Preparing dinner, the grim realities flashing across the news screen momentarily steal my appetite. Images from Syria, a landscape scarred by conflict, fill the screen, and my daughter’s innocent question pierces the silence.
“Isn’t he a doctor too?” she asks, her brow furrowed with confusion.
“Yes,” I reply, the weight of that simple word heavy in the air. I turn back to the chopping board, attempting to redirect my thoughts to the mundane task at hand, the carrots needing my attention more than the horrors unfolding miles away.
But her young mind, sharp and inquisitive, doesn’t let it go. She senses the shift in the usual dinner-time medical discussions, the unspoken tension clouding the room. “I don’t get it,” she persists, her voice laced with genuine bewilderment. “Aren’t doctors supposed to help people?”
Alt text: Devastating aftermath of an attack in Syria, showing destruction and the human cost of conflict.
Knowing deflection is futile, I offer a vague answer, hoping to steer the conversation towards safer waters. But the news footage continues its relentless stream, and she arrives at her own stark conclusion, a child’s heartbreakingly simple yet profound understanding of a complex tragedy: “I guess not all doctors save lives.”
Her words, though uttered without malice or deep understanding of the geopolitical complexities, strike at the core of my own professional and ethical unease. The crisis in Syria is not just a distant news story; it’s a stark betrayal of the very principles that underpin the medical profession. Over 400,000 lives extinguished, most recently in the agonizing throes of a nerve gas attack. Millions displaced, refugees scattered across borders, a nation in ruins. And at the heart of this unspeakable tragedy is a figure who once pledged to heal, a president who was, indeed, a doctor.
Not a doctor in name only, not someone who merely dabbled in medical studies. Bashar al-Assad was a practicing ophthalmologist, a specialist in a field demanding precision, empathy, and a commitment to alleviating suffering. He wasn’t just theoretically trained; he was actively involved in patient care. By all accounts, he was considered personable and even polite.
His journey to becoming a doctor began at the prestigious Damascus University. He pursued postgraduate training with dedication and further honed his skills in London, gaining valuable experience in ophthalmology – a competitive specialty attracting numerous aspirants. His superior in London recalled him as unassuming, and nurses remembered his exemplary bedside manner, his ability to reassure anxious patients facing surgery.
To his medical peers, he appeared unaffected by his privileged background. While some speculated that his entry into medical school might have been facilitated by his family’s influence, he seemed to embrace the responsibilities that came with the white coat.
Some classmates, aware of his father’s dictatorial power, maintained a cautious distance. Others, perhaps misjudging his ambition, believed he lacked the drive for leadership. It seemed plausible, even expected, that Assad would settle into a comfortable life as a practicing ophthalmologist in London, contributing to the everyday relief of suffering through solid, dependable medical care. No one envisioned the path he would ultimately take, a descent into mass violence.
Upon ascending to the presidency, he returned to London, accompanied by his wife, Asma, herself the daughter of a cardiologist, someone intimately familiar with the profound obligations of the medical profession. During this visit to his former eye hospital, he reportedly gazed longingly at a slit-lamp, reminiscing fondly about his medical training.
Yet, when duty called him back to Syria, it was to a nation teetering on the brink of chaos. A rebellion was brewing, sectarian tensions simmering, fueled by the turbulent dynamics of the Middle East. Initially, there was hope, a belief that Assad, the urbane, London-educated ophthalmologist who spoke of “Syria’s own democratic experience,” might emerge as a reformer, a champion of his people. But the fleeting “Damascus Spring” quickly faded, and the compassionate doctor morphed into a figure of fear and brutality.
The horrific atrocities committed by Nazi doctors, most infamously Josef Mengele, served as a catalyst for the Nuremberg Code, establishing ethical guidelines for human experimentation. Radovan Karadžić, a psychiatrist and poet, was later convicted of genocide in Yugoslavia. Harold Shipman, a British doctor, became notorious for injecting lethal drugs into hundreds of his patients. History is unfortunately punctuated by instances of doctors who have strayed from their ethical path.
However, Assad’s assault on his own people reaches a staggering scale, eclipsing even these dark precedents. He has progressed from bombing civilian populations to systematically obliterating hospitals, leaving devastation and death in his wake. Nearly 800 medical professionals have been killed, countless others detained and subjected to torture. Four hundred medical facilities lie in ruins, their occupants either perished or grievously wounded.
Alt text: Bashar al-Assad in formal attire, a portrait capturing the leader amidst the Syrian crisis.
Entire cities have been deprived of medical care, transforming treatable injuries into fatal outcomes. The United Nations has implored, “even war has rules,” yet experts contend that no conflict in recent history has witnessed such a deliberate and systematic targeting of medical infrastructure and healthcare personnel.
It seems incomprehensible, yet in a chillingly perverse way, it is almost logical. A doctor, intimately acquainted with the fragility of life, understands precisely how to extinguish it. A doctor knows that to break a population, to crush their spirit, one must target the very institutions that sustain them, the hospitals that offer hope and healing. It takes a mind trained in medicine to fully grasp the psychological devastation and the utter despair that descends upon a people deprived of bandages for bleeding wounds, antibiotics for infections, surgery for life-threatening injuries.
The question lingers: how does someone who once swore an oath to preserve life become so willing to destroy it? Some theories attempt to delve into the psychology of this transformation. Perhaps it is an attempt to prove himself to his deceased father, who reportedly favored his older brother, tragically killed in a car accident while Assad was immersed in his ophthalmology training. The younger Assad was allegedly mocked for his interest in “human blood” rather than the “blood of politics” – is this a twisted form of revenge by a man once belittled?
Or, more disturbingly, was the medical training merely a facade? Beneath the veneer of the suave specialist, was there always a ruthless individual biding his time, calculating the reach of his power? Medical training, by its very nature, necessitates a degree of detachment, an ability to manage the constant exposure to pain and suffering. An overly sensitive doctor would be paralyzed by empathy, unable to function effectively. Becoming a competent physician requires navigating a delicate balance: maintaining professional distance while retaining empathy. Perhaps, in Assad’s case, he simply discarded the empathy, hardening the professional boundary into an impenetrable wall.
Doctors worldwide view Assad’s actions with profound dismay and revulsion. They understand the weight of the medical oath, the ethical burden that accompanies the profession. Most physicians are acutely sensitive to the potential for error, haunted by the mere thought of misdiagnosis or prescribing the wrong medication, even if no harm befalls the patient. The rates of suicide among doctors are a stark testament to the immense pressure and self-scrutiny inherent in the profession. It is almost unfathomable that someone who once shared this world, who stood alongside them in operating rooms and clinics, could so systematically and mercilessly inflict suffering on his own people, including fellow healthcare workers and their patients.
History will ultimately deliver its diagnosis of Assad. In the meantime, as I encounter my own Syrian patients, I am confronted with a profound dilemma: do I focus solely on their physical ailments, or must I also acknowledge the deeper wounds, the invisible scars of trauma and loss? Their fragility is palpable, as is their quiet grief and a sense of unspoken shame.
Assad’s crimes against humanity can feel abstract, distant, until they are personalized in the faces of individual patients – a son, a mother, a neighbor. The easiest response is to succumb to helplessness, to remain silent. But silence feels like complicity. Another response is to express solidarity with our fellow human beings, even as they endure unimaginable hardships in faraway lands. Yet, even this feels inadequate in the face of overwhelming political forces. A more meaningful response is to support the courageous professionals and organizations who remain steadfast in Syria, risking their lives to provide aid against overwhelming odds. While most of us may not possess the skills or be equipped to work in such dangerous and resource-scarce environments, we can contribute by donating to reputable charities like the Red Cross, The White Helmets, and Médecins Sans Frontières, organizations that channel aid directly to those who desperately need it.
Our individual gestures may seem insignificant in the face of such immense tragedy. But I hold onto the hope that they convey a powerful message to the Syrian people: that even as their own doctor-turned-president has forsaken them, the rest of the world has not.
