Somalia 1992
By John O'Shea

Somalia in the summer of 1992 was as close as I've seen to hell on earth. Struggling to save lives in a country gripped by famine is a desperately difficult task, but when you are surrounded by the threat of violence every minute of the day, the situation becomes almost intolerable.

In Somalia, death was everywhere, but it seemed as if the world didn't care. If you're not a medic, working in a famine zone can be doubly difficult. Faced with a staving child, you feel utterly helpless. All you can do is watch while groups of Irish doctors and nurses work their magic, day and night, week after week.

In truth, I was glad to be leaving the northern city of Baidoa that summer's evening, having talked my way onto a cargo flight returning to Kenya. From there, I could return to Dublin, and begin to raise awareness about Somalia's plight.

The only other passenger on the plane that evening was a doctor from the Arab League, a man who himself was clearly distressed by the scale of Somalia's suffering, and the world's failure to respond to it.

We had been talking for an hour or more when he asked: "where are you from?" "Ireland," I said. "Ah," he responded, smiling, "the caring nation." Twenty five thousand feet above Somalia, away from the misery, the suffering and the death, I felt deeply moved.

For so many people around the world, the Irish are legendary drinkers, great storytellers, natural comics. But in Somalia, where it mattered most, we were the ones who cared.

None of the Irish doctors and nurses who worked in Somalia had to leave the security of their homes - none of them were forced to risk their lives in the Horn of Africa so that others might survive.

But they came and worked without pay because they cared about the plight of their fellow human beings.

Almost two decades on, as the roar of the Celtic Tiger drowns out all other voices, I look back with pride at that time when we gained the respect of the world not because we were successful, but because we cared.