Hijab, Harvard, and the Boardroom: Refusing to Choose

When I got into Harvard Medical School, my uncle said, “Great, now you’ll take off the scarf and fit in.” He meant well. He’d watched his own career stall in Australia because of his accent and his name. He didn’t want that for me.

Boston was a culture shock. Not because of the cold — because of the staring. In Sydney, hijab was unusual but not alien. At Harvard, I was often the only hijabi in the lecture hall. A classmate once asked, very sincerely, if I was allowed to touch male patients.

The real test came during residency interviews. A programme director in New York looked at my CV, looked at my hijab, and asked, “Will your... religious requirements... affect your availability for overnight shifts?” I smiled and said, “My religious requirements are between me and God. My availability is 100%.”

I got into that programme. I chose a different one.

The hardest moment wasn’t bias from others. It was the voice in my own head during my third year, sleep-deprived after a 30-hour shift, whispering, “Would this be easier without it?” And the honest answer was: probably. Doors might open faster. Conversations might start smoother. First impressions might be softer.

But I thought about my younger sister, who was 16 at the time and watching everything I did. And I thought about every Muslim girl who’d been told she had to choose between her faith and her ambition. I refused to be evidence for that lie.

I’m a cardiologist now. I run a department. I still wear hijab. The same uncle who told me to take it off now introduces me at family gatherings by saying, “This is my niece, the heart doctor at Sydney General.” He leaves out the part about the scarf. He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone can see it.

Last year, a medical student in hijab stopped me in the hospital corridor. She said, “I just wanted to say thank you. Seeing you here makes me feel like I can do this.” I told her what I wish someone had told me: “You don’t just ‘can.’ You already are.”