when i finally made my grand, slightly overdramatic entrance into the united states, i expected, like any well-read fool, to find a promised land of equality and opportunity. instead, i found a woman named maria who was skipping chemotherapy because her insurance had decided her cancer wasn’t “cost-effective.” i found seniors rationing insulin like it was the last bottle of wine at a funeral. i found a healthcare system that billed people for breathing in emergency rooms.

and i, with all the melodrama of a man possessed, decided to trade in my briefcase for a stethoscope, my boardroom for a community clinic. i dove headfirst into public health, not because i thought i could fix everything—no, that would be far too tidy—but because i knew i had to try. my ancestors spoke oftikkun olam, the sacred duty to mend the world, and i took that seriously, not as a metaphor, but as a manifesto scrawled in blood and hope.

so here i stand, a jew from india, born into wealth, living in protest of it. i walk the wards of hospitals where the lights flicker and the waiting rooms are full of silent prayers. i write letters to congressmen who probably use more hand sanitizer than empathy. and i do it all knowing that the world does not need more billionaires—it needs more broken hearts willing to stitch themselves into something useful.

and if you ask me why i do it, i’ll tell you this: because compassion is not a luxury. and neither is health.