In the Shadow of Tyranny:: A Search for Healing and Hope

By Xlibris US

This physicians true stories carry the reader from his roots in rural America into a turbulent Congo devastated by dictator Mobutus excesses; into refugee camps on Cambodias border, a Cambodia ravaged by dictator Pol Pot; into the Artibonite Valley beside Haitian peasants victimized by dictator Baby Doc Duvaliers bungling; and into an interlude working with the Lakota, Chippewa, and Quinault Tribes of Native Americans.

Medical Doctor Jim Fett says, I want the reader to garner a sense of sharing and searching in the lives and stories of these persons who deal with victory and defeat, life and death, healing and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 8, 2004
• ISBN: 9781499014396

Book preview

IN THE SHADOW

OF TYRANNY

A Search For Healing and Hope

James D. Fett, MD

Copyright © 2004 by James D. Fett, MD.

Published by Utterance Press, 611 Sumner Ave., Aberdeen, WA 98520-3343.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 08/05/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

BOOK REVIEW

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

CHAPTER ONE: SVELE

CHAPTER TWO: JIMMY & JAMES

CHAPTER THREE: WHY ARE YOU HERE?

CHAPTER FOUR: U NE WIN

CHAPTER FIVE: INTERNATIONAL ASSIGNMENT

CHAPTER SIX: CHAOS IN CONGO

CHAPTER SEVEN: CHARLOTTE OF THE KWILU REBELLION

CHAPTER EIGHT: MOBUTU

CHAPTER NINE: VICTIM IN THE BUSH

CHAPTER TEN: SURGICAL CHALLLENGE

CHAPTER ELEVEN: LIFE FOR JOHNNY

CHAPTER TWELVE: BETTY’S CONGO

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TATA NGUBIDI’S CHILD

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: DANY, MY FRIEND

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: SUPER SHADRACK

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: GOAL KISANGANI

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: NATIVE AMERICAN INTERLUDE: AS LONG AS THE RIVERS RUN . .

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: RA, A CHARMING SURVIVOR

CHAPTER NINETEEN: UNACCOMPANIED MINORS

CHAPTER TWENTY: POL POT

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: LAMENT FROM A BARBED WIRE ENCLOSURE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: HÔPITAL ALBERT SCHWEITZER

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: MADAME MELLON OF HAITI

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: DUVALIER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: A DOCTOR’S JOURNAL

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: TIME TO LEAVE HAITI

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: REMEMBERING BETTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: HOPE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: TAXI, ANYONE?

CHAPTER THIRTY: A CHALLENGE AWAITING ME

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ABSTRACTED PERIPARTUM CARDIOMYOPATHY BIBLIOGRAPHY (J.D.FETT, MD)

BOOK REVIEW

What unique humanitarian thread can run through Ne Win’s Burma, Mobutu’s Congo, Pol Pot’s Cambodia and Duvaliers’ Haiti, all murderous regimes that violated human rights and saddled their people with poverty, disease and early death? That thread was the career of Dr. James (Jim) Fett, who, while working under the shadow of their tyranny, emerged into the sunlight of professional excellence and personal fulfillment. His recent book is appropriately titled In the Shadow of Tyranny (Xlibris Corporation, 2004). Another author, Joseph Conrad, once wrote about his hero, In the east they called him Tuan Jim, as you might say, Lord Jim." Jim Fett is no lord; through a long career that spanned 5 decades he sat beside the beds of ordinary people who got very sick, deeply committed to the relieving of their misery as a compassionate and caring physician. He also remained a loving husband and father (and a grandfather), and more important for us, a steadfast and devoted friend of Hôpital Albert Schweitzer. Long after his eventful tenure at HAS he returned year after year to unravel the mystery of a lethal disease that struck the hearts of young pregnant women and left their children bereft of the tender and loving care of a mother. Peripartum cardiomyopathy (PPCM) as it is called forged an eternal bond between this physician born in the cool climes of Campbell, Minnesota, and the patients living and dying in the hot and dusty villages around Deschapelles, Haiti.

—Venkita Suresh, MD

Chief Executive Officer/Directeur Général, Hôpital Albert Schweitzer

23 February 2005

DEDICATION

To the memory of

Betty Marie Dalton Fett,

whose inspiration is with me daily;

to our children, Sharla, Debra, and Sheryl,

whose numerous accomplishments are fulfilling

to both them and me;

and to

Therese Lilia Sprunger and Christine Dazil Sprunger,

who bring me new life and hope.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

MANY THANKS TO my friends and family as well as special thanks to Nancy Parkes Turner of Evergreen State College, who reviewed a number of stories; to Donna McLean Nixon of McLean Literary Associates, who edited many parts of the manuscript; to Mark Ortman of Wise Owl Books, who suggested the title; to my wife, Therese, and my daughter, Christine, who contributed more than anyone realizes; and to my twin sister, Joyce Cox, who always encouraged me.

FOREWORD

ALL OF THESE stories are true. Some of them appeared in my book, FOUR DICTATORS AND ONE FREEMAN. As in FOUR DICTATORS, this book devotes a chapter to each of the four dictators. The world knows these dictators of whom I write, and under whose shadow I worked. Like many of those affected or victimized by them, I remained unknown and inconsequential to them. Information about them comes mostly from my knowledge of them as strands of their lives became interwoven on the tapestry of my own. Other sources are referenced in the text and bibliography pages. Betty’s parents and my parents both saved those weekly letters over many years. They have been an invaluable source of both chronological detail and story content. Other than the dictators, the people whom I write about live on in my heart. The dictators are all dead to me although one continues a semblance of life. Following my life in the shadow of those four dictators life has moved on for me in such a significant way that I cannot help but share that story with you.

CHAPTER ONE

SVELE

How beautiful you are, my dearest, O how beautiful… .

—Song of Songs 1: 15 ¹

I REMEMBER THAT woman not only for her stunning beauty but also because when she needed medical care I could do so little for her.

That name, Svele. The way the Kimbala Tribe of Congo pronounced it made it rhyme with belly. The first part required a coordination of tongue, lips, and teeth, reminding me of some of my Scandinavian-origin neighbors in Minnesota, the Sssveed’s. I’d never forget her name because in physical aspect she appeared, indeed, swell.

I vividly remember the first time she came to me, carried into the hospital by other students. We had just begun the first week of classes at the Vanga School of Nursing and Public Health in Congo, and Svele had secured one of the 20 openings in the first year class.

Although I served as Director of the school, I’d not been involved in all of the testing and interviews required for selection. There were many more candidates than openings. I have no recollection of her before that first night in the hospital.

Initially, we could only find men qualified to enter our school for nurses, midwives, and health agents. Gradually the situation changed and by the time of Svele’s appearance, there were as many women students as men. That had been our goal. Many fathers in the rural area of Congo finally realized results merited the cost of sending their daughters to school.

René, one of the second year students, came to my house one evening. I lived only about 100 meters from the hospital. We had no electricity, and René carried a small kerosene storm lantern.

Doctor, can you come see Svele? She’s fou, crazy.

I’ll come. I’ll meet you at the hospital.

My own kerosene storm lantern cast a circle of dim light on the sandy road leading to the hospital. I waited in the octagonal central receiving area of the main hospital building.

Many noises punctuated the African night. The mix of patients and their families arranging their mats for the night, a portable radio pulsing with the Afro-Carib beat, the cicadas and crickets in discordant concert, an occasional fruit bat’s staccato outburst.

As I approached the hospital I heard a din of voices, and overriding them all the high-pitched shriek of a female voice. A cluster of young people entered, transporting Svele, suspended horizontally, stiff as a mahogany plank carved out of the rain forest along the Congo River.

Her shrieks were unintelligible to me. She seemed to be repeating a phrase with people’s names mixed in. The students deposited her rigid body on a palm mat resting on the plain cement floor.

Doctor, she says she needs to go home. She wants her papa and mama. René had to shout in my ear to overcome the clamor.

My eyes beheld a beautiful young woman, never mind the shrieking and waving arms. Her eyes stared upward, dark and unfathomable, bordered by long, curved lashes. High-set cheekbones characterized an oval face of remarkable beauty. Her magenta lips framed pearly white, even teeth. Her ebony skin reflected smoothness, seeming to have never known a blemish. Tiny coifed braids passed in parallel rails over the crown of her head. The strap muscles of her neck were taut, holding her head in that rigid position. Of all her body parts only her mouth and arms moved. Those slender arms gestured upward, graceful and in perfect proportions, tapering to smooth long fingers.

Her torso was wrapped in a faded red blouse with a V-neck and tailored to fit a woman’s profile. The blouse, torn on the front, revealed a full, firm, pointed breast. The young men gawked, even in a society where the bare breast is common and appreciated for its function as a mammary gland. The used African print enfolding her abdomen, hips, and legs, was pulled tightly at the waist, indicating a youthful slimness. A curvaceous thigh, smooth knee, and slight ankle penetrated the edge of the wrap. Her bare feet seemed to have escaped the multiple traumas experienced by a childhood of feet without shoes.

My repertoire of treatments for this condition suffered an embarrassing impoverishment. I’d been in this setting long enough to know that in all probability we would soon be delivering her to the nganga, the medicine man, the witch doctor, the native practitioner. He understood the time-tested remedies passed along through generations of healers.

Our deplorably tiny stock of Thorazine, a psychotropic drug, given by injection, seemed to have negligible effect. I’d not resorted to the more sedating phenobarbital or chloral hydrate, not wishing to render her unconscious with the combination of medications.

By morning those shrill cries persisted, slightly diminished in volume. Her arms still waved periodically. Svele’s beautiful face now seemed a bit puffy and her eyes stared through us and beyond.

I remembered several native practitioners who seemed to know better how to help in this situation. One had helped Madame Bellamie, who made her home at Vanga on the verandah of one of the missionaries. She lived in a world of her own, interrupting siesta hour with her ranting and raving. Everywhere she went her one year-old son traveled along, strapped to her back or riding her hip, secured by the African print festooned with President Mobutu’s smiling face.

Everyone tolerated Madame Bellamie until she ran off with the missionary’s two year-old son. I still see visions of this lady running down the dusty path, a son on each hip, one black baby, one white, followed by a train of missionaries and their domestic helpers. Station leaders then promptly transported her back to her village, where the native practitioner took over.

I also thought of Madame Gustave, who stationed herself outside the nursing school classroom, shouting a string of gibberish, unintelligible to any of us, Congolese and expatriates alike. Her eyes rolled to heaven, she leaned back, implored whatever forces there may have been up there, wagging her finger in admonishment of, seemingly, myself. Having tolerated the racket longer than most, I would go out to her, speaking both French and Kituba, imploring her to stop. Once, deciding that nothing else had helped, I walked directly to her, and quietly but sternly addressed her in English.

In the name of Jesus of Nazareth, come out!

A look of astonishment appeared on her face. Did she actually understand me? She remained silent for a full ten seconds before resuming her previous tirade, louder than ever. Admitting that this demon, if one at all, exceeded my powers of exorcism, I arranged for a truck to transport her to the village medicine man.

These encounters with the shaman seemed to be characterized by an atmosphere of mutual respect, but they also had attuned me to the fact that we would probably not see Svele back with us. His price would be that Svele must not return to the foreign doctor. I didn’t want to lose her, but her life depended upon snapping out of the fierce grip of this catatonic behavior.

Experience told me that he would require separation from Western medicine. And I knew that in exchange for what he would do for her, she would want me to respect her separation. I must not return to see her. I must not ask anyone in her village about her. I must release all influence over her. By taking her to him I tacitly agreed to those conditions, but it saddened me.

While I chauffeured the GMC pickup the 40 kilometers to her village, Svele continued her frenzied dialogue. She lay on a blanket in the back of the truck, surrounded by a bevy of concerned students. It might have been a pleasant trip through the forests and savanna but for the purpose of our journey.

Village inhabitants directed us to her house. Her mother rushed out to meet us as we rolled to a stop directly in front of her mud and thatch hut. Her daughter demonstrated no recognition, even with the distraught mother cradling her daughter’s head and stroking her cheek.

The students had already given the family a brief explanation. Those few words seemed to help them quickly grasp the situation. Many hands lifted Svele through the open tailgate of the truck and placed her on a palm mat in the shade of the thatched roof overhang.

René explained to me, They’ve sent for the nganga.

While we waited 15 minutes beside the house that had become the center of attraction, most of the village clustered around. Some surrounded Svele, some circled the truck where we were standing. Children dashed between the two circles, some hushed, the bold ones chattering excitedly.

The antique figure approaching could be none other than the shaman. He walked with a slightly bent forward gait, slowly, with a deliberation that must have required great practice. He proceeded directly towards Svele, sparing not a glance towards the truck or the hospital visitors who stood at the edge of the path.

He paced barefoot, toes gnarled and dusty. An aged dark red cloth draped his hips and legs to mid-calves. A gray cloth rested loosely over his shoulders, the better to display a copper chain necklace dangling a single saber tooth. A stained cloth pouch also suspended from his neck, tied to a soiled string, braided to triple thickness.

His ancient head was sparsely covered with gray, nearly white hair, with a tuft of gray chin whiskers. Lines furrowed his brow and cheeks. Dusty wrinkles covered his upper torso.

I really didn’t want to release Svele, yet I wanted to respect this African healer who, from his own unique experiences, perhaps saw mysteries unrevealed to us who followed the conventional therapies. And I knew in my heart that we had little choice but to leave her with her parents.

René approached and said, He wants us to go.

Without a word we returned to the truck. The passengers, save Svele, resumed their places. We pulled away leaving the village behind, each of us subdued by the realization that we had lost one of our own. But hoping that the nganga could restore wholeness to Svele.

CHAPTER TWO

JIMMY & JAMES

(Author’s note: Please allow me to return to important beginnings which led me to the world of Svele. This true story seeks to project the thinking of an eleven-year old boy (myself) and is best told in the third person. By the way, please call me James.)

MOST KIDS LEARN from their parents how they got their name. So did Jimmy, but he learned it to remember from the preacher’s mother-in-law.

Jimmy! called the Sunday School superintendent from her back door. She waited for the noise of the freight train rattling through town to subside; then again, Jimmy!

Yeah, Ma, whad’ya want?

Why don’t you come when I call?

I did, Ma.

I called lots of times.

Here I am, said eleven year old Jimmy.

I need to have you take this Bible School book to the Reverend.

Do I have to, Ma?

Jimmy kind of dreaded seeing that guy, remembering his too-long church sermons when he talked an awful lot about sin and burning forever in hell. The minister sure seemed mad. But Jimmy didn’t know anybody else who had ever been to China, and that was a lot more exciting to him than his little town of Campbell.

It won’t take long. Just run it down to him. I told him I’d send it down.

Ma was right, it wasn’t really very far. The Reverend lived at the other end of town, only four blocks away; but at age 11 it seemed quite a ways.

Jimmy took the magazine and ran off towards Main Street, one and one-half blocks away. Summer-time traffic included a few Fords and Chevies kicking up dust. Sometimes a farmer drove a tractor through town on the way to his field the other side of the railroad tracks.

Another two blocks brought him to their little Baptist Church, the big old bell up there in its tower. He’d spent a lot of times at Sunday School, Wednesday Prayer Meetings, and of course, those long church services when the Reverend droned on. But he sure did perk up when the preacher showed the interesting things from China.

Less than a block farther stood the parsonage, a tall, square white house, kind of set on a rise in the ground. It looked a little holy itself, all alone before the edge of town where the sprouted corn field rows pointed in straight lines towards the banks of the Rabbit River. That place always seemed a little haunted too.

Jimmy knocked. The door opened. A neatly coifed older lady stood there, surprising Jimmy, because he expected the Reverend or his wife.

Here’s a book for the preacher. My Ma says he’s looking for it.

Why, thank you so much. He’s in his study, but I’ll be sure he gets it. His wife is resting, and I’m her mother. Why don’t you come in?

No, I gotta go.

What’s your name?

Jimmy Fett.

What a nice name! It’s a really special name, and do you know why?

No.

It’s because there’s a book in the Bible, called ‘James.’ You really have to hear about this.

She propelled him through the door, a firm hand behind his shoulder, and led him through the hallway to the living room.

Jimmy held back, he felt uncomfortable, but this lady didn’t want to take no for an answer.

Jimmy, I want to show you this Bible. Now you sit right here on the piano bench. See. This is the Bible, and it has an Old Testament and a New Testament. Here’s the New Testament, and towards the back, here’s the book of James.

My Ma expects me to come right back, I’d better be going.

Jimmy, she won’t mind if I read a little of this nice book of James to you. Would you like me to?

Umm… well…

Listen, Jimmy. I think your name came right from the Bible. Why don’t you just kneel down right here beside the piano bench.

Jimmy seemed mesmerized by this old lady. How can I not do it? Guess I can’t go yet, he thought.

She droned on… and on… and on. Jimmy didn’t know it then, but the book of James has 5 chapters and 108 verses. She read them all, what did she say, that last verse, something like, . . . if you bring a sinner back from his crooked ways, you’ll rescue his soul from death… ? ²

Mostly, he knew that knees got awfully sore while kneeling that long. He did remember a few other things during that time.

Jimmy knew the minister’s wife had to rest, it was almost time to have her baby, their first. That was kind of a mystery, but thanks to his older brother, he’d been enlightened about most things sexual.

Just last week they’d been on a Sunday School picnic, went to Chahinkapa Park in Wahpeton, the nearest swimming pool. The preacher went swimming and changed to his swimsuit in the same dressing room. Jimmy’s brother explained that the Reverend had been working real hard so his wife could have a baby.

See, his dink’s all shriveled up. It’s been working to make a baby.

Jimmy’s eyes grew wide, and he dashed back to the dressing room to try to catch another look.

Wow!

He remembered that the minister only started at Campbell a few months before. He recalled those business meetings when the big people got into lots of arguments. Sometimes they got so mad they stomped out, or worse yet, started to cry.

I wonder if I’ll roast in hell forever, he thought. I sure hope not.

Jimmy wiggled and shifted, his knees aching. Won’t she ever get done?

Jimmy, don’t you think that’s wonderful?

Uh-huh.

Do you know why James wrote this? He wants you to become a Christian. Would you like to become a Christian right now, Jimmy?

Uh… I think my Ma wants me to go home.

All you have to do is say, ‘yes,’ to Jesus. Let’s pray right now.

Jesus, please help Jimmy right now. Please forgive him all his sins, and help him to be a Christian right now. Amen.

With a flood of relief, Jimmy hauled to his feet and made a straight line for the door. It opened with his tug, and she didn’t try to stop him. Out he went, cutting lickedy-split for the other end of town.

Behind him, she called, Thank you, Jimmy. Don’t forget James.

He covered the return trip in half the time, barely pausing at Main Street. He hung around in the yard when he got home, but his Ma saw him.

Jimmy, you sure took a long time.

That old lady up there talks too much.

Didn’t you see the Reverend?

Nope. He was studying.

Did you see his wife?

Nope. She was sleeping.

Her mother’s helping out. What did she say?

She said she’d give the book to the Reverend.

What else did she say?

Nothin’ much.

Well, it sure took you a long time. She must have said something.

I guess she just likes my name.

CHAPTER THREE

WHY ARE YOU HERE?

I KNEW ABSOLUTELY that I wanted to become a doctor since age 13. My greatest challenge in life became convincing everyone else I could actually do it.

Two events in childhood propelled me towards medicine as a career. On my 9th birthday, while playing around my grandfather’s farm, I fell from the hayloft. Luckily, I suppose, my left elbow rather than my head struck the concrete feeding bin.

With my arm immobile in a fracture enforced straightened position, I ran to see my Uncle Fritz, who said, Wah, wah, Jimmy, go and tell your Mama.

I did, and she bundled my twin sister, brother, and me into the Model A Ford, driving the 17 miles to our hometown doctor. No x-ray machine available there, so we drove on to Breckenridge St. Francis Hospital, where the x-ray revealed a fracture. A consulting physician assisted Dr. Wray to restore the proper bone alignment and apply a cast. I remembered only the sensation of concentric circles as I revived from the effects of smelly ether anesthesia.

One day later, in a flashing lightning storm at midnight, I returned to Dr. Wray’s office, because my arm had swollen, causing my hand and fingers to ache mightily. That old family doctor bivalved the cast, alleviating the pressure. I saw my parent’s relief as well as the doctor’s, and sensed that my arm would be all right. Right then, my brain registered that little could be more wonderful than to be a person instrumental in bringing healing.

The second medical event of my life, which greatly influenced my later decision to enter medicine, occurred at age 13, when I developed acute appendicitis. Now even more visibly aging, Dr. Wray still came to our house through a March snowstorm when the aching in my abdomen became worse. Though he tried he could not convince a drop of blood to come from my finger so that he could check my white blood cell count.

I really didn’t care for I hurt too much. But my parents urged Dr. Wray to consult his colleague in Breckenridge, so off we went through the snowstorm. At the hospital, my friend, ether, and I became reacquainted, and upon awakening without my appendix, the pain had mostly disappeared. That clinched my decision that I would become a doctor.

In our little