Author: EBMA foundation
Date: July 2025
Tags: Volunteer Stories
Have you ever stepped into a place full of strangers and walked out feeling like family?That’s what happened to me on a crisp November morning in 2024.
I was volunteering at my very first cleft medical mission.
I’d just had a quick breakfast and reported at 8 AM, not fully sure what to expect.
I started at the registration desk, and within minutes, it was a flood — babies, toddlers, anxious parents, files, forms, questions.
The rush was intense, but every single child had a story worth slowing down for.
We weren’t just collecting data.
We were piecing together puzzles:
Was this the child’s first surgery?
Were there any complications at birth?
Any feeding issues?
Every question had weight, because the answers could shape the safety and timing of the surgery.
That’s when I met Razak’s mother.
She stood quietly in the line, her tiny baby wrapped in a thin towel.
She told me — almost apologetically — how feeding was nearly impossible.
She had to sit upright and feed him drop by drop.
I listened, noted everything, and gently told her our pediatrician would be able to guide her.
That moment, small as it seemed, stayed with me.
Her patience. Her exhaustion. Her hope.
Midway through the morning, I was asked to assist Dr. Matt, an American maxillofacial surgeon who needed a translator.
Suddenly, I found myself shuttling between medical lingo and village dialects.
It was surprisingly tricky — some spoke deep rural Bengali, others tribal tongues — but I managed.
What started as translation quickly turned into comfort-giving.
I explained procedures, reassured parents, and sometimes simply nodded when they cried, because that too is a kind of language.
We all paused around 1 PM for lunch.
I helped hand out food packets to families who had been waiting for hours.
I still remember the way one child hugged the packet like it was a toy.
That was the kind of day it was — full of little heartbreaks and unexpected joys.
After lunch, I moved to the photo imaging station, where I helped take photographs of the children.
These weren’t just for records. They were part of the surgical planning.
I clicked dozens of pictures, trying to capture not just faces — but the hope in their eyes.
In the afternoon, I went looking for Razak and his mother.
She had just finished her consultation with the pediatrician and was beaming.
“He showed me how to feed him,” she said, her voice trembling with relief.
It was such a small thing — a few minutes with a doctor — but it shifted her entire world.
She wasn’t sure if Razak would be approved for surgery yet,
but she left that room more confident, more hopeful.
I felt lucky to have witnessed that transformation.
By evening, all the children and parents were waiting again — this time, to hear if they’d been cleared for surgery.
Some were approved, others were asked to wait.
Some kids had colds, others didn’t meet the weight requirement.
A few had serious underlying conditions.
It was hard to watch — the disappointment, the tears.
But the medical team was clear: safety first, always.
At 6 PM, the center began to quiet down.
I gave out hugs, took a few selfies with the kids, and promised I’d be back.
And I meant it.
That day, I had come to serve.
But somewhere along the way, I had been changed too — by the children, the parents, the doctors, the stories.
I left with sore feet, a full heart, and one clear thought:
When’s the next mission? Count me in.
