Mzungu

I can get in almost anywhere and do almost anything at this hospital because I wear a white coat, yes, but also a white face. This unearned deference makes my daily life in the hospital easier but it also makes me uncomfortable at times. Most patients and attendants seem inordinately pleased to have the attention of mzungu doctors. They do not know me at all as a provider; the palpable respect I feel as they rise from their mats, clasp my hand, or smile and speak their thanks is unearned and has nothing to do with my often ineffectual actions. I have done and will do very little for most of these patients--perhaps I am only visiting to listen to a particularly strong heart murmur or to see a particularly dramatic skin lesion, gaining knowledge for myself and offering nothing in return. I see the unquestioning respect for doctors in patient attitudes toward Ugandan providers as well, but I can’t help but feel that my own interactions with patients are colored by an automatic deference with deep roots.

We are all reminded of our status as outsiders constantly, addressed as mzungu [“foreigner” or, loosely “white person,” literally translated as “wanderer”] countless times a day, by children waving and yelling it on the path to the hospital, by patients, by strangers. Tiny details of the day demonstrate the legacy of colonialism, even in the hospital. Doctors performing a neurological exam, for example, have patients repeat the phrase “British constitution” to test for word-forming difficulties. Most patients have two first names, a Ugandan name and a name alternately described to me as an “English name,” a “Christian name,” and a “slave name.” Even leaving history out of it, in the here and now my mzungu face represents money and unimaginable privilege. More than once, patients have asked me directly for money to buy food or a blanket, to fund chemotherapy, to pay for transport. I’m more acutely aware of what I represent and what I must be careful not to promise as an outsider.