Before Medicine, I Learned Compassion
FOUNDER SERIES
Part 1 of 4
My interest in medicine began long before I ever studied it formally.
It began in Jerusalem and Ramallah, where I spent my earliest years surrounded by a close-knit family, deep faith, and a grandmother whose quiet acts of compassion taught me my very first lessons about caring for others.
Some of my happiest childhood memories are of my grandfather’s home in Ramallah. The house was surrounded by orchards of olives, fig and other fruit trees, and I can still remember the sights, smells, and sounds of family life. My siblings and I played together while generations gathered around meals, stories, and laughter. It was the kind of place where everyone looked after one another, and where you simply assumed your neighbors would do the same.
One of the people who shaped me most during those years was my grandmother. She had a remarkable gift for making people feel cared for. I remember watching her prepare traditional herbal remedies in the kitchen and seeing the tenderness with which she looked after family members and neighbors alike. At the time, I didn’t think of it as medicine. It was simply what loving people did.
Only years later did I realize how profoundly those moments had influenced me. My grandmother never separated the body from the rest of a person’s life. She understood that healing involved family, faith, emotional well-being, and compassion just as much as it involved physical symptoms. She taught me that people aren’t simply collections of illnesses—they’re human beings with stories.
Looking back, I realize those early years gave me something I still carry with me today: the belief that healing happens in the context of relationships. Everyone and everything is connected.
That peaceful childhood didn’t last forever.
As a young boy, I began noticing helicopters overhead and military vehicles moving through our town. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but I could see the fear in the adults around me. Families hung white sheets from their windows to show they meant no harm. Friends disappeared. At one point, my own father had to flee, and for a time I believed I might never see him again.
Eventually, my family left everything we knew behind and immigrated to the United States.
Like many immigrant families, we arrived with hope, but also with grief. We were grateful for safety and opportunity, yet we missed our home, our extended family, and the familiar rhythms of everyday life.
Although we had left our homeland behind, we carried its lessons with us. My grandmother’s compassion, my parents’ resilience, and the values they had instilled in me continued to shape the person I was becoming.
My parents worked incredibly hard to build a new life for our family. My father took physically demanding jobs to provide for us, while my mother, who had been a teacher back home, constantly reminded us of the importance of education.
Her favorite message was simple: “Education, education, education.”
She believed that the opportunity to study and learn was one of the greatest gifts anyone could receive, and she encouraged all of us to use our education in service of others.
Between my father’s perseverance, my mother’s commitment to learning, and my grandmother’s compassion, I was surrounded by examples of quiet strength.
None of us could have imagined then how those experiences would prepare me for the work I would eventually do.
At the time, I wasn’t dreaming of becoming a doctor. I was simply learning what it meant to care for people.
Looking back now, I can see that my journey into medicine didn’t really begin in a classroom. It began in a family that taught me resilience, compassion, faith, and service.
Everything I’ve done since has been an attempt to honor those lessons.
CONTINUE THE FOUNDER SERIES
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