Practical peacemaking: Anne Wade has more on the application of the Quaker method

‘How memorable, these tiny pieces of peacemaking.’

When I left school I chose to do a combined training in general and psychiatric nursing. One night, just after I started, a woman was admitted to my ward in hysterics, saying that she would die before morning. The staff nurse and senior student nurse said there was nothing wrong with her, and she must not waken the ward. As a new recruit, a teenager, I was not allowed an opinion. The woman and I were shut in a linen cupboard, on hard chairs, and I was told just to keep her quiet.

I held her all night, hour after hour, rocking and soothing her as I would a distressed child, taking her down deep with me as I had learned in Meeting for Worship. I expected them to give her a bed once she had settled, but we were left there without even water. I missed my dinner break. She was comfortable in my arms, dozing and talking while I listened. I was sent for a break at five o’clock. When I returned and asked after my patient, the staff were tight-lipped. I was told to prepare trolleys for the morning rounds, and kept busy until we went off duty. I assumed they were taking the easier task of sitting with her in a side room, while giving me all the running round. Over the next days I asked questions until I discovered that when I left her, she had died, just as she had predicted. I could never find out more.

I discussed it with my friends. Complaining would have been pointless: there was no evidence and the senior staff would lie. What more might I have done? We discussed other stories of malpractice, and how we might challenge such things next time.

I have never told that story since then, as it shook me so much. But it stayed with me as I interacted with each patient, trying to be with them both superficially and on a deeper level. I soon learned social small talk, and to become more competent practically, and I continued to learn to centre down within this new context. It was invaluable when I sat with dying patients, with young girls who would not tell male doctors why they had overdosed, and with people in psychosis. The spiritual discipline of learning to centre down, without technological shortcuts, strengthens us and enables us to tune in to a patient’s journey into an alternative reality, while keeping them rooted in the ordinary world through us.

I found that when people break down, physically or mentally, losing their defences, they become so open that we see they are lovable. How much more must God (or whatever) perceive our lovableness, and how ludicrous is the notion of hell? We had a problem seeing this with one constantly-complaining woman, however. We all wanted to hit her, and when she complained of bruising we wondered if one of us had indeed done so. But the bruising was caused by acute leukaemia, which everyone had failed to spot, and she died soon after. It made us all feel ashamed. I still hear her when someone exasperates me, along with a joke from Beth Allen: ‘If we pray for patience, God gives us opportunities to learn it.’

That night with the dying patient taught me so much. Care cannot be separated into body and mind, but must be integrated. We know so little; we must not be arrogant or overstate the case. But we have a duty to challenge, just as we have a duty of care. This is where nonviolent direct action (NVDA) starts: learning when, and how, to protest, and to make complaints. Collect and collate evidence contemporaneously and competently. Stand up for those who are being bullied, including ourselves. Do not defer to arbitrary authority, but heed those we find wiser. Unite with others wherever possible, but stand alone if necessary. While being plain speaking, we must not point-score or try to ‘win’. We must always leave the way open to love, to meeting the other person in the depths, if they are willing. This is very different from compromise, appeasement or placating. It is not the sort of pathetic mediation that says that, if someone has stolen £10 from you and claims it was always theirs, ‘Well, let’s split the difference and take £5 each.’

Our group of students became known as difficult, for tackling one problem after another. We were successful in combatting small points of archaic discipline that had no relevance except to enforce the hierarchy. Most of the ward sisters were wonderful nurses, but some were bullies. There was one I really liked who found one patient infuriating, and battered her, leaving her bruised. I remonstrated, and she agreed she should not have done it, but did not understand why she could not help it. Reporting her would have been pointless: an assistant matron watched her batter the woman one day, and I thought the problem would be dealt with, but she only told her she should be more careful (it was unclear whether she meant the assaults or my witnessing them). I got her talking about why she felt so driven, and helped her stop, but I don’t know if it held after I left that hospital.

Another sister was well known for always picking on the most junior nurse, a friend of mine, for no apparent reason. My friend had gone off sick, in a temporary breakdown. I was ready when the sister started on me. I went out of the ward with her, and we discussed it heatedly outside. The men on the ward heard us, and cheered me loudly when I went back in. I waited to be sent to matron, but instead we became good friends.

How memorable, these tiny pieces of peacemaking. Another part of the answer about how Quakers work for peace involves challenging people, but also try to make friends. If everyone is basically decent, it can work. But what about institutional abuse and corruption? Our group took on the deprivation of the ‘back wards’, where burnt-out psychotic patients and those with dementia were herded together like animals. We had successes, but they were temporary, and old hands at the hospital closed ranks against us. The acute wards had some good practice and facilities, as well as problems, and there were some superb staff, but we were naive and out of our depth.

A colleague in a neighbouring psychiatric hospital wrote a book, Sans Everything, detailing similar abuse. It caused an uproar. Outraged senior staff in general hospitals refused to believe it, but it was true in mental hospitals throughout the country. The author was sacked for ‘unpunctuality’ before sitting her finals. We realised that we needed to learn a lot more before campaigning at that level. When, as a staff-nurse and trained youth leader, I was not allowed to set up a youth club to get the kids off the wards for part of the day, I looked for another job.

I learned to trust, in the old Quaker phrase, that a ‘way will open’ to find the next right place. I took the question silently to Meeting for Worship. I meditated, describing in free writing my ideal job. A fortnight later I saw an advert for Leigh House, an NHS adolescent psychiatric unit run by Quaker psychiatrists. It seemed too good to be true, but it really was that good – a job that allowed me to work in tune with Quaker testimonies. On to the next stage of effective peacemaking…

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