A young Muslim doctor and an angry patient: Culture clash
“MR J?” I call out into the waiting room. A short, greyhaired man in his 60s staggers toward me, bracing his back with his hands. Despite his pain, he gives me a warm smile, which I return.
As I help him onto the examroom table, he winces, squeezing my hand.
“I’m a medical student,” I begin. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to examine you before Dr S sees you.” ( I am using their initials to protect the privacy of patient and doctors.)
He nods. “Go ahead, you can learn on me - just don’t break my leg!”
We chuckle, and then I check his vitals, review his medications and ask him about his back pain.
“It’s been getting worse for the past couple of months,” he says. “I’ve been under a lot of stress with my business. And there’s so much else going on - I’ve been feeling angry a lot lately . . . .”
“You’ve been feeling angry? Why?” I ask. “It’s the news,” Mr J says. “ISIS and those Muslims.” His nostrils flare; his hands clench. “These Muslims think they can blow up our country!”
Heat crawls up my neck. I am a Muslim American. My parents emigrated from Pakistan nearly 30 years ago. I was born and raised in a small rural town in Western Maryland.
“I want to take care of them for good and send them all packing,” Mr J continues. “They aren’t welcome here!”
He gives me an expectant look, waiting for me to nod in agreement. His sentiments are shared by many in the town my clinic serves. Outwardly, I don’t “look” Muslim, as I don’t wear a hijab. Because of my dark skin, I’m more often mistaken for an Indian Hindu. Growing up in my predominantly white home town, I never really noticed any negativity from others about my race or religion - they were just a part of who I was.
On Sept 11, 2001, I was in sixth grade. That day, instead of continuing our normal school schedule, my teacher turned on our classroom TV so that we could watch the news, live. My classmates and I stared, mesmerised, as the smoke rose from the twin towers. I was so naive, I didn’t see that a small group of people had hijacked my religion, claiming it as a reason to kill thousands of innocent people. That day, my race and religion stopped being simply one part of my personal identity and became a part of my political reality as well.
The tensions born that day have only intensified. Hate crimes against Muslims have surged; each time I visit my Muslim community back home, I hear another story of someone’s car or store being vandalised, or of death threats received in the mail. Similar stories are shared on Facebook by Muslim communities all over the United States. My own mother, terrified for my safety, has made me promise to stop going on my daily morning runs alone. The fear is palpable Now, as I listen to Mr J, my pen slips from my fingers and falls to the floor. He keeps talking, but I can’t take in his words. I need to escape . . . to calm down and digest this shock.
“Excuse me a moment,” I mutter, blinking back tears, and walk past him, my legs heavy.
Before, when confronted with this kind of prejudice, I’ve known exactly what to do: Speak up. I’ve revealed my religious identity and have tried to show that I’m “normal,” in hopes of changing the person’s mindset. I’ve done this countless times.
Most recently, while waiting for my car’s oil change to be done, I watched an elderly woman struggling to help her grandson with his algebra homework.
“I should call my friend Ahmad to help me,” he said. “I told you to stop talking to him!” his grandmother snapped. “He’s Arab - probably a terrorist!”
Calmly, I offered to help, and afterward the grandmother thanked me profusely. Heading out the door, I left a note in her hand: “Just so you know, I am a Muslim. I helped you because that’s what I believe in . . . helping others. We aren’t terrorists. Just Americans who believe in compassion and camaraderie.” —WP-Bloomberg