MICHAEL JANSEN visits the Jordanian Red Crescent Hospital in Amman, where refugees are treated
SINCE THE US invasion of Iraq in 2003, Jordan has become not only the refuge of 750,000 Iraqis evading violence in their homeland, but also the last resort of hundreds of wounded Iraqis seeking medical attention.
The refugees’ needs are tended at the 100-bed Jordanian Red Crescent Hospital in Amman. Dr Abdullah Abu al-Kheir, the Jordanian head of outpatients, says: “We treat 100-150 daily . . . Chronic conditions and severe diseases. Both care and medicines are free.” Three Iraqi doctors work in this department, with Jordanian colleagues.
Umm Muhammad, a woman cloaked in black who fled Fallujah, a town destroyed in 2004 in two US offensives, waits for a doctor to see her small daughter, her eyes glazed with fever. Nour, from Baghdad’s Amiriya quarter, has a blockage in her nose and finds it difficult to breathe. To gain admission, refugees present UN certificates or documents identifying them as Iraqis. Illegals, more than half the refugees, come only in extremis, fearing deportation if turned in to the police.
Iraqis injured in attacks in Iraq come to the ward run since 2006 by Médicins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders).
More than 660 Iraqis needing facial, limb and burn operations have received plastic surgery here to restore function, rather than for cosmetic reasons. Ten Iraqi doctors are employed by the agency in Jordan and a similar number in Iraq. They refer patients to Amman. Half the patients are accompanied by a family member and all expenses are paid by MSF, which relies on three million private donors.
Dr Nagham al-Ani, the Iraqi ward resident, says, “One hundred per cent of our patients are here for reconstructive surgeries, which are impossible in Baghdad. We cannot have such a project in Baghdad. We are the last resort.”
Many patients underwent operations in Iraq. Some failed, wounds did not heal and infection set in. MSF has adopted a holistic approach, treating patients for hypertension and psychological disorders, as well as dealing with wounds. Thirty-two patients are now in the ward, and 70 are living at the MSF hotel which provides accommodation before and between surgeries and through the recovery period.
Jordanian clinical psychologist Dr Yousef Musallam says there are three psychologists and five “animators” on the team.
“We see [patients] when they arrive at the hotel before they start with the surgical programme. We make a psychosocial assessment. Some are distressed because they are away from home . . . far from their families. Some have post-traumatic distress disorder. We see them in hospital. Some need help in pain management. They have false pain due to fear.”
At the hotel, patients socialise, and attend group therapy. There is schooling, and birthday parties are held for children.
Aysar Habib has been here for 18 months. In March 2007, she was returning home after classes at Baghdad University when her taxi was caught in a firefight. Three-quarters of Aysar’s lower jaw was blown away by a high-calibre round. After an operation at a US hospital in the Iraqi capital, she came here. Nine operations later she smiles shyly, jaw in place, but facial scarring has yet to be erased and teeth replaced. She says bravely: “I want to complete all the operations.” Then she will resume her engineering studies, specialising in lasers.
At the MSF outpatient department – a prefab facility outside the hospital – Dr Nasser al-Omari, an Iraqi plastic surgeon, is making recommendations to physiotherapists. “We want to restore function to limbs,” he says as he manipulates the gnarled and stiff hands of a woman wounded in a market bombing. On one hand a toe has replaced an amputated thumb.
Outside, sitting on the prefab steps, are men with burnt and blasted limbs, waiting for consultations with Dr Omari, the miracle worker who gives them back lives devastated by bombs and bullets.