Every Medical Visit Is a Journey Through Language
By Wang Xi – March 21, 2026
At dawn, before the sunlight fully touched the ground, work had already begun.
After breakfast, the base hall became a temporary clinic. It wasn’t perfect—simple, even crude. But once the first patient sat down, everything became still. That small space suddenly carried extraordinary meaning in God’s map of healing.
Outside, villagers waited quietly under the tent—no noise, no pushing, only hopeful eyes and a patient calm, like the land itself.
(Photos: Villagers waiting)
The first challenge wasn’t disease—it was language.
Most locals speak Wolof.
One sentence often had to travel a long way:
English → French → Wolof
Meaning one doctor needed two translators.
For Dr. Crystal from China, who speaks only Chinese, a simple question required three layers of translation before reaching the patient.
And the reverse was just as complicated.
By noon, translators’ voices were hoarse.
Only one brother from Brazil spoke all four languages—and even he was dizzy by the end.
Suddenly, we realized:
Understanding is never automatic. It is a journey—sometimes a difficult one.
And in that journey, the youth who dream of becoming doctors saw clearly, perhaps for the first time, that medicine is not just knowledge—it is a bridge of love.
Language is limited. Love is not.
(Photos: “Language limited, love unlimited”)
After lunch, Pastor Anna led everyone to tour the Africa Cries Out base. People often call its history a miracle.
But what truly silenced us was a small clinic room.
It once belonged to Dr. Faye, who devoted his entire life to the poorest and most neglected people of his country.
He did not leave with fanfare—he simply died in the leprosy village where he had served, like a candle burning itself out where light was most needed.
His consultation room remains untouched.
Entering it feels like stepping into a moment frozen in time—as if his life never ended, but stayed behind in another form.
Some lives are meant to be left behind—to become examples and direction for those who follow.
(Photo: Dr. Faye)
If the morning taught us how to heal the body, the afternoon reminded us why we heal.
Life is fragile and short.
So what is the meaning of living?
This day had no grand opening, no applause, no announcements—only broken language and people drawing close to one another.
Even the doctor who has passed away still participates silently.
When night comes, the stars will carry all of this.
And we, standing on the earth, are simply doing something very simple—and very hard:
Little by little, helping the “crying” be heard and answered.