UNCHAINED Ron Post
team entered the sea of needy and dying people wearing black clothing that hung loosely on their thin , frail frames . The sight was heartbreaking , and the stench of human waste from open trenches was so overpowering I had to restrain the impulse to cover my nose to keep from vomiting . I struggled with both while keenly aware that the refugees ’ suffering was staggering , so much greater than any pain I had ever experienced . We grieved the terrible cost the refugees bore .
I searched the faces as we moved toward the hospital ward . The migrants ’ eyes were as empty and dark as their clothing . They appeared to be staring at nothingness . The expansive needs presented a mission I had not before encountered , nor had my volunteer team of physicians , nurses , and medics .
Questions raced through my mind . Is this where we ’ re supposed to be ? Will the team be up to the complex tasks of treating diseases they ’ ve never seen ? What are the volunteers thinking and feeling ? We were Americans , and mass tragedies of this proportion didn ’ t happen in our homeland .
World Vision International had assigned our medical team to the vast hospital . The thatched roof served as a canopy over gravel floors . Rows of cots stretched more than three hundred feet . The space could accommodate caring for hundreds of outpatients and 125 inpatients .
As we strode through the maze of cots toward our assigned stations , each face we encountered reflected more pain and anguish than I had seen up to that time in my life . The air was rife with distressful moaning . A young woman cried out in pain . Her infant
55