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Andrew Penwarden

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A Man of Compassion

for Dr Gamal Omran

I was lying in bed in Luxor,
Should be flying home the following day,
The pain in my feet was so bad
I could not put my foot to the ground.

It had been too painful to put on socks
The previous day. The hotel called out a doctor.
He examined, wrote a prescription,
My insurance did not cover it

Because it was less than £35.
‘I am a doctor, not a socialist,’ he said.
‘I treat and cure, not raise money.’
I was becoming terrified.

My tour operator said I shouldn’t have run so low,
That the following afternoon they would see
How they could get me out of Egypt,
If I still couldn’t walk.

I could hear down the room service phone
A bilingual blazing row.
‘He has not got the money to pay,
And how can he go back to England

If he cannot even stand up?’
The doctor returned to my pool of sweat,
Treated me free of charge,
Despite the desperate poverty of Egypt.

He gave me his address in Luxor,
Said I could send him a cheque if I wanted,
It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t.
                              I paid him in full.

 

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