何江哈佛大学本科生演讲英语原稿

A SPIDER

’

S BITE

蜘蛛之咬

When

I

was

in

middle

school,

a

poisonous

spider

bit

my

right

hand.

I

ran

to

my

mo

m

for

help

—

but

instead

of

taking

me

to

a

doctor,

my

mom

set

my

hand

on

fire.

After

wrapping

my

hand

with

several

layers

of

cotton,

then

soaking

it

in

wine,

she

put

a

chopstick

into

my

mouth,

and

ignited

the

cotton.

Heat

quickly

penetrated

the

cotton

and

began

to

roast

my

hand.

The

searing

pain

made

me

want

to

scream,

but

the

chopstick

prevented

it.

All

I

could

do

was

watch

my

hand

burn

-

one

minute,

th

en

two

minutes

–

until

mom

put

out

the

fire.

You

see,

the

part

of

China

I

grew

up

in

was

a

rural

village,

and

at

that

time

pre-i

ndustrial.

When

I

was

born,

my

village

had

no

cars,

no

telephones,

no

electricity,

not

even

running

water.

And

we

certainly

didn

’

t

have

access

to

modern

medical

resour

ces.

There

was

no

doctor

my

mother

could

bring

me

to

see

about

my

spider

bite.

For

those

who

study

biology,

you

may

have

grasped

the

science

behind

my

mom

’

s

cure:

heat

deactivates

proteins,

and

a

spider

’

s

venom

is

simply

a

form

of

protein.

It

’

s

cool

how

that

folk

remedy

actually

incorporates

basic

biochemistry,

isn

’

t

it?

But

I

am

a

PhD

student

in

biochemistry

at

Harvard,

I

now

know

that

better,

less

painful

and

less

risky

treatments

existed.

So

I

can

’

t

help

but

ask

myself,

why

I

didn

’

t

rec

eive

one

at

the

time?

Fifteen

years

have

passed

since

that

incident.

I

am

happy

to

report

that

my

hand

i

s

fine.

But

this

question

lingers,

and

I

continue

to

be

troubled

by

the

unequal

distrib

ution

of

scientific

knowledge

throughout

the

world.

We

have

learned

to

edit

the

hum

an

genome

and

unlock

many

secrets

of

how

cancer

progresses.

We

can

manipulate

n

euronal

activity

literally

with

the

switch

of

a

light.

Each

year

brings

more

advances

in

biomedical

research- exciting,

transformative

accomplishments.

Yet,

despite

the

knowl

edge

we

have

amassed,

we

haven

’

t

been

so

successful

in

deploying

it

to where

it

’

s

needed

most.

According

to

the

World

Bank,

twelve

percent

of

the

world

’

s

populatio

n

lives

on

less

than

$$2

a

day.

Malnutrition

kills

more

than

3

million

children

annually.

Three

hundred

million

people

are

afflicted

by

malaria

globally.

All

over

the

world,

we

constantly

see

these

problems

of

poverty,

illness,

and

lack

of

resources

impeding

the

flow

of

scientific

information.

Lifesaving

knowledge

we

take

for

granted

in

the

moder

n

world

is

often

unavailable

in

these

underdeveloped

regions.

And

in

far

too

many

pl

aces,

people

are

still

essentially

trying

to

cure

a

spider

bite

with

fire.

While

studying

at

Harvard,

I

saw

how

scientific

knowledge

can

help

others

in

sim

ple,

yet

profound

ways.

The

bird

flu

pandemic

in

the

2000s

looked

to

my

village

like

a

spell

cast

by

demons.

Our

folk

medicine

didn

’

t

even

have

half- measures

to

offer.

What

’

s

more,

farmers

didn

’

t

know

the

difference

between

common

cold

and

flu;

t

hey

didn

’

t

understand

that

the

flu

was

much

more

lethal

than

the

common

cold.

Mo

st

people

were

also

unaware

that

the

virus

could

transmit

across

different

species.

So

when

I

realized

that

simple

hygiene

practices

like

separating

different

animal

sp

ecies

could

contain

the

spread

of

the

disease,

and

that

I

could

help

make

this

knowl

edge

available

to

my

village,

that

was

my

first

“

Aha

”

moment

as

a

budding

scientis

t.

But

it

was

more

than

that:

it

was

also

a

vital

inflection

point

in

my

own

ethical

de

velopment,

my

own

self-understanding

as

a

member

of

the

global

community.