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Of strikes and caesars

I admit it, I am a little nervous about work today. The medical manager spends the morning meeting allocating a named “man” to each ward – women doctors are to keep a low profile, just in case “things get nasty.” I cannot pretend to be a particularly imposing specimen of manhood, in fact none of us can save Jabu. There will probably only be one nurse on each ward, the medical manager explains, and “they will be looking to you for leadership.” Tom (a doctor from London) has come dressed in his jeans today – “so as to blend in,” he explains with a wry grin, looking particularly white and freckly.

After my high care ward round I potter down to my allocated ward. We all spent yesterday discharging patients to get the hospital as empty as possible for today – we had a head start as no one had been coming for admission anyway. To my surprise all the nurses are there, dressed in their civvies. I explain in embarrassed tones that I am their “man” – they look at me doubtfully but dutifully write my cell number on a scrap of paper and promise to call if there are any problems.

In OPD there are more nurses than patients. There are in fact more nurses than there were yesterday on the “non-strike” day. I wander past X-ray. It is open but there is no one around. A sign on the hatch reads, “Gone for tea and picketing. Back in 30 mins.”

I bump into the matron, the medical manager and Dr Kekana as I leave. They are taking the roll call demanded by Head Office. Dr Kekana looks a little embarrassed – “I was asked to,” she mutters. Dr Adam has just come from a teleconference with other hospitals around the province. Ours sounds as if it is one of the more civilised – many are experiencing severe disruption from picketers and poor staff turnout. The nurses and other hospital staff at Hlabisa are as morally behind the strike as anyone else – but from the guy who drives the electro-car that collects the laundry to the ladies who empty the bins to the nurses themselves, every discipline is running if not normally then at least functionally. I am seriously impressed with their dedication – particularly given the intimidation some have experienced from neighbours and some of the union reps.

Nicky tells me later that one of the senior sisters she was working with in OPD looked at her in between patients and said, “Doctor, I am not here. My body might be, but emotionally..” she looked out of the window and gestured to the town hall where the picketers were gathering, “..I am there.”

At lunch time the demonstration reaches the hospital gate. It does not enter the grounds but stops outside. Olstein and I go out and stand on the peripheries to watch. People we recognise wave. One nurses asks, “Are you here to toyi-toyi?” and demonstrates the dance enthusiastically. Another nurses translates the speakers words for us – about the government not listening and how it gets its power from the people and needs to listen to the people. The next speaker accidentally starts his speech in English. He is interrupted by a colleague and there is a brief muttering. “Oh.. sorry..” he says and he starts again in Zulu.

By 2pm there is nothing to do. No more patients have made it in today (the taxis are on strike as well), the demo is running our of steam and the wards are quiet. Olstein and I have a game of squash. Just as I finish showering, Jabu phones. “Want to learn how to do a Caesarian section? I’m going to theatre.”

Well why not? Nothing else to do.

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