IT’S NOT OFTEN that I leave a medical consultation feeling unsettled—not medically, but morally. As a doctor, my duty is clear: to treat without bias, to listen without judgment, to serve all patients equally. As a Muslim, I am bound to justice—true justice, rooted in fairness, mercy, and accountability.
But what happens when these two roles seem to stand in conflict?
Since the fall of Sheikh Hasina’s tyrannical government in Bangladesh last year, I’ve noticed a subtle but noticeable influx of young people arriving in the UK under student visas—many of them former supporters of the Awami League and its feared student wing, the Chhatra League.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve seen three such patients. All claimed to be suffering from depression and anxiety. All asked for medical letters to support university mitigating circumstances, and the last for asylum. The first case stirred pity. The second concern. The third left me cold—and deeply conflicted.
He entered my room and immediately switched to Bangla. There was no hesitation in his voice, no humility in his posture. He introduced himself proudly as a Chhatra League neta—a leader of the very student organisation that has, for the past decade and a half, earned a reputation in Bangladesh for murder, rape, extortion, and political thuggery. He told me of his arrest and torture in four months of custody after last year’s political upheaval, and how he had bribed his way out of jail and came to the UK as a student. Now he was here, seeking a letter from me to support his asylum claim. He was suffering from PTSD and chronic pain from being beaten in prison, and had five charges against him should he return.
As a human being, I do not wish suffering on anyone. Torture and trauma, wherever they occur, deserve recognition and care. But as he sat there, unashamed, almost boastful, I found myself struggling to see him as the victim he claimed to be. I couldn’t help but wonder: How many others had suffered at his hands? How many had he terrorised during his time in power? How many young lives had been silenced or destroyed under the protection of political immunity?
And now, the tables had turned.
Here he was—expecting compassion, expecting help, expecting the very justice he had likely denied to others.
I was not unfamiliar with the weight of this situation. And yet, I kept returning to a verse from the Qur’an that I’ve long held close:
يَـٰٓأَيُّهَا ٱلَّذِينَ ءَامَنُوا۟ كُونُوا۟ قَوَّٰمِينَ لِلَّهِ شُهَدَآءَ بِٱلْقِسْطِ ۖ وَلَا يَجْرِمَنَّكُمْ شَنَـَٔانُ قَوْمٍ عَلَىٰٓ أَلَّا تَعْدِلُوا۟ ۚ ٱعْدِلُوا۟ هُوَ أَقْرَبُ لِلتَّقْوَىٰ ۖ وَٱتَّقُوا۟ ٱللَّهَ ۚ إِنَّ ٱللَّهَ خَبِيرٌۢ بِمَا تَعْمَلُونَ
O believers! Stand firm for Allah and bear true testimony. Do not let the hatred of a people lead you to injustice. Be just! That is closer to righteousness. (al-Ma’idah 8)
This verse is a powerful ethical guide—one that commands believers to rise above personal grievances and commit to justice even when dealing with those they despise. And yet, how does one define justice in this moment? Writing a letter might simply be a neutral act—an acknowledgement of a person’s stated mental health needs. But would that act make me complicit in helping someone evade accountability for possible crimes? Or, by refusing, would I be acting out of prejudice rather than principle?
I had no legal proof of wrongdoing. Only his own confession of political affiliation and the swagger that came with it. But that in itself revealed a kind of truth—one that doesn’t easily translate into documentation, yet resonates deeply with anyone familiar with Bangladeshi politics.
I chose not to write the letter.
I cannot say for certain that it was the right decision. Perhaps others will judge me for failing to remain “neutral.” But neutrality has its limits. Medicine is not practised in a vacuum, and neither is conscience.
What I faced today was not simply a patient’s request. It was a test—a moment where history, ethics, and faith collided in a single room.
I am still grappling with that decision. But I know this: justice is not blind obedience to process. Nor is it an emotional reaction. It is the careful balancing of truth, compassion, and integrity. In that moment, I could not give him what he asked because I could not, in good faith, believe he deserved it.
And maybe, just maybe, that too is a form of justice.
Living For Islam 