Magazine - summer 03 - St. John's College

{Johnnies Abroad}
13
understood her pain
and terror without
comprehending the
words. I approached to
comfort her, and
placed my hand on her
swollen belly as she
moaned in pain. I
looked into her eyes
and felt utterly helpless.
How was I, a 20-
year-old student of the
“great books,” going
to stop her pain?
For over an hour I stood with her, rubbing her belly in
silence. The doctor reported that her condition was stable
and that she had hours before she would give birth. He then
left to see other patients. After some time, I followed suit
and returned to the pharmacy, but throughout the day I frequented
her room. More than once I again demanded the
doctor’s attention, but he always reported the same. Her
pain may have been steady, but was it normal? Without a
better foundation for concern than my feelings, I trusted
the doctor’s judgment and left for the evening. Soon I was
overtaken by hunger and fatigue, and the woman’s suffering
was pushed to the background of my thoughts.
The next morning when we arrived at the clinic, the doctor
told us that this young woman had experienced complications
and was rushed to the mainland during the night.
She and the baby both died.
For a time I allowed the suffering and inequality that I
experienced in Kenya to saturate me with helplessness.
Then finally, a few days before our departure, I realized that
this woman knew that somebody cared about her and wanted
to ease her pain, however inexperienced and unable I
may have been. Even though we didn’t know each other’s
name, I felt a searing love for her. I realized that the world
is filled with nameless individuals, and it was my responsibility
to show them this love. In a way, this nameless woman
paul obrecht
Marching to the River
by Paul Obrecht (SF02)
The Czech people are
slowly rebuilding
traditions, such as this
wine festival procession,
lost in the communist era.
helped me far more
than any remedies or
medicines I could have
given to her. She
helped me to realize
the power of the
human heart.
In the middle of March, having been in the Czech Republic
for nine months, I was invited to participate in a traditional
springtime procession in a tiny village in southern
Moravia. A straw man was to be carried from the village
square down to the river, set on fire, and then tossed into
the water; newly green branches would be gathered, decorated
with ribbons, and returned to the square. All of this
was in the name of dismissing winter and welcoming the
return of spring. When we arrived in the middle of the cold,
gray afternoon, we joined a small group of parents and children
and began marching to the river, singing Czech folk
songs all the while. But I was misled about this being a traditional
procession: At some point it was admitted that
Czechs haven’t enacted this ceremony for a hundred years
or more. I was part of a re-creation, an attempt to resurrect
an old tradition that had died out generations ago. I discovered
later that the people marching down to the river were
Waldorf School moms and dads, and that this was a Waldorf
event. (Waldorf schools were imported from the West in
1995 or so.)
I was tremendously disappointed, but I couldn’t quite say
why. Was it just the tourist in me, disappointed by the lack
{ The College • St. John’s College • Fall 2004 }