"For us, there is only the trying" by Esther Lee

              

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—

Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres

Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt 

Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure

One of my favorite collections is “Four Quartets”, by T. S. Eliot. It’s a set of four poems, titled after rock formation a manor house (“Burnt Norton”), a place of his ancestors (“East Coker”), rock formations (“The Dry Salvages”), and an anglican community (“Little Gidding”). There is something powerful about titles that speak about places, geographical or of the social construct. Titles like that are an invitation to readers to go see those places for themselves. They do not explain, as much as they present.

Like Eliot wrote in “East Coker”, I’m still trying to learn to use words. It’s been over twenty years, and I’m still trying. Some attempts have hurt others; some of smoothed over old scars; some have been my hands and my voice across the seas. These days I’m been trying to choose words that I hope can capture some of my experiences here in Israel. There is something powerful about titles that liken to physical places, yes, but perhaps there is more strength to titles that are mental constructs. For me, the mental house I’ve been working on - testing out some of the new scaffolding, trying out a promising shade of paint in the past few months I’ve been living here - is about the idea of home (no surprise). I’m not caught in between two wars. I’m between two (or more) homes, cultures, languages, two lives.

               Because one has only learnt to get the better of words

               For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which

               One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture

               Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate

               With shabby equipment always deteriorating

               In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,

               Undisciplined squads of emotion. 

In this new house construction project, I’m trying to use words to fill the empty rooms and the bare walls. I’m trying to get the better of the familiar words I’ve used before. I borrow words from others; I reflect on my classmates’ experiences and our conversations in the break room and walking to and from class; I wonder at the upperclassmen’s smooth sailing and confidence in their completed “houses”. How did they conquer the “imprecision of feeling, / Undisciplined squads of emotion” that accompanies new building projects? So often I grimace at my lack of desire to settle, let alone build and put some roots down. My head tells me I’m here for four years, it’s the rational thing to make it my home as soon as possible; my heart tells me I’m missing some crucial pieces, like family; and my spirit just squats in the dirt and refuses to try anymore. My equipment is shabby, it’s old and falling to pieces. Perhaps it’s overused.

Maybe I’m thinking too linearly. It’s not about gaining or losing. It’s not about making the perfect house because all other constructions are unfit for living in. It’s not an either/or choice. Not that all constructs are good for us, or honestly reflect where we are in life. A lot of the times we fill our house with fluff, daydreams and apathy (or just dust, as is the reality in Beersheva). Some meaning is changed and some meaning is replaced depending on where we physically are, and that is ok. Perhaps the most important part to this process is the attempts. The social attempts we make at making friends with the grocery cashiers and the neighbors; all the attempts at Hebrew in public; and all the attempts at ignoring the differences between here and the other home, or homes.

               And what there is to conquer

               By strength and submission, has already been discovered

               Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope

               To emulate—but there is no competition—

               There is only the fight to recover what has been lost

               And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions

               That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.

               For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

                                                                                                             - blogger of the month, Esther Lee

I left this home of the last four years, tucked away in western NY, for the desert (photo Andrea Pacheco

A big part of home construction is food: cooking, inviting, and eating.

And of course, trying out some new foods particular to this land.

Another part of home is physical place. I had to explore strange and crowded places (though when I go back to the shuk in Jerusalem I know where to get my fresh baked goodies)

Walking the off-beaten paths helped, too. This is a beautifully, compact country that needs to be explored.

You need trust to make a home.

And importantly, friends you trust to make a home with.

How Literature brought me to Beer-Sheva, by blogger of the month, Esther Lee

a little bit of green in the Negev desert right on campus. Perfect for naps, making some vitamin D, and hanging out with the classmates

About ten months ago I was in an Immigrant Literature class where I first read about Israel and the Middle East. Even though I travelled a lot as a child and grew up in five-ish countries, I hadn’t experienced anything middle east before coming here. My freshmen year I studied in London for a semester and backpacked around afterwards and the closest to the middle east I got was (this is going to sound terrible) eating my first falafel in London. The Middle East was an enigma to me, till now. All I had were exaggerated news updates, videos of protests and riots, religious tensions and a big muddle of politics I had little desire to probe.

So it was natural that I was introduced to the Middle East not through a history or language class, but through my odd literature interests. I discovered Amos Oz in Immigrant Lit and it was through his autobiography, A Tale of Love and Darkness, that I experienced rich complexity of ideology, cultures, and religion that has shaped Israel. I had no clue that I would be living in Israel that same year, writing a blog post for medical school, sitting amongst a splendidly arranged display of his works in various translations, in the library archives.

It all came about while wandering on campus to find a good study spot, when I happened to pass by his displays again, this time I tried to strike up a conversation with the lady at the desk - “Does Amos Oz still lecture here?” We ended up talking for a bit and he gifted me one of his books, The Same Sea, the topic of Oz’s next lecture series after we firmly established the fact that we both enjoy his works. I’m hoping to attend some of his lectures next semester – an ultimate challenge to work on my Hebrew!

Little encounters and unexpected dialogs like this make a place like… (dare I say it), like something one can call a home. It’s the silent mutual agreement with your housemates, or realizing that the cashier at the Aroma café is familiar with how you like your coffee now (black and strong, please), or commiserating with classmates about school (we just had our second final exam, in biostatistics). It’s the familiar smell of the falafel (must resist) on the corner street near my apartment. It’s running into Anette* again on my way home and realizing again that global health is not as simple as we sometimes talk about. The more we’re committed to setting our roots down wherever we are, the more likely we’ll notice that home can be created where we are in that moment. We can work in global health anywhere – including somewhere you consider home - when we’ve garnered the strength to settle anywhere on this shared globe.

Apart from these musings and extraordinary conversations, school is still school. How to describe it? The amount of information is perhaps ridiculously, just too much. It’s like trying to take a dainty sip of water out of a bursting fire hydrant while everyone is watching you. Somehow, we shoulder on. Each one of us is still figuring out how to function like a normal being in med school, here in Israel.

Dan, Hannah, Jody, Jody, and Xiaochuan representing “B7”/Beersheva before the Oath Ceremony!

Last week was also a week of “firsts”. Last weekend we had our Physicians Oath Ceremony, where we commemorated the start of our lifelong pursuit of learning medicine and dedicating ourselves to the service of others. 

Joy counting colonies from a urine streak on nutrient agar plates. I think we concluded that the “patient” had some sort of infection

We had our first microbiology labs and worked with Staphylococcus, Bacillus, Streptococcus, E. coliand other fun creatures. We learned how to operate the “vending machines” in the hospital that give you neatly packaged white coats according to size (!!). And I discovered a new coffee shop on campus with cheap challah sandwiches.

Classmates looking snazzy after stopping by the white coat vending machine. Ready for microbiology lab! (Photo: Eric Tsu)

I won’t pretend that it’s easy being here. But I’m learning to take joy in the little things, like unexpected chats about authors. These are the small fragments, I think, that are required in making a home.  - blogger of the month, Esther Lee

Neighborhood Global Health, by Esther Lee, blogger of the month

Right before our Succoth break we had “Intro to Anthro to Global Health and Medicine”, an introductory course for the global health modules we will be taking the rest of our time here. For three days we listened, learned, debated, talked over each other, asked pointed questions, and got the importance of timeliness drilled into us (one of our first encounters with Dr. Seema Biswas was her not-so-subtly reprimanding us for not being on time, which means being early, to lecture).

I think, for most of us, we felt. We felt the pangs of our current situation: listening to lectures about healthcare inequalities, economic power plays in developing countries, political tensions that get in the way of appropriate healthcare – all while sitting in a nice, air-conditioned auditorium at Ben Gurion. I felt drawn to jump into the action now, even though I felt like I little to offer as a student.

When will we be able to treat patients, regardless of race, ethnicity, religious affiliation, citizenship, or cultural barriers? When will we be able to apply our global health head knowledge to real situations, not just with role-playing classmates and hypothetical scenarios?

I walked home after the last Global Health lecture with my earphones jammed in, feeling the hot afternoon sun on the back of my neck. I was really looking forward to the ten days off for Succoth.

“Excuse me, do you have Acamol?” a petite lady wearing a baggy sweater with dusty leather sandals, waved her hand in my face to get my attention.

To tell you the truth, I was going to ignore her. I had almost a million errands to run before getting on a train to start my “Sea to Sea hike” (must do before graduating! High chance of photos in next blog). I was mentally exhausted from the last three days of Global Health. And, it was really, really hot.

I tugged my earphones out.

“What’s Acamol?”  She gave me a look of disbelief -  rightly so, as it’s one of the most common medicines in Israel [Israeli brand of Paracetamol, I had to look it up to write this] - then patiently explained, by pointing to her temple, that she has a headache and that Acamol makes it go away.

I have to admit something else -  I had Tylenol with me that I could give to her and go on my way, but after three days of Global Health I couldn’t do it with a clean conscience.

I asked her why she doesn’t have it with her, after all, it’s a common painkiller and we live in a city - there’s sure to be a pharmacy in our neighborhood. But what about the socioeconomic factors unique to her life? Can she afford the medication? Is the pharmacy close to her home? Is she physically capable of walking there alone even if she could afford it? Does someone have to take her? Or is it something in her diet and lifestyle that is triggering her headaches? (Global Health has influenced even my small-talk skills).

I discovered that she has the money, but not a lot; she doesn’t know where the nearest pharmacy is; she would be grateful if I went to the pharmacy and got them for her (I asked); her stash of Acamol that her doctor prescribed is all gone and that she can’t go to her doctor again alone because of her some hidden complexity in her insurance plan.

We talked for over half an hour in the Beersheva heat on the side of the street. I watched her face lit up as she talked about her childhood in Poland and immigrating to Israel. She mentioned the difficulty of moving to the Negev as a young wife with four babies. And how she misses her old home she lived with her husband, the one with the spacious front patio, the one that her children made her sell to come live with them in dusty and crowded city.

She wasn’t asking me for medicine. She was asking me for things that money can’t buy. Time, sincerity, someone who could look her in the eyes and listen to her.  She also wasn’t just an old lady on the verge of losing her mind, looking for someone to listen to her ramble.

When I asked her if she drank enough water, or if she drank tea or coffee (triggers of headaches), she gave me a wide mischievous smile and told me she couldn’t live without her morning cup of joy. We high-fived in whole-hearted agreement (but I didn’t forget to remind her to drink water afterwards).

And, when I asked her if she cooks and what she eats at home, she gave me a look as if she knew what I was getting at – I was hoping to subtly check for a hint of elderly abuse since she is a widower

with one of her children - and answered that she loves Italian food and that an organization brings homemade cooking to her house sometimes. Her sweet, smug grin lingered in the air between us.

We didn’t talk about Acamol again, or the headache. (She reminded me how much she misses her patio throughout the whole conversation). We finally exchanged names. She asked about me, and when I told her I was studying medicine she told me that it is a worthy pursuit. She told me the next time she sees me, she’ll greet me properly with, “Hi Doc!”

“Don’t give up, never” she told me as we parted ways. She’s right. This road that we’ve chosen is lengthy, tedious, and is terrible for our social lives. Sometimes we doubt our decision to come study medicine in a foreign country. I know I’ve had my bouts of gripping fear and uncertainty in being here. But we’re here for a reason, and I believe that the more committed we are to being fully here and the more willing we are to set our roots down in this desert, we’ll see the little reasons of why we came to Israel.

I think the encounter with Anette* was a small answer to why I came here.  I’m here not only to study medicine through a global perspective, but also to practice loving the people, culture, and context, wherever I happen to me. I’m realizing that sometimes we put down roots through unexpected ways.

Now that we’re here, we are doing all it takes to keep going, to keep pushing our lonely roots down in the dry, cracked soil. We must remember that we’re here for a reason.  So whether studying bacteriology, lysosomal storage diseases, or drawing out biochemical pathways for the tenth time, or filling out medical school essays, interviewing, and playing the waiting game - Don’t give up, never. We’re in this journey for a reason greater than we are.   - Esther Lee, blogger of the month

*Pseudonym

Some pictures of the sea to sea hike! Started on the Mediterranean, from the coastal city of Nahariya.

We spent the first day walking through a nature reserve park. The stream crossings kept us from getting too hot.

Walking through valleys and looking up at mountains makes one feel appropriately small and humble.

Sleeping on the shore of the Yam Kineret (Sea of Galilee) after 4 days and ~ 60km and waking up to a striking sunrise was an appropriate way to end our hike.