Trigger warning: sexual abuse, violence against women, and rape.

(Dr. Moumita Debnath, a 31-year-old female resident doctor from Kolkata, India, was discovered dead in a seminar hall at R.G. Kar Medical College on August 9, 2024. Her death was verified as the result of a violent sexual assault and murder. All this occurred while she was sleeping alone at night, on call. The autopsy indicated significant damage caused by severe physical trauma.)

Dear Moumita,

You know what? I remained numb for months following your brutal rape and murder.

I attempted to write something, but all of my words died. I forgot the letters.

I’m not sure what I should call my emotions: Sadness, grief, rage, or pain.

But, after months, I’ve mustered the guts to tell you how your death affected me.

You know, we’re from different nations, have different religions, and were raised in different environments, but I feel like you’re my sister from another time, world, or maybe a previous life. I’ve never met you, seen you, known you, spoken to you, shaken hands with you, or embraced you, so why did your death affect me so much?

I sobbed a lot after you. I cried so hard that my eyelids swelled, and I couldn’t laugh fully for many days.

I was there mourning you, and I still am.

My nervous system has transformed into a battleground.

A tap on the shoulder can easily startle me.

I remember a friend asking me once, “When was the last time you heard your heartbeat?” I laughed and got her stethoscope, auscultated my chest, and heard the rhythm of my beating heart that day.

Isn’t it interesting that after your death, I hear my heartbeat every day, which can be pretty erratic at times due to my anxiety? You caused me palpitations, Moumita.

You know, every time I work in the emergency room, especially on weekends, I am constantly glancing outside to see if there is a security guard or not.

You know, when I am on call alone, I check the door lock of the doctor’s room several times throughout the night because I can hear footsteps all night.

As I go through the hospital’s deserted corridors late at night, I look behind more than ahead in search of a predator.

I hear your screams in the corridors at night when no one is around.

Now, during my night duty, I am constantly on my toes, not to save lives, but to flee, to save my own.

You know, Moumita, I was a cheerful, bubbly, and enthusiastic doctor who was always ready for work, on my toes when seeing a patient, always looking forward to saving a life, never hesitated to do anything, stayed in the hospital at any hour, and examined and spoke candidly with every male patient.

Although I used to believe that occasionally I missed tiny nodes when palpating with gloved fingers, I have now started wearing gloves for every examination I perform on male patients. But these days, many male patients have “that” look in their eyes when I touch their hand during a neurological examination, palpate the cervical nodes, or examine the oral cavity.

You know, Moumita, now sometimes, I can feel that harmless brush of fingertips as I pass a pen to a male consultant on “Zara pen dena!” (requests a pen) to countersign my notes.

You know, Moumita, nowadays it feels weird when a fellow male doctor asks me to adjust his face mask during surgery or tie his surgical gown for him before any surgical procedure, even though I never thought about it this way before your death.

Now I notice the redness in the eyes of some of the male doctors and medical staff, their husky voices on a few days, and the fine tremors in their hands when they are writing down something, as well as the days when they do not realize what they are saying and do not look well at all, although I had never noticed these minor details before.

You know, Moumita, your death made me question everything.

Were these men not taught as children that adultery, fornication, and rape are among God’s most despised sins?

I asked many people why there is so much filth in the medical fraternity; do these guys not understand that sexual approaches on female colleagues, or any females, are prohibited in Islam? They have spouses, sisters, and daughters at home, but they never fear that their loved ones would have to go through anything like this.

Their women may face all of this someday.

You taught me to never trust everyone, to never ignore red flags or warning signs, and to take care of the women around me. Now, I can’t imagine leaving a female patient alone, even for a second. When I spot one, I sit by her, talk to her, and wait until one of her family members or a female staff arrives to accompany her.

You made me realize that I needed to be concerned about my safety, for which I will always be thankful to you. You made me realize that I need to build physical strength, practice self-defense, and prioritize myself above all else.

To always consider saving my own life before saving others.

From a fellow doctor, a soul sister, and a postgraduate resident who is 31 just like you, the same age as you were, on your last day in the hospital, and in this cruel world.

The only difference is that I work in a different hospital in a different country.

Rest in peace, dear Moumita.

I am sorry.

This essay is cited in the KevinMD record on violence against health care workers.

Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.