​Philip Tierney, a Scot from Falkirk, tells TFN while the harrowing images of war never leave him, he has an urge to continually risk his life to volunteer in the world's most dangerous places

It took around a year to get a decent night’s sleep. In the early days in the refugee camps I’d wake every 15 minutes after every noise, no matter how slight, fearing kidnap. I don’t mind admitting it: fear is a part of the job and is something I had to learn to cope with.

Syria was the worst but, paradoxically, also the most rewarding. I arrived at the height of the country’s civil war in 2013 when hundreds of displaced refugees were streaming into camps along the Jordanian border. The sights were harrowing, the stories heart-breaking.

Those early days never leave me. The “technicals” - rebel trucks with .50 calibre guns mounted on top – would drive up and down the tented avenues of the camps looking for potential victims. You’d be alerted by people running or you’d just know something wasn’t right. In the end evading capture was down to either being fast or lucky.

You get extensive training both in how to cope with the trauma of war and also in how to avert potential situations. However at the end of the day, you are at risk and as white English-speaking westerner, you stand out even among 80,000 people.

As a trained medic it’s important to focus on the essentials and not to get personally involved with those you are treating. As ever, children are the hardest, especially when they can’t be saved. In those situations I always tell myself that as their last point contact I at least allowed them to die in dignity.

The Syrian war is like no other. I spent time in Sierra Leone and the Congo but Syria is unprecedented in scale and horror. The country has gone through a humanitarian crisis where there are no rules, no dignity, no morals, no hope. It is quite simply a living hell, a virtual meltdown of humanity, which words can’t accurately describe.

The Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan is a seething mass of pitiful humanity. It’s basically a flat conurbation of tents and living modules bigger than most Scots towns and accommodates 80,000 refugees. The rows of tents go on further than the eye can see and it’s home to the most incredible stories of human endurance.

As a volunteer you don’t take days off if only because each hour you give can literally save lives. You don’t get time to think – you just constantly work from patient to patient doing what you need to do.

As a doctor, I first offered my services to Medicines Sans Frontiers when my wife died in 2006. She had a brain tumour and the fact she’d been taken away so young inspired me to make the most of my life. I wanted adventure and to see the world: as I look back, I’ve certainly managed both.

I live in Falkirk and I work as a contract medic for agencies. This allows me to volunteer with MSF as and when I’m needed. We get expenses and accommodation and flights home but it’s a labour of love that you’re either cut out to do or not.

They say aid workers are like ex-forces personnel in that they don’t easily adjust to life back home. I can vouch for that. I come home, work a few months, then set off again. At my age, I can’t put my finger on why I still do it. All I know is that bigger than the fear of being kidnapped or killed is living a boring life. That’s easily a fate I fear more than anything.