There were 20 patients lined up on the
bench outside our little operating room, each with a black arrow drawn on his
or her forehead that indicated either the right eye or the left. Their pupils
were blank and clouded, but their faces were not. In patient expectation, they
waited for their sight.
I decided to document the journey of one
woman sitting on that bench. Choo Dah seemed quite willing. I photographed her getting
settled on the operating table. The team prayed, lidocaine was injected, and
the surgeon went to work on the old woman's right eye, carefully guiding his
instruments toward the little white disc responsible for her blindness. I
videoed as the procedure progressed. The medics assisted with growing
confidence, their concentration dovetailing with that of the surgeon as he
removed the cataract with gentle precision. Within 20 minutes, the eye was
stitched back together and a bandage applied. Its owner had not flinched once.
We took Choo Dah's hand to help her to
her feet and guide her to the recovery room at the back of the building. She
sat down serenely on the woven mat to wait again, this time for her body to
repair itself from the damage inflicted by surgery. I sat with her, struggling
to communicate using my limited Karen language skills. Then I noticed that Paw
Ku Htee, one of the medics who had assisted in the surgery, was flapping her
hands at me in an animated sort of way and smiling broadly. Eventually, I
realized what she was trying to tell me. Choo Dah was her grandmother.
