Jamal Mbaya

Jamal didn’t ask questions when the teenage girl brought in a boy with shrapnel wounds across his back, even though this area of the Congo was war-free. He didn’t ask about the supermodel-blond boy who showed up in his medical tent with strangulation wounds and a bullet lodged between two left ribs. He was paid to heal, not ask, so he treated them with deft, gentle hands before prescribing care and sending them on their way, back into the Congo undergrowth. He said nothing when police came by, because the tattoo on his left wrist was more than four lines.