Undoubtedly, the model of Shramajibi Swasthya Udyog, which I touched upon earlier, gives me hope. And hope is not an easy thing. It is difficult to find, difficult to sustain, and not equally available to everyone. Yet it is only through hope that we can reflect on our present condition.
So what is our present condition?
Why does there seem to be so much hopelessness?
Are we a generation defined by stress?
Is this feeling something new in human history?
These are not simple questions, and they don’t have simple answers. What we are experiencing today seems to come from multiple layers of isolation—social, political, economic, environmental and digital. Geopolitical conflicts, climate crises, economic uncertainty and the overwhelming speed of information all shape our lives. Together, they create a sense of fragmentation—and often, hopelessness.
This also raises another uncomfortable question: is this hopelessness accidental? Or is there a system that produces it—one that pushes us toward isolated individualism as the only possible way to survive?
From this condition, a generation of frustrated youth emerges.
Among them, I want to focus on those I know best—young doctors.
Our frustrations come from many directions, but when we look closely, they narrow down to familiar experiences: intense competition, constant pressure to pursue degrees, and spending our most energetic years preparing for entrance exams. Even MBBS becomes less about learning medicine and more about clearing postgraduate exams.
At the same time, political engagement within medical spaces is minimal. Even where organizations exist, they often lack ideological clarity. Long working hours, silent exploitation, and normalized exhaustion become part of everyday life.
But these problems alone are not my main concern.
My concern is about those who do question. Those who have been part of political spaces, who recognize contradictions, who feel uncomfortable with the present system—and yet, over time, find themselves absorbed into it, often becoming indistinguishable from those who never questioned anything at all.
How does this happen?
How does political consciousness get diluted so easily?
And more importantly—how do we resist it?
In trying to answer this, I find myself returning again to the core question: what does it mean to be a revolutionary doctor today?
Here, the words of Mao Zedong offer a sharp clarity: “Here I advanced a criterion which I regard as the only valid one. How should we judge whether a youth is a revolutionary? How can we tell? There can only be one criterion, namely, whether or not he is willing to integrate himself with the broad masses of workers and peasants and does so in practice. If he is willing to do so and actually does so, he is a revolutionary; otherwise he is a non-revolutionary or a counter-revolutionary.”
This shifts the question completely. It is no longer about what we claim, what ideology we speak, or what identity we carry. It is about where we stand—and whom we stand with.
At the same time, Che Guevara reminds us of something equally important: “Then I realized a fundamental thing: For one to be a revolutionary doctor or to be a revolutionary at all, there must first be a revolution. Isolated individual endeavour, for all its purity of ideals, is of no use, and the desire to sacrifice an entire lifetime to the noblest of ideals serves no purpose if one works alone, solitarily, in some corner of America, fighting against adverse governments and social conditions which prevent progress. To create a revolution, one must have what there is in Cuba – the mobilization of a whole people, who understand the value of the value of unity.”
So the answer becomes clearer, but also more demanding.
A revolutionary doctor is someone who integrates their knowledge and practice with people’s collective struggles. Someone who stands with workers and peasants—not symbolically, but in practice. Someone who understands that health cannot be separated from broader struggles—for food, livelihood, dignity, and justice.
In today’s world, even sustaining political awareness and genuine solidarity feels like a challenge. But perhaps that is also the minimum that this moment demands from us.
We may not have all the answers. But some directions are becoming clearer.
We need to break out of isolation—especially political isolation.
We need to recognize compromise, even when it comes from spaces that claim to represent us.
We need to think critically, democratically, and socially.
And we need the courage to question—whether it is a right-wing government suppressing people’s movements, or a so-called left government welcoming corporate powers like Adani while silencing people’s movements.
Students and young people need to organize—not under illusionary labels, and not within rigid structures that only reproduce hierarchy. What is needed are spaces that constantly reflect, question, and act—spaces that try to understand what “revolution” means today, through practice.
And if such spaces do not exist, then we have to build them.
Because in the end, the question is not just what is a revolutionary doctor?
The real question is—are we willing to become one?
And that answer, as both Mao and Che (and lot More) remind us, lies not in words, but in practice in praxis
in whether we choose to stand with people, and struggle alongside them.
