I have been thinking about the story of Hansen’s disease, or leprosy as the disease is better known.

Nowadays, you would seldom see leprosy in Britain, but it is still common in India, in Brazil and Indonesia. About 150,000 new cases are recorded each year, from 100 different countries.

Tha mi air a bhith a’ meòrachadh air sgeulachd tinneas Hansen, no an luibhre mar as fheàrr a dh’aithnichear e.

Anns an latha an-diugh, ’s ann ainneamh a chitheadh sibh an luibhre ann am Breatainn   ach tha i cumanta fhathast anns na h-Innseachan, ann am Brasil agus ann an Indonesia.

This week, I have been thinking about the story of Hansen’s disease, or leprosy. 

In the twentieth century, great changes came to the treatment of leprosy. In 1937, the drug Dapsone was introduced for the first time – and it was effective. In the 1980s Rifampicin and Clofazimine were added to the therapy.

An t-seachdain seo, tha mi a’ meòrachadh air eachdraidh tinneas Hansen, no an luibhre.

Anns an fhicheadamh linn, thàinig atharrachadh mòr air leigheas na luibhre. Ann an naoi ceud deug seachd-deug air fhichead, chaidh a’ chungaidh-leighis Dapsone a chur gu feum ’son a’ chiad uair – agus bha i buadhmhor.

In these thoughts, I have been pondering about Hansen’s disease, or leprosy.

But who was Hansen?

Gerhard Hansen was a Norwegian physician. In 1873 he found the organism Mycobacterium Leprae, the cause of leprosy, a bacterium of the same family as the one that causes TB.

Anns na smuaintean agam, tha mi a’ meòrachadh air tinneas Hansen, no an luibhre.

Ach, cò e Hansen?

’S e lighiche Nirribheach a bha ann an Gerhard Hansen. Ann an ochd ceud deug trì fichead ’s a trì-deug lorg e a’ mheanbhag, nobacterium, Mycobacterium Leprae, adhbhar na luibhre, meanbhag den aon teaghlach ’s a tha an tè a dh’adhbhraicheas a’ chaitheamh.

I was thinking yesterday about Hansen’s disease, or leprosy.

It’s likely that leprosy originated in Asia many hundreds of years before Christ. It is a disease of the skin, but it damages structures close to the skin, in particular the nerves of the arms and legs and the bones of the nose.

An-dè, bha mi a’ meòrachadh air tinneas Hansen, no an luibhre.

Tha e coltach gun do thòisich an luibhre ann an Àsia fada ro linn Chrìosd. ’S e tinneas craicinn a tha ann, ach tha e a’ dèanamh cron air structuran dlùth ris a’ chraiceann, gu h-araid air nearbhaichean nan casan agus nan gàirdeanan, agus air cnàmhan na sròine. 

In 1976, I was a medical student in a hospital in Nepal, studying with an Australian physician.

She examined a patient then turned round to me.

‘Hansen’s disease’, she said quietly.

Hansen’s disease. Another name for leprosy. A diagnosis so fearful that she didn’t want to name it in the hearing of the patient and his family.

Ann an naoi ceud deug trì fichead ’s a sia-deug, bha mi nam oileanach meidigeach ann an Nepal, ag ionnsachadh bho lighiche Astràilianach.

Rinn i sgrùdadh air euslainteach agus an uair sin thionndaidh i rium.

‘Tinneas Hansen’, thuirt i, gu socair.

The King of the Cuckoos had done a wicked thing. If he was aware of the crime to begin with, it wasn’t long before he had forgotten it.

Bha Rìgh nan Cuthagan air gnìomh olc a dhèanamh. Ma bha e mothachail air an eucoir an toiseach, cha b’ fhada mus robh i air dol às a chuimhne.

Almost a hundred people – rulers, leaders and officers of the church – were gathered together in the small hall. The convener of the assembly rose to his feet – a grey-headed man of almost seventy years. Everyone fell silent.

Bha faisg air ceud duine – ceannardan, uachdaranan agus pearsachan-eaglais – cruinn còmhla anns an talla bheag. Dh’èirich neach-gairm na h-àrd-chomhairle air a chasan – b’ e duine liath a bha ann, a’ sreap ri trì fichead ’s a deich bliadhna a dh’aois. Chaidh a h-uile duine nan tost.

The patient took hold of the glass. He tried to take a sip of the water, but it was clear that he was very frightened. His hands shook. The doctor, a female physician from Australia, said to me quietly, ‘Hydrophobia. Mad dog disease. He has rabies’.

Ghabh an t-euslainteach grèim air a’ ghlainne. Dh’fheuch e ri balgam den uisge a ghabhail ach bha e follaiseach gun robh eagal mòr air. Thàinig crith air a làmhan. Thuirt an dotair, ban-lighiche à Astràilia, rium gu socair, ‘Hydrophobia. Caothach nan con. Tha rabies air.’

In the spring of 1988, I went to do voluntary work in Nepal – at that time, the third poorest country in the world outside Africa.

As t-earrach 1988, chaidh mi a dh’obair gu saor-thoileach ann an Nepal – aig an àm ud, an treas dùthaich a bu bhochda anns an t-saoghal taobh a-muigh Afraga.

‘I am sorry that you lost your mother,’ said the surgeon. ‘Please accept my sincere condolences.’ There was an uncomfortable silence before he continued. ‘I’m not entirely convinced, Cain and Abel, that you understand this operation.’

‘Tha mi duilich gun do chaill sibh ur màthair,’ ars an lannsair. ‘Gabhaibh ri mo cho-fhaireachdainn dhùrachdaich, mas e ur toil e.’ Bha sàmhchair mhì-chofurtail ann mus do lean e air adhart, ‘Chan eil mi buileach cinnteach, a Chain agus Abel, gu bheil sibh a’ tuigsinn an opairèisein seo.’