I used to write when I was younger. I wrote poetry and the odd scrap of fiction and I was sort of good at it. For a ten-year-old anyway. Then I stopped. I’ve slowly lost my creativity and the energy to pick up a pen for anything other than hastily scribbled notes and prescriptions. I also lost my ability to punctuate and haven’t regained it so I apologise if my appalling grammar leaves you with a headache.

Since venturing out of the bounds of the NHS, I’ve entered into the slightly more chaotic service of healthcare in the humanitarian field. From the snow covered camps of Mount Olympus to the declining grandeur of ministry meeting rooms… there is  much to write about.

This was actually intended to be a somewhat generic blog about my day to day experiences working with an aid organisation in refugee camps. I had hoped it would be a way of updating my friends and family and possibly introducing a wider audience to a personal view of the plight of the refugees. However, as I started to document my encounters I realised an impartial retelling of events would be impossible.

This will be personal, political, philosophical, poetic and in all likelihood a bit pretentious.  It will also be the truth.

This means that I will be using pseudonyms to depict the people and organisations I interact with. I will not discuss precise locations. These words are my own and are not affiliated with anyone else. You may notice I use English-sounding names when describing refugees. This a conscious decision and experiment to see if it would  bring their stories home to readers who would not usually identify with them.