoy the company of friends and fellow diners.
I was eager to explore the camp, but my primary interest was Elaina. There were hundreds of questions I would love to ask her. What was her story? How had she ended up in this camp? As I sat down to eat, a few doctors came over to shake my hand and introduce themselves. Two were from the United States, and one was from France. As I nibbled on my food and drank coffee, I eagerly waited for Elaina to appear.
Five minutes later, she entered the room and settled into the chair across from me. Her eyes, warm and expressive, met mine, and she bestowed upon me a smile that could melt glaciers. Yesterday, she had been clad in the starched white of a nurse’s uniform, But today, she wore something different—a casual ensemble that whispered of everyday life. The most striking change was the hijab that framed her face. It cocooned her hair, encircled her neck, and veiled her ears. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might be Muslim.
“Good morning, Dr. Gold. Sorry, I’m late. I was doing morning prayers.”
“Good morning. That’s all right. I didn’t know you were a Muslim.”
“Didn’t Dr. Johnson tell you I am a camp native?”
“No, but yesterday, you didn’t have a hijab. Plus, you speak English very well with a slight British accent.”
“I am fluent in English because I went to school in England for four years, but my first language is Arabic. So, what religion are you?”
Caught off guard by her question, I hesitated. Elaina’s unwavering gaze bore into me, awaiting my response. Back home, revealing my Jewish identity wouldn’t have posed any issue. But here, surrounded by thousands of Muslims and with the desire to impress Elaina, I grappled with uncertainty. Perhaps it was best to steer the conversation elsewhere. I shifted gears, choosing a different topic, hoping to maintain the delicate balance between openness and discretion.
I decided to change the subject. “I need to get something straight first. Please don’t call me Dr. Gold. Call me Joe when I’m not around patients. Technically, I haven’t finished medical school, so I’m not quite a doctor yet, which means you can even call me Mr. Gold when we are around patients.”