Interviewer: ‘Finally, is there a solution to this problem?’
Nusrat: ‘All of us, the Sanghaali community, the Minnesota Police and the Attorney General’s Office must work together. We should collectively be on the lookout for who contacts our young minds and how do they do that. These are all school going kids. Some of these kids don’t return home after school. It is tough for many Sanghaali mothers to monitor their children closely since they have as many as six to eight children each. We should provide them opportunities for after-school activities and provide jobs for those who have graduated from high school. All these call for money and other resources. We need the government’s assistance and the cooperation of the police.’
Interviewer: ‘What do you mean by cooperation of the police?’
Nusrat: ‘Cooperation to monitor and discipline our children on the streets. The problems always start in our homes or on our streets.’
Interviewer: ‘Do you think the contemporary American society has failed to restore goodwill between the police and the black youth?’
Nusrat: ‘I don’t think so. There are lots of African Americans who are successful here and are leading a decent life. In fact many of them serve in law enforcement.’
Interviewer: ‘Well, let me ask you, is there any relationship between the shooting of blacks by the police and Sanghaali young men gravitating towards terrorist organizations?’
Nusrat: ‘You have quite an imagination! This issue of police shootings is more of an internal issue of America. It is way too simplistic to conclude that police shootings of blacks have provoked the Sanghaali youth to turning into terrorists. So far, the police have not killed a single Sanghaali young man.’
Interviewer: ‘What about Jihadi Moms? Where are they now?’
Nusrat: ‘I am disappointed that the media keeps going back to this issue again. Nobody knows that Jihadi Moms existed. Everyone knows about young Sanghaali mom’s suicides that happened in Amoka two years ago. The media labelled these suicides as jihad. Somebody thought that a live Cesarean section on TV can address this issue. Coincidentally, two years since then none of the Sanghaali women who have had Cesarean sections have killed themselves. Labeling these suicides as jihad and concluding that our doctors reformed these jihadi mothers by performing Cesarean sections on TV is oversimplifying everything.’
Interviewer: ‘But then isn’t it a fact that the incidents of suicides have stopped? What may be the reasons for it?’
Nusrat: ‘First of all, we do not have an answer yet on why these suicides happened. In my opinion, there are more educated Sanghaali women now than there were two years ago. Their worldview has changed and is demonstrably more independent. The very fact that they have come forward and got their Cesarean sections done on TV is a big development; a watershed moment. One of my daughters is a doctor. I can assure you that come what may, she will not commit suicide.’
Interviewer: ‘Do not duck the question. After the live operation on TV, there has been no suicide either in Amoka or Minneapolis. What do you suppose is the reason?’
Nusrat: ‘I’m neither a policewoman nor a detective. However, if in fact someone has brainwashed these innocent women into committing suicides and given it a jihadi tint, then this TV Cesarean has given the right answer to them. And the Sanghaali women have sent out a strong message to the world not to take them lightly, not to take them for granted! The live Cesarean has helped to address the issue to that extent. The Sanghaali women will be grateful to Dr Radhika for making that happen. Change does not happen in a day. Sometimes it may take generations. We should do what we can under the circumstances. We should guide and educate the next generation well. That is all we can do from our side.’
After I was done listening to Nusrat’s interview, I opened the next patient’s chart in the computer. I thought that Nusrat spoke quite well. Her pristine experience as a youth had acquired a civilized edge due to her stay in America. She was able to introspect and articulate well on topics like war and terrorism within the context of her experience.
I thought everyone spoke well in interviews these days. For the question on why a young man like Igal gets radicalized, Nusrat had given an evasive response, with an answer that was not really an answer, by mentioning that to stop such things from happening, everyone—the government, the police and the Sanghaali community—should work together. What else could she say? These interviewers were indiscreet and didn’t seem to have anything else to ask when it came to Sanghaali women. They keep coming back to their pregnancies and suicides. Overall, the interview pleased me. I messaged Srikantha, writing ‘Very insightful’, and sent the interview link to Radhika also.
28. Me—A Good Racist, an OK Racist
I looked at the picture that Radhika had sent me. I remembered the kiss she gave me at the hospital’s parking lot on the day of the board meeting. I smiled in my mind. She is at Miami Beach with Saanvi and Kristina. Cities like Miami and Las Vegas are sin cities. They can tempt even saints and renunciates into wrongful acts. I didn’t want to guess what they will be up to and what kind of fun they are having. Now that Giri is out of her life, Radhika is a free spirit and an unfettered bird. I hope that she comes back safe and in one piece.
It was three years ago that Radhika had planted that kiss on me. No matter how much I tried I could not entirely recall what went through my mind as she kissed me in the parking lot. Later, my wisdom had prevailed, and I had thought it was a simple gesture of thanking me. But, during that moment, did I have the wits to resist it if I wasn’t thinking about Giri? What if she did that now? I decided not to stretch myself too much.
I saw an envelope from the Department of Homeland Security in my mailbox. I opened the envelope. It was my green card!
I couldn’t control my curiosity. I looked in Radhika’s mailbox too. Sure enough, there was a similar envelope sitting there. I placed my green card and her envelope next to each other and took a picture. I messaged this picture to Radhika. I got a response from her within a couple of minutes, ‘Please open my envelope and tell me what’s in it.’ I opened her envelope, and her green card was in it. I placed our green cards next to each other and took a picture and again messaged the picture to Radhika.
She messaged me back saying, ‘Yay!’
A couple of minutes later, I received a selfie with the three of them toasting with tequila shots.
I responded, ‘Have fun’ and opened the next patient’s file.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a message from Saanvi. ‘Hi Guru, you sent picture of both of your green cards kept side by side like you are trying to say something. What’s up buddy? She is enjoying being single again. Leave her alone for now.’ The message came with a smiley face.
The Sanghaali woman who had checked in was complaining of abdominal pain. She spoke at the reception in a raised voice that her stomach pains were severe and could not wait in the waiting room. She demanded that she be let inside immediately. Nurse Stephanie took her to a room. She stunk of alcohol. I couldn’t get to her right away as there were five patients ahead of her. To make her happy, I ordered her blood and urine tests and went to see other patients.
I could not free myself for the next half hour. Meanwhile Stephanie came up to me and said, ‘That Sanghaali girl is rambling all kinds of nonsense. It is not clear if she is really in pain, but she is insisting that she wants to see a doctor right away.’
I decided to see her and checked her chart for blood and urine results. Her urine test showed that she had smoked marijuana. Her pregnancy test results were yet to come. There was no infection in her urine. Her blood alcohol level was more than the legal limit.
I went into the examination room and asked, ‘Name?’
She replied, barely looking at me, ‘Fadhuma Hassan. I’ve a severe stomach pain.’
‘What did you say?’ I was surprised for a moment.
‘I said I have a severe stomach pain.’
‘No. Your name?’
; ‘Doc, my name is Fadhuma Hassan.’
‘Can you speak English? Do you need an interpreter? How many months?’
‘You must be kidding! Are you joking, doc? I was three years old when I came to America. Now I’m a sophomore at the University of Minnesota’s Business School. I can probably speak better English than you. And how many months? I’m twenty-four years old.’ She had a perfect American accent.
‘Sorry. My bad.’
‘What?’
‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry’
‘How about “My apologies”, like a gentleman?’
I was both surprised and a bit amused. ‘Ok. My apologies.’
‘Good. There is a difference between “My Apologies” and this hackneyed “Sorry”. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not sure if anyone else has mentioned this to you. You have a very thick accent. I may even need an interpreter to understand your English.’ She laughed.
I looked at her, stunned. It was likely that my mind was primed for certain thoughts with certain names. The name Fadhuma Hassan invoked thoughts of pregnancies, interpreters, and suicides. This had made me ask her: ‘How many months?’ Also, did she not understand my accent or was she making fun of me?
‘Sorry, what brings you to the hospital tonight? How may I help you?’
She said again, ‘I cannot understand your accent. I need an interpreter.’
Hospitals generally provide interpreter services for patients who can’t speak or understand English. All doctors who come to America do know how to speak English. Of course, they all have different accents depending on where they come from. But for the accent, patients understand them for the most part. At least that is the assumption. For the first time in my professional life, here I was, being asked for an interpreter just because I had an accent! I said to her, ‘Alright, we can provide you with the interpreter services, but it is not clear from what language to what other language you need the interpreter for. You are speaking in English and so am I.’
She was stubborn, ‘I can only speak English. There must be interpreter services to interpret your Indian English to American English.’
Nurse Stephanie who was with me, came to my rescue and added, ‘The doctor’s accent is perfectly fine. I’ve been working with him for five years now and there has not been a single instance when I’ve not understood his English.’
‘Be honest. Do you understand every word that he speaks?’ She challenged her.
‘There is no need to understand every word. I can understand enough to be able to work with him.’
I looked at Stephanie. She said, ‘Sorry,’ and addressed Fadhuma. ‘Which part of the conversation did you not understand?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it now. I cannot bear the pain. Get the interpreter right now.’ She gave us no choice.
‘I’ve been living in America for the past eight years. I’m this hospital’s chief of staff. I’ve sat in many meetings and done press conferences too. Till now, nobody has told me that they could not understand me. Let me know what it is that you are not able to understand. Stephanie was also raised here in Minnesota. I think both of you speak the same accent. She can act as an interpreter between you and me.’
Stephanie said, ‘Sorry doctor, as per the hospital’s policy, interpreters have to be neutral and should have no vested interest. We both work for the same hospital. If tomorrow something goes wrong, she might say that she did not understand you and that my interpretation was not good enough. We are on the same side, doc. I don’t want to lose my job or license. I’ll call for the interpreter services. Why don’t you talk to them?’ She skyped for the interpreter services.
The service representative Julio Fernandez came on the Skype screen. ‘Hello, this is Northwest Interpreter Services. For what language are you looking for our services?’
His English had a distinct Spanish accent. I looked at Fadhuma.
I said haltingly, ‘Do you have interpreter services from Indian English to American English?’ I was certain that he would say ‘No’.
Without any hesitation Julio said, ‘One moment, let me get that interpreter for you,’ and got an English to English interpreter named Sunil Joshi.
‘Hello, my name is Sunil Joshi. I am your interpreter. I’ll introduce myself to the patient. Please speak directly to the patient. Speak slowly and clearly. My job is to directly translate from your language to the patient’s language. Also, to be clear, I’ll be interpreting your conversation only. I will not be adding anything that is not in the conversation and definitely not try to consciously bias either party with ideas of my own.’ He set his interpreter’s disclaimer.
If anybody had told me before that there are English to English interpreter services, I would not have believed it.
I said hesitatingly, ‘My name is Guru. I’m speaking to a person by the name of Fadhuma. Fadhuma, what brings you here? How may I help you?’
He repeated exactly what I said, ‘Fadhuma, what brings you here? How may I help you?’ I didn’t think that his accent was any different than mine. But Fadhuma answered directly, ‘I’ve been having stomach pain for the past three days. It starts from my lower belly and moves to the front of my upper belly. The pain waxes and wanes. I took some over the counter pills, but it did not help. My mom gave me a cup of cold milk mixed with saffron. That did not help either.’
The interpreter repeated, ‘I’ve been having stomach pain for the past three days. It starts from my lower belly and moves to the front of my upper belly. The pain waxes and wanes. I took some over the counter pills, but it did not help. My mom gave me a cup of cold milk mixed with saffron. That did not help either.’
It was virtually a comical skit. Did she really have any pain at all or was she trying to take me for a ride?
‘Are there any chances that you might be pregnant?’
‘Sure, there is always a chance. You have my urine, don’t you? Did you not do a pregnancy test?’ She answered without waiting for the interpreter’s translation.
‘I did. I have not got the results yet.’
‘Then why are you asking this question? Wait till you get the results.’
‘There are traces of marijuana—meaning pot—in your urine.’
‘I know what marijuana is. Traces? Had you asked me, I would have told you. You talk like you have made some important discovery. Does smoking pot cause stomach pain?’
‘No, but I’m supposed to share the test results with you.’
‘Doc, do you test for marijuana, alcohol and whatever other shit you test for everyone who comes complaining of stomach pain?’
The conversation was happening directly between the two of us by then. Fadhuma had insisted on an interpreter, now not only had she completely forgotten about him but was ready to fight with me. Meanwhile Sunil Joshi, on Skype, tried translating our conversation for some time and then gave up.
‘Not for everyone. If there are enough medical reasons to do those tests, then we do them?’
‘Why did you think I needed to be tested for pot, medically?’
‘Not like that. It is a protocol.’
‘What protocol, doc? Do you test everyone with stomach pain for drugs? Would you have done this test had I been a white person? You are a racist. Are you profiling me because I’m a black person?’
‘Excuse me, do you really need our interpreter service or not?’ Sunil Joshi asked.
I decided to do some talking and put the hospital’s perspective before the pendulum starts swinging the other way completely. ‘Look, this is a general test that is done in any hospital. If anyone older than sixteen comes in complaining of stomach pain, it is common to do a urine pregnancy test. Moreover, you are drunk and so, we need to test for other recreational drugs in your body. We do that because it helps us determine that the medicine we give does not interact with the drugs already present in your body and cause more harm. There is no question of white, black, brown or any other colour here.’
‘Excuse me,’ Sunil Joshi
tried to ask again.
‘Oh, shut up!’ Fadhuma shouted.
‘Ma’am, I’m only doing my job. There is no need to get angry.’ The poor guy said.
‘Don’t you understand what shut up means? Which part of that did you not get? Do you understand English?’
‘Ma’am, I’m an interpreter.’
‘That is exactly why I asked you. I don’t need your services.’ She got up.
‘Ok, ma’am. Thank you for using Northwest…’ Fadhuma disconnected Skype before he could complete his sentence. She slumped back on to her bed.
It was apparent looking at her face that she was in pain. I put an order in the computer for starting an IV on her as well as doing an ultrasound and moved on to check on the next patient.
I felt a little gloomy for some reason. Fadhuma needed an interpreter only to prove that she is smarter than me. She had used my English accent to dent my self-righteousness and the sense of authority over a patient that came with my job.
Am I really a racist like she had accused me? How can a simple test done to a patient make one a racist? Did I profile her? Did my ordering for a drug screen amount to profiling? Would I have done all these tests before my examination if this was a twenty-four-year-old white girl?
I’m a doctor. How can I be a racist?
I was reminded of my days when I was new to America. I was doing my residency in a New York hospital. Once, a woman came to the hospital complaining of abdominal pain. I was fresh from India back then and the first question that I asked that woman was, ‘Are you married?’ When she said no, I had ordered a CT scan of her abdomen. To which she responded immediately, ‘I’m twelve weeks pregnant. Who in their right mind does a CT on a pregnant woman?’ and she had fired me as her doctor. I didn’t know at that time that my patients could fire me.
Hijab Page 24