A Reply to Hate: Forgiving My Attacker. David Tucker
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I asked the driver if he could take me all the way to Dundee and I gave him the address, Belmont Hall of Residence. He was very happy to oblige! Two hours later we arrived at Dundee, but to my surprise, the driver did not know where Belmont Hall was and he needed to ask for directions! Finally, I was safely dropped off at my halls of residence to start what would be six years of medical studies in Dundee. As soon as I entered my room, I just fell onto my bed and started crying. It wasn’t the journey that had been the most distressing, it was the fact that when I arrived in Dundee, I could not understand anyone I spoke to. Yes, it sounded as if they were speaking English, but not the English I learned at school; Scottish English was something else entirely. In case you are wondering, the taxi fare cost me twenty pounds that day!
Neither of my parents were university educated, so when I left home to study medicine, my mother had little idea what it meant in practical terms. I was her pride and joy, and she thought that once I graduated that I would therefore be qualified, and I could go back home and start working as a doctor straightaway. Just six years at the most, and I would be home. Unbeknownst to any of us at the time was that, having graduated, I needed to go through a further training programme; a degree in medicine is no more than a starting point. I graduated in 1983 and started my training in Dundee. By 1988, eleven years after leaving home, I completed my basic surgical training and I managed to obtain my surgical diploma.
Unfortunately, during my time at university, my mother was diagnosed with leukaemia. Initially this was under control and I recall her optimism as she travelled to various centres in Lebanon, the US and the UK for treatment. Sadly, as predicted, and after seven years of battling, her condition started to get out of control. I remember in March of that year, my father called me to say that mum was in hospital and that she was quite ill. This was not unusual, but this was the first time that he said we should travel over to see her. Doing so, however, was far from straightforward. It posed some administrative obstacles in view of the fact that I was still a foreign national, so I could not just get on a plane and leave and expect to easily return. I had to send my passport away for a re-entry visa, and the process took a few weeks. Eventually I arrived with my brother back in Kuwait on 08 April 1988 and our uncle picked us up from the airport. Not much was said in the car, but as we were getting close to home, my uncle told us that our mother had passed away earlier that same day. I never managed to see her alive again. It was my birthday the following day and I went to see my mother in the mortuary, for the last time, before burying her in the afternoon. I remember meeting my Uncle George at the mortuary where we bid farewell to her. He was inconsolable; I still remember his crying. At home, my father just kept quiet. In a sense, even though my mother was the architect of everything that she wished for me to be, sadly she passed away before she could see it all come good.
Shortly after that, my career almost came to a halt as I struggled to obtain a higher surgical-training post. If you cannot get such a training post, then you are no longer on the ladder to becoming a consultant. It took me another three years, but in 1991 I had my lucky break; I managed to get a temporary training post. However, those intervening three years of 1988 to 1991 had been by far the most difficult of my life, emotionally, professionally and financially. Unfortunately, the recession that kicked off in the second half of 1990 caused me to lose my house, but at least I was able to move into hospital accommodation. My self-esteem and self-belief were at an all-time low and I believe that a lot of how I approach adversity now, the resilience that I have, comes from me coping on my own through those years. I had graduated in 1983, but by 1991, after eight years of employment, all I had to show for it was a car, a stereo system, and a debt of £8000. But at least I was now back, even if only temporarily, on the training ladder.
What probably altered my fortunes for the better was getting British citizenship in 1991. Up until then, each time I applied for a job I presented myself as Jordanian, and I got nowhere. The very first time I presented myself as British I was offered an interview. Maybe that was just a coincidence, but anyhow I got a short-term job as a locum tutor in orthopaedics at the University of Manchester. For the first time since 1988 I was employed in an academic post. Getting this job gave me an immense feeling of satisfaction and a belief that I still had a chance at career success. I first started working in Manchester at Ancoats Hospital, which sadly no longer exists, and it was during that year that I bought my first computer and I started producing academic work. 1991 was a fantastic year for me. I worked my way up financially, getting back on my feet again and, on a personal level, that year gave me the belief that no matter how low things can get, given time, patience and perseverance, there is always a chance. My chance came after nearly 300 applications and I was determined to make the most out of this break.
I had my second lucky break when the one-year locum tutor post was extended to 18 months. I then got a third break when I worked for a year in research alongside an incredible Senior Lecturer who was very supportive. But then came the most incredible break in my career, which was Calmanisation. The postgraduate training structure in the NHS was being overhauled and, in simple terms, in order to streamline the training journey of medical graduates at registrar level, two major changes took place. Firstly, training centres needed to restructure themselves to provide a comprehensive five-year training programme. Secondly, and most important to me, once you had a Calman number, you were in line to compete for a consultant post. In 1994, and with the support of my Senior Lecturer, I was offered one of these Calman numbers.
When I started working in Manchester, I was living in hospital accommodation. I first lived in a bedroom, then I had my own ensuite, and by 1993 I managed to move into a rented flat. By then I had paid off my debt and was gradually getting back on my feet financially. But still, I was single, living by myself, and I felt I needed to settle down. As with most Eastern cultures, it is the mother who usually takes on the matchmaker role. With my mother having passed away, I needed the help of my aunt in Syria. Eventually I contacted her and said something along the lines of “I want to settle down and to get married, and I need you to find someone suitable for me”. This probably came as a bit of a shock to her, but she was happy with the idea and understandably she asked what I was looking for; a strange conversation to be reading about in the West in the 21st century, I know. My instinctive reply anyway was “As long as she’s pretty”. I guess anybody would say that. But I also said, “I need her to be a good practicing Muslim”. For a few years I felt that I had been drifting away from Islam, that I had become a little wayward, and I was not comfortable with that. To my surprise, before long I received a call from my aunt telling me that she had found someone she wanted to introduce me to, so off I went on a flight to Damascus. At 33 years of age, it was a very odd experience for me to be going with my father and my uncle to meet this family in order to be introduced to their daughter. I remember meeting the young lady and her family and I liked her very much. Having gone through the proper formalities, both she and her family were happy for us to become engaged, so that we could get to know each other better before taking the big plunge. However, as soon as I returned to the UK, I received a message from my sister informing me that they had already fallen out with the family and the engagement was broken off. How strange, you might think, but this exciting journey was very short lived. A few months later my aunt called to say, “We found you another potential bride”, so again I hopped on a plane to Damascus and again I met a lovely young lady, with a lovely family and we agreed to get to know each other. I came back to the UK with rekindled excitement and hope, but a few weeks later she informed me fairly bluntly “You know something, I don’t think you are the right person for me, let’s call it a day”. This time the roles had been reversed and I was unceremoniously ‘dumped’.
I started doubting if my approach to finding the love of my life would ever work. A short while later I received a phone call from my sister who said yet again “We found somebody”, and I thought here we go again, but she was determined and very excited, saying “No, we really found someone. Get on a plane right now.” This must be July or August 1993. Considering how my sister sounded on the phone, I was again very excited, but I had to keep my hopes in check. I sorted out a flight and arrived in Damascus on a Wednesday, early September, to find my sister still very excited. She told me about the girl that she met, speaking very highly of her, and that she lived in the neighbourhood just a few houses away from my aunt’s house. She kept saying that there was something special about this girl, called Syrsa. So, on Thursday I went with my aunt and sister to meet the girl’s family.