A family is impatiently waiting for me to write them a report after having come to my health clinic in a panic: During a trip to their hometown, their seven-year-old daughter fell off her bike and into a bush and when they saw the blood they thought she might have ruptured her hymen. In addition to the standard document, her mother insisted on me giving her a separate piece of paper that was signed, stamped and sealed.

“What are you going to do with that? There’s no need to worry about this little accident, it’s nothing. Your daughter simply scratched the top part of her leg. That’s all,” I tell her.

They are going to put the report in the bottom of her hope chest and when she gets married she will take it to her new home. Among the laced white pillows and embroidered tablecloths will be a report of “good health” for the life ahead of her.

Oh, those reports … Oh you people peddling fear. Have you not once in your life spent a moment alone with your conscience? How long will you continue to wield power over the innocent, rose-scented bodies of our sons and daughters?

*

Words have souls. When someone says the words, “Battery Report,” for example, I can’t help but think of the disheveled hair of that boy brought in by two police officers. Though scrawny, pale and hardly able to stand up on his feet from the punching and the caning, he was tough as a nail. You struggle to get the cuffs off him, tell the police that you need to examine him alone, insisting on them leaving the room before you lock the door.

“Look, you can tell me everything. Believe me. Down to the last scratch. I am going to make them pay for this.”

He pauses for a moment and looks lovingly into your eyes and says:

“Forget about it, Doctor. In any case they’ll get bored and stop. I’ll just go. But you should stay. If not they make trouble for you, write it down. No sign of any wounds or bruises. They didn’t beat me …”

Yes, there is still a reason to have hope in this world.

*