Metaphors & Medicine

*This chapter is a Part II of my MCW story, which started in the previous chapter (Chapter 18). There are people around me, watching my face, unsure of whether or not these are tears of joy or sorrow. The day was warm and the hospital water fountain left the sound of water dancing behind me in the background. The future seemed a million times brighter that day, and all I could do was think back to where this began: “On behalf of the Admissions Committee, it is my pleasure to extend you an invitation to interview for the entering class of 2017…” I read and re-read that sentence, checked the subject of the email again, checked the “Dear Manar” introduction to reassure myself that indeed, this was an interview invite meant for me and not sent by mistake. As I continued reading the email, my heart raced more and more. Someone had given up their interview slot last minute, and this was one of the last interview slots of the season. “ Would you be available?”  Would I be availa...

It is time for what is most likely the most important (and exciting!) chapter of this gap year: the story of how I got into my dream medical school. At the end of January, I interviewed at my top ranked osteopathic (D.O) school in Kirksville, Missouri. It was incredibly exciting, especially since that school is the first osteopathic medical school ever founded. This was the school that I received the acceptance call from during the fun day at the park with my brother and sister (back in Chapter 12). The medical school interview cycle typically ends around March or April. By the praise of God, I had interviewed at most of the osteopathic medical schools I was interested in. I was left awaiting one possible interview from one of two M.D. schools in my state, the Medical College of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. If you’ve been following my journey from the beginning, you will know that I have spent this whole year trying to learn one thing: trusting Allah (SWT). It sounds easy, but I pro...

Today, my identity feels like an oxymoron. I am finding it difficult to believe I can be a Palestinian American. There seems to be a waging war inside my head as I live my life away from the occupied land, in this "Diaspora" as many call it. Today, while I lay in my bed staring at my ceiling, I can't help but think of Fatimah Hajiji. I think of her body lying face down in the middle of a street in Jerusalem. I think of all the times I lay on my carpeted floor, talking to my best friend about my current "trials and difficulties." I think of how Fatimah, at 16 years old, already had the belief that her life was not a choice. She did not believe she could choose in which direction to guide herself. You see, when one has sat behind the bars of a jail cell before they learn to drive or explore the world, is there a way for them to believe there is a world for them to explore? I find myself thinking of the time I sat in a "prison," or what I calle...