Dr. Amin
There’s something profoundly unsettling about a doctor—someone who has sworn to preserve life—being implicated in plots to destroy it. Yet here we are, in the aftermath of the recent terror-related arrests in Delhi, confronting a reality that shakes the very foundation of trust upon which civil society rests: medical professionals, individuals who spent years learning to heal, allegedly involved in planning violence. The cognitive dissonance is almost too much to bear.
This isn’t just another news headline about terrorism that we scroll past with numbed familiarity. This strikes at something deeper, something fundamental about the social contract we all depend on. When doctors—of all people—are drawn into extremist ideologies, we must pause and ask ourselves uncomfortable questions about where we’ve gone wrong as a society.
Every medical student, regardless of their country or culture, learns some version of the Hippocratic Oath: First, do no harm. These aren’t ceremonial words recited at graduation and then forgotten. They represent a sacred trust between healer and society—a promise that transcends religion, politics, and personal belief.
Throughout history, doctors have been protected even in war. The Red Cross emblem, the white coat, the stethoscope—these are symbols of sanctuary, neutrality, and humanity’s better angels. When a doctor enters a room, patients don’t ask about their political views or religious beliefs. There is an implicit understanding: this person is here to help, to heal, to preserve life.
That’s what makes the involvement of medical professionals in terrorism so chilling. It’s not just a crime—it’s a fundamental betrayal of identity. It’s like a firefighter turned arsonist or a lifeguard who drowns swimmers. The very essence of what they are supposed to be has been inverted into its opposite.
Let’s be honest: becoming a doctor in India is an achievement that requires immense privilege, dedication, and societal investment. Whether through government subsidies or family resources, medical education represents a massive collective investment. Society invests in doctors because we need them. We trust them with our lives—literally.
Medical professionals hold a status in Indian society that’s almost unparalleled. Parents dream of their children becoming doctors. Communities celebrate when one of their own gets into medical school. Patients treat doctors with reverence that borders on worship. This goes beyond professional respect—it is rooted in the sacred nature of their calling.
With that privilege comes responsibility. Not just the responsibility to treat patients competently, but a broader moral responsibility to society. When someone with a medical degree—with all the opportunities, education, and trust it represents—turns toward violence, they’re not just betraying their oath. They’re betraying every patient who trusted them, every taxpayer who subsidized their education, every family that sacrificed so they could study, and every young person who looked up to them.
We like to comfort ourselves with the narrative that terrorism is a product of poverty, ignorance, and lack of opportunity. We tell ourselves that education is the antidote. The involvement of doctors in terror plots shatters that comfortable illusion.
These aren’t uneducated individuals easily manipulated by ideologues. These are people who studied biology, chemistry, and the intricacies of human physiology. They understand scientific method, evidence-based reasoning, and critical thinking. They’ve interacted with diverse people throughout their education and practice.
So what happened? How does someone who understands the fragility of human life—who has held a beating heart in their hands or watched a patient take their last breath—decide that causing mass casualties serves some higher purpose?
The disturbing truth is this: education is not a vaccine against extremism. Intelligence is not immunity from radicalization. In fact, educated extremists can be far more dangerous because they bring sophistication, planning ability, and credibility to their destructive causes.
Think about the implications. Every patient who sat across from these doctors, every colleague who worked beside them, every student who learned from them—must now grapple with a terrible question: Did I ever really know this person?
This is how terror works. It doesn’t just kill bodies—it destroys trust. When doctors can be terrorists, who can’t be? The teacher? The bus driver? The friendly neighbour?
This erosion of trust is perhaps the most insidious consequence of professionals being drawn into terrorism. We depend on certain roles—especially doctors—being safe, predictable, and trustworthy. We need to believe that when we’re vulnerable, lying on an operating table, the person standing over us has our best interests at heart. When that trust is betrayed, the damage to society is immense.
Already, in the wake of these arrests, one can imagine the whispers, the side-glances, the subtle discrimination that Muslim doctors might face, regardless of their own beliefs or actions. This is the collateral damage extremism inflicts—not just on its victims, but on entire communities who then face suspicion and prejudice.
And here’s where we need an honest conversation, one that often gets drowned out by political polarization. Every community—religious, professional, or otherwise—has a responsibility to address its own extremist elements.
The medical community must ask hard questions:
Were there warning signs?
Did colleagues notice concerning behaviour but remain silent?
Are there unchallenged spaces within institutions where extremist ideologies can grow?
Similarly, religious communities cannot simply say, “They are not real Muslims” or “They misunderstood Islam.” While true, it is not enough. There must be proactive efforts to counter extremist narratives and reinforce Islam’s core messages of mercy, justice, and the sanctity of life.
The Quran states clearly:
“Whoever kills an innocent soul, it is as if he has killed all mankind; and whoever saves a life, it is as if he has saved all mankind.” (5:32)
This is not metaphor. It is an unequivocal prohibition of violence against innocents.
For law enforcement, the involvement of educated professionals in terrorism presents unique challenges. Traditional profiling fails. These individuals have legitimate careers, professional networks, and access to sensitive spaces.
But we must be careful not to overreact. We cannot allow the actions of a few to cast suspicion on all professionals from particular communities. Healthcare cannot function if we begin suspecting doctors based on religion. Vigilance must not turn into prejudice.
Here’s the cruel irony these doctors forgot: medicine is about recognizing our shared humanity. Disease does not discriminate. Pain feels the same whether you are Hindu or Muslim, rich or poor. Blood is the same red in every body.
Every doctor knows this. They’ve treated patients from every background. They’ve seen Hindu and Muslim bodies on adjacent beds, suffering the same ailments, responding to the same treatments.
So how does someone with that intimate understanding of human universality embrace indiscriminate harm? It requires an almost psychopathic compartmentalization—a willingness to see human beings as statistics, collateral damage, acceptable losses in pursuit of some abstract ideological goal.
The Hippocratic Oath says, “First, do no harm.”
Perhaps, as a society, we need to take that oath too—and actually live by it.
