The Broken Man

Poverty is the worst form of violence. - Mahatma Gandhi

When I went to work that day, it was with a heavy heart. I was preoccupied with my own thoughts and was just wishing that I could just go through with my shift as peacefully as I can. Little did I know that I was about to receive a wake-up call from reality. Little did I know that I was about to be slapped with the cold truth that I really was living a sheltered life. My problems were so little compared to what others are going through. This, I was about to find out that day.

Hopeless- that's the first word that came to mind when I met him. I've seen many people who suffered from all types of illness and go through such excruciating pain, but none exhibited the same look of hopelessness that I saw in that man's face. It was the look of a man who has accepted that his life has come to an end. It's the expression of a man whose spirit has been broken. It's the look that would later haunt my dreams.

What do I know about drug mules? Nothing much, I guess. I see them in the news all the time. Desperate people who, in exchange of food in their bellies, chose to be drug couriers. At that time, I would just shake my head, and say, "such a pity." Then life goes on for me. But now, I doubt I could just dismiss this as easily as I did back then.

This man had tears in his eyes while trying to push out all the drug capsules he was forced to swallow. These capsules were as thick and long as your average man's thumbs. Imagine being forced to swallow 97 of these and again being forced to squeeze all of these out of your body. It was pure torture to witness this. It makes one wonder what drove this man to do such thing. But then again, the answer comes back to mind. It's the same thing that made me work away from my family. It's the same driving force behind every expatriate worker: to be able to provide a better future for one's own family; to be able to keep food in their growling bellies; to be able to provide roofs over their loved ones' heads. It's for his and his family's survival. But being without means to do it the legal way, he subjected himself to be used by drug syndicates, those vultures which prey on desperate victims. He allowed them to defile his own body, risking his own life and his family's safety. Who is to say, he did the wrong thing when it was the only option he was dealt with? Yes. He, too, is a victim.

As a nurse, I was trained to provide care and comfort to our clients. It is my job to make sure that I ease my patient's suffering and help him make the transition from sickness to optimum health. But how do you nurse a wounded soul? How do you help him when he has lost the will to help himself? It destroys me to know that no matter how much care I give him, he will still be sentenced to die. I am my patient's advocate but I, too, am bound by the rules that govern the land.

Someone callously remarked, "Why do you care that he should sleep peacefully tonight, when we all know he is going to die anyway?" I really wanted to rush at him and rip out his tongue. It was all I could do to rein back all emotions I felt. i went home that day carrying with me those terrible pictures in my head. Despite the exhaustion, I slept fitfully. I kept seeing that face of hopelessness. How do I go through these experiences unscathed?