Impatient, fevered, faint, till thou art there,
The one short smile of sunshine to make light
The long remembrance of another night.”
H. E. Hamilton King.
“Medical Missions” need no apology or excuse. Even in the comparatively few years that have elapsed since their commencement, they have abundantly justified their existence, both from the missionary standpoint, and also as philanthropic agencies. If this be true for purely pagan lands, it applies even more accurately to work in Mohammedan countries. Medical missionary work is, without doubt, the golden key that unlocks the door of the heart of the most fanatical Moslem, be he Persian, Arab, Kurd, or Yezidee (devil worshipper). I write this deliberately, after eight years’ experience in Persia, Palestine, and Mesopotamia. But in this book it is not meant specially to emphasise the missionary aspect of our life in these distant lands, but more to give a slight glimpse of native life as we found it, and the following, therefore, must be taken as notes from a doctor’s diary, covering a period of eight years’ work in Persia and Mesopotamia.
The year 1900 found us at Isphahan. We were living in Julfa, the Armenian suburb of that great city, and I had temporary charge of the C.M.S. Medical Mission. The hospital at that period was simply a native house that had been adapted, more or less, for the requirements of a dispensary and hospital. There was no lack of work, patients coming from Isphahan itself, and from all the country round about. Soon after settling down to the routine work, a little Persian boy was brought to me from an outlying village by his father. He was about twelve years of age, and his face was badly disfigured from a “hare-lip.” The Persians believe that this congenital malformation is the mark left by the foot of the Evil One, so this poor boy was known in his village by the unenviable title “little devil,” and had been a good deal tormented by his playfellows. He was admitted to hospital, operated upon successfully, and after some ten days’ careful treatment the dressing was finally removed, and I handed the boy a mirror that he might look for the first time upon his “new” face. As I watched his countenance while he regarded himself steadfastly in the glass, I was amply repaid for the time and trouble spent, by his look of joy, incredulity, and amazement. Tears of joy rolled down his face as he kissed my hand, and murmured brokenly, “I am no longer a little devil, I am no longer a little devil!” He could go back to his village now gladly, no longer fearing to join in the games of his comrades, and I feel sure he afterwards often posed as a hero in his little village, as, the centre of an admiring throng, he recounted the details of his visit, treatment, and cure at the Mission Hospital.
A Very Ancient Bridge
Built over the river which divides the city of Isphahan from its Christian suburb of Julfa.
