A conversation between Mal James and Dr Kassahun, preserving the natural tone and intent while improving flow and clarity.

A Conversation Between Mal James and Dr Kassahun. April 2025 Melbourne Australia

Mal James:
So we’re here tonight to hear Dr Kassahun’s story. And what a story it is. Just before Christmas, he reached out to me—tracked me down, actually—and eventually found his way here to Melbourne. We talked about maybe doing a few operations together. I sent him a little bit of money. He sent back a report. And then… silence.

Fast-forward to last week: I’m on the first day of the Overland Track in Tasmania and I get a message—“I’m in Melbourne.” What do you mean you’re in Melbourne? You live in Ethiopia!

So we caught up this Monday, and here we are.

Dr Kassahun:
Thank you, Mal. I really appreciate being here.

Mal James:
Before we dive into your journey, let’s give everyone a quick context on the broader issue. In Africa, Coca-Cola is everywhere—you can find it even in the most remote villages. But medicines and surgery? Not so much.

Why is that? It comes down to supply chain issues, a lack of trained doctors, and a lack of trust and funding.

Take Ethiopia: there are about three doctors per 100,000 people. In Australia, it’s over 400 per 100,000. You’re one of only five pediatric surgeons who started training in Ethiopia in 2019—for a population of 135 million.

That’s why you’re here tonight. To share how you went from growing up in a small village with no running water or electricity, to training in one of the rarest specialties in your country.

Let’s go back to the beginning. What was your childhood like?

Dr Kassahun:
I was born in a small farming village. My parents are farmers—they still plough their land with oxen. No electricity, no clean water. We used river water. I was the first of six children and the first to go to school.

My parents sent me when I was seven, which was considered early. Many children in the village would start at 10 or 15.

The school was an hour’s walk each way. After school, I’d help my parents in the field or fetch water. Life was hard, but I was lucky to even get an education.

Mal James:
And how many children in your community went on to high school or beyond?

Dr Kassahun:
Very few. Most became farmers. A few entered technical schools. From my year, only three of us made it to medical school—out of about 500 students.

Mal James:
Wow. And during that time, you also had a serious illness?

Dr Kassahun:
Yes. I had a leg wound that lasted four years. I missed school often, but my father would carry me part of the way. That experience made me want to help sick children.

Later, I found out I had good grades and people encouraged me to become a physician. That’s where it began.

Mal James:
You did seven years of medical school. Then what?

Dr Kassahun:
After graduation in 2018, I worked as a general practitioner for eight months before applying for pediatric surgery training.

Mal James:
And there were only five people starting that program in all of Ethiopia?

Dr Kassahun:
Correct. The training was only available in Addis Ababa, the capital. We were meant to do part of it in India, but budget constraints kept us local.

Mal James:
Did you have to pay for your education?

Dr Kassahun:
Yes, it’s either a large cash payment or 12 years of government service. I chose to serve.

Mal James:
You’re now at Debre Berhan Hospital. Tell us what a typical week looks like.

Dr Kassahun:
Monday and Wednesday are surgery days—2 to 3 operations per day. Tuesday and Friday are clinic days. I see 15 to 20 children each clinic.

Weekends, I’m on-call and do ward rounds. I can’t travel; I must be available 24/7.

Mal James:
And these children—where do they come from? Do their families pay?

Dr Kassahun:
Some come from the city, some from 400–500 km away. Many can’t pay. Some try traditional medicine first. If I can sense financial difficulty, I’ll tell them part of the treatment is covered—and they stay. That makes a huge difference.

Mal James:
What about your access to learning—mentors, equipment?

Dr Kassahun:
We have no senior pediatric surgeons locally. I learn from video subscriptions and colleagues. Donations are rare outside the capital. I’ve submitted a list of needed equipment to the hospital—but after 8 months, nothing has arrived yet.

Mal James:
What are your dreams?

Dr Kassahun:
I’m getting married in May. My fiancée is a pediatrician. Together, we hope to build a pediatric surgery unit with its own operating theatre and more trained surgeons. Right now, we’re just starting.

Mal James:
If someone gave you $1,000 or $5,000, what would you do with it?

Dr Kassahun:
I’d use it to help children whose parents can’t pay. Many come hoping for help but plan to go home if it’s too expensive. If I tell them the surgery is supported, their entire mood changes. That money would directly fund operations.

Mal James:
That’s powerful. Because here’s the thing—when you fix a child’s arm or treat their tonsils, that child becomes productive. Their parents are free to work. That’s a ripple effect—an economic multiplier for the whole village.

Supporting surgeons like you isn’t just helping one child—it’s lifting communities. That’s why I’m here. That’s why everyone’s here.

You’re not just a doctor, Kassahun. You’re a catalyst.

Anything you’d like to say to wrap up?

Dr Kassahun:
Thank you. Thank you all for accepting me, hearing my story, and caring about the children of Ethiopia.