Twenty years ago, in one of the top medical schools in Indonesia, eighteen-year-old me stood in the hallway of an empty microbiology lab. The corridor was supposed to be silent, but my boyfriend’s screaming echoed off the walls. The air conditioner was set to twenty-three degrees, but my skin burned with every slap. I covered my face, but my eyes stayed on the pregnancy test on the floor. Two pink lines.
Three hours later, he gave me pills. I swallowed them without counting. Not long after, blood streamed down my thighs. Then everything went black.
When I woke up, the light was blinding. A doctor stood beside me, looked at me once, and said: “You should repent. This is a sin before marriage.” Then she walked away. No introduction. No question. No explanation. I lay on the hospital bed, shivering from the inside out. After everything I had endured, her cold judgment broke me even deeper than his violence. From that day on, surviving felt harder than dying. The only thing that kept me alive was a voice inside my heart: “Your child died so you could become a doctor. Be a good one. Be a kind one.” That voice became my compass.
For the next four years, I studied relentlessly to become a doctor. I hoped someone would teach me how not to be that doctor — how to speak from the heart, how to care for survivors of sexual violence. But when I graduated, I still didn’t know how. And the truth is — most of us still don’t. We were never trained. We don’t know what to ask. We don’t know how to ask without hurting again.
That day, I was lucky. Many others are not. But proper care should never be based on luck. It should be guaranteed. That is why I founded Doctors Without Stigma — a movement that equips healthcare professionals to respond to sexual violence with empathy, skill, and zero judgment. We host regular online discussions where survivors speak and medical professionals listen and learn. After almost every session, I hear the same two sentences: from survivors, “Finally, I felt listened to and understood,” and from doctors, “Thank you for opening my eyes. I will try harder to serve and treat them better.”
My fellow medical professionals, do you remember the day you graduated? The day you raised your hand and spoke the Hippocratic Oath — full of hope, full of purpose. You promised to do no harm, to act for the benefit of the sick, and to protect them from injustice. Let me ask you — honestly: Do our patients still feel that promise today? Do we only count how many thank us? Or do we also count how many never came back? How many left our clinics carrying more pain than when they arrived? How many were silently broken by our words — or by our silence?
Because sexual violence kills — usually slowly, over years. Mothers. Sisters. Daughters. Nieces. Many endure in silence before they lose their lives to intimate partners or family members. The next woman could be standing in front of us tomorrow — in the emergency room, in our clinic, in our ward. And when she comes, she is still alive. Which means we still have a chance. To believe her. To treat her with dignity. To protect her.
This is our vow. This is why we became doctors. This is why we endure sleepless nights. So today, I invite you to do one simple thing: Restate your vow. Let’s be the reason someone can continue her life. Because we never know — maybe one day, she will be a doctor too. Like me. Like us.
Author: Doctor Gabriella Sandranila Suryadana
Sandra is the Founder and Managing Director of the Doctors Without Stigma Community, a platform that amplifies the voices of marginalized groups and combats stigma in healthcare across Indonesia. The Community focuses on mental health, sexual and reproductive health and rights, and the prevention of gender-based violence.
With 10 years of experience working in remote areas, Sandra witnessed how stigma within healthcare systems severely harms vulnerable populations and deepens health inequities. She founded Doctors Without Stigma to build a more inclusive and compassionate healthcare environment.
