Dean Randall Klement (d. January 4, 2011)

His last mission with us was in Iraq in 2008 where he had to leave due to illness. He unfortunately never recovered.

He had previously worked with us and also with MSF-Paris as a logistician in Armenia, in India, Uganda, Burundi, Liberia, Kenya, Armenia and Iraq.

All our thoughts go with his family, and his near and dear ones.

Fabienne de Leval
Deputy General Director


Poems of Shape and Motion
by Martin Carter

I was wondering if I could shape this passion just
as I wanted,
in solid fire.
I was wondering if the strange combustion of my days,
The tension of the world inside of me,
And the strength of my heart were enough.
I was wondering if I could stand as tall,
While the tide of the sea rose and fell,
If the sky would recede as I went,
Or the Earth would emerge as I came,
Or the door of the morning blocked against the Sun.
I was wondering if I could make myself nothing but fire,
pure and incorruptible,
If the wound of the wind on my face
Would be healed by the work of my life,
Or the growth of the pain in my sleep
Would be stopped in the strife of my days.
I was wondering if the agony of years
could be traced to the seed of an hour
If the roots that spread out in the swamp
run too deep for the issuing flower
I was wondering if I could find myself
all that I am and all I could be
If all the population of stars
would be less than the things I could utter
And the challenge of space in my soul
be filled by the shape I become.
I walk slowly in the wind
watching myself and things I did not make
In jumping shadows and in limping cripples
Dust on the Earth and the houses tied with sickness
Deep constant pain,
a dream without the sleep.
I walk slowly in the wind,
hearing myself in the loneliness of a child
In a woman’s grief which is not understood
In coughing dogs when midnight lingers long
on stones, on streets,
And then on echoing stars
that burn all night and suddenly go out.
I walk slowly in the wind,
knowing myself in every moving thing
In years and days and words that mean so much,
Strong hands that shake,
long roads that walk,
and deeds that do themselves,
And all this world and all these lives to live.
I walk slowly in the wind,
remembering scorn and naked men in darkness
And huts of iron riveted to Earth
Old huts of iron stand upon this Earth
like rusting prisons
Each wall is marked
and each wide roof is spread
like some dark wing cast in a shadow or a living curse.
I walk slowly in the wind,
the lifted sunset, red and gold and dim,
A long brown river slanting to an ocean,
a fishing boat,
a man who cannot drum.
I walk slowly in the wind,
and birds are swift, the sky is blue like silk
From the big, sweeping ocean of water
an iron ship, rusted and brown, anchored itself
And the long river runs like a snake,
silent and smooth.
I walk slowly in the wind,
I hear my footsteps echoing down the tide,
Echoing like a wave on the sand, or a wing
on the wind
Echoing, echoing
A voice in the soul, a laugh in the funny silence.
I walk slowly in the wind,
I walk, because I cannot crawl or fly.

(... from CONTACT No.111)

By: Rebecca Cederholm