Stethoscope and Bullet; When Prejudice Kills Hope in a Maligned Papua

For more than a decade, I have lived in a district perhaps not even precisely mapped in Papua. I, Dr. Charisa, am not merely serving; I am enduring in a land where humanity is tested by a savage nature and the brutal grip of prejudice.

Here, “modernity” is a bitter joke. The daily aroma is a therapy of wet earth and the scent of pig waste. Clean water is a gift from the heavens, held in fragile tanks. A glimpse of the outside world is caught through a satellite antenna, transmitting signals of hope that are often severed by extreme weather. Ironically, in this heart of isolation, price is a cruel king. Fuel is sold at an astonishing Rp75,000 per liter. The smell of burning money fills the air every time a generator hums to life, every time a rickety motorcycle roar. It feels like shopping for luxury goods on Orchard Road, Singapore, but what we’re buying are necessities. The landscape is not one of glittering luxury, but a dense jungle that shrouds a thousand secrets and threats.

Our clinic is officially registered as an outpatient facility. In reality, we are forced to open our doors to inpatients, embracing every patient, providing care for free, and without the guarantee of BPJS. This isn’t about regulations; it’s about life or death. When lives are at stake, bureaucracy is merely another burdensome piece of paper. Our designated working area is just one district, but in truth, eleven districts await our touch. Patients arrive with a myriad of ailments, often brought from remote villages on foot, carried on shoulders, or by whatever means possible. They are brought by families whose clothes are torn and who have gone for days without food. Yet, they arrive, clutching a dying loved one, hoping for a miracle from a clinic that lacks even a proper operating room.

We are forced to perform surgeries on our clinic’s worn examination table. A single doctor, a handful of nurses, a simple clinic building, and the blessing of a prayer are our only tools in this fight against death. It’s a brutal battle waged with a stethoscope and a handful of medicine against the unyielding force of death. We struggle with limited resources, with a medicine cabinet often empty except for expired drugs, with oxygen tanks that run out when we need them most. We operate under the dim light of a kerosene lamp when the generator fails, our hands guided by a desperate hope.

For us, the medical profession is a sacred calling, a divine mission from God. It’s an oath to serve humanity, to save lives, and to alleviate suffering, regardless of a person’s social status, ethnicity, religion, or political beliefs. This principle guides our every action, a silent vow that echoes in the halls of our humble clinic. It’s a vow that puts us in the crosshairs of conflict.

We had just concluded a surgery, saving a patient from the clutches of a sudden fever, when a military officer burst into the room. He pointed an accusatory finger at me; his face twisted in suspicion. “Doctor, you betrayed the state!” he snarled, “Why did you treat a separatist? They are our enemies!” 

My blood ran cold. The accusation felt like a bullet, piercing my heart. My hands, which had just stitched up a life, trembled. “Sir, I treated a patient,” I replied, my voice shaking with a mix of fear and defiance, “My stethoscope doesn’t have eyes. It doesn’t see if the patient is a soldier or a separatist. It only hears a heartbeat, a life that needs to be saved”.

“Your humanity is a weakness!” he shouted, “It’s a mistake that could cost our country!”.

His words hit me harder than any physical blow. The irony was so sharp it cut me to the bone. They called me a traitor, a collaborator with the enemy, simply for upholding my oath. They were willing to let a human being die for the sake of political loyalty. My principles of humanity were deemed a betrayal.

His men then raided our clinic. They searched every room, every corner, looking for a reason to incriminate me, to make my humanity a crime. They confiscated all the documents I had, the patient files, the medical records, even my personal laptop. The accusation was simple: I had aided and abetted a rebel group.

The next day, my husband and child were also brought to the military post for questioning.. “What did your wife give them?” they asked him, “What did you see your mother doing at the clinic?” My son, just a child, was also subjected to this harrowing experience. The pressure from all sides was suffocating. I felt like I was being squeezed, my spirit slowly draining away. We were innocent, yet we were treated like criminals, our lives hanging by a thread.

I tried to tell them the truth: that our only purpose was to serve the sick, that we treated every patient who came to us, regardless of who they were. But my words fell on deaf ears. My family, who had no part in this, was now suffering because of my dedication to my profession.

The situation in Papua was growing more volatile every day. The conflict between the military and the separatist groups had escalated into a war. Gunfire and the sound of helicopters filled our days and nights. It was no longer safe for us. My husband made a difficult decision: we had to leave. We had to escape this nightmare.

With a heavy heart, we packed our bags, leaving behind a life we had built for over a decade. We left the clinic, the patients, the people we had grown to love. The final straw came when we found out that another doctor, a colleague, had been killed in a nearby district. He was just doing his job, just like me, and he paid the ultimate price. We were no longer safe.

With a mix of terror and despair, we fled to overseas. We sought refuge in a place where we could feel safe, where our lives would not be threatened just for doing our jobs. We took a break; our souls weary from the constant threat. 

It was in this moment of quiet reflection that I realized something profound. In this faraway land, the cost of an Indomie noodle was far cheaper than the price of a life in Papua. The simple things we took for granted were a luxury in a land where a stethoscope and a bullet could be two sides of the same coin.

As time passed and a new leadership took over the country, we returned. We are still here, and we continue to serve, for the sake of our nation. I hope to document the thousands of stories I have lived, to write a book that will allow others to peer into the brutal reality of life in these remote areas. I hope to offer a new perspective, an enlightenment for health services, and, most importantly, for the safety of other medical personnel in this unmapped land.

Kreator : Vidya D’CharV