A Doctor Without Shoes

"A Doctor Without Shoes"
A journey from barefoot poverty to healing the world—with nothing but hope and a mother’s prayer.

Raheel never owned a pair of shoes until he was twelve.

He grew up in a forgotten village in interior Sindh, where the summers were dry, the winters cruel, and dreams rarely made it past the village boundary. His father was a tenant farmer—working from dawn till dusk on someone else’s land, harvesting crops he could never claim as his own. His mother washed clothes for neighbors, often kneeling by the river, her hands cracked and bruised from the cold water and harsh soaps.

They didn’t have a fan. They didn’t have a gas stove. There was no fridge or phone. But they had one thing: each other—and a fierce, unwavering hope.

Raheel was the youngest of five siblings. His older brothers left school early to work in the fields. His sister was married off when she was sixteen. But Raheel? He was different. Every morning, he would walk three kilometers barefoot—across gravel roads and muddy fields—to reach the only government school in the area. The classroom had no proper desks, just mats on a crumbling cement floor. Sometimes the teacher showed up, and sometimes he didn’t.

Still, Raheel sat quietly in the front row, with a pencil worn down to half its size and a second-hand notebook that barely held together. He asked questions. He listened carefully. And at night, he’d lie on the rooftop, staring at the stars, wondering how someone like him could ever reach the sky.

One day, a free medical camp came to the village. It was the first time Raheel had ever seen a real doctor—young, clean-shaven, wearing a white coat and speaking gently to the villagers. The doctor gave his mother free medicine and even took her blood pressure. That night, Raheel turned to her and asked, “Ammi, who was he?”

She replied, “He’s a doctor. A man who heals people.”

Raheel was quiet for a moment. Then he whispered, “I want to become him.”

His mother smiled faintly and said, “Then become him. No one’s stopping you but hunger and fear—and we’ve survived both.”

But wanting is one thing. Becoming is another.

Books were expensive. Shoes were a luxury. Even school uniforms had to be stitched at home from leftover cloth. When Raheel passed his matric exams with distinction, his father was proud but worried. They barely had enough to eat—how could they afford college?

Still, his mother sold her wedding shawl—embroidered by her own mother on the day of her nikkah. With trembling hands, she gave the money to Raheel and said, “This is our investment. The return will be your white coat.”

Raheel walked to college too, often skipping lunch so he could save what little money they gave him. He would borrow textbooks, copy diagrams by hand, and study by candlelight when there was no electricity—which was often.

He passed his F.Sc. with flying colors.

When the MDCAT exam came, he didn’t have enough for a bus fare to the city. So, he woke up before sunrise, walked halfway, and then rode on the back of a sugarcane tractor to reach the test center.

He gave the exam barefoot.

A month later, the results were announced. Raheel had ranked in the top 200 students of the province.

He had done it. He had gotten into Liaquat University of Medical and Health Sciences.

When the admission letter arrived, the village gathered around his home to celebrate. But Raheel’s family knew the real struggle was just beginning. The fees, the books, the hostel—all out of reach.

The villagers pooled together what they could. An old schoolteacher handed him a used laptop, saying, “You’ll need this more than I ever did.” Another neighbor gave him a suitcase. Someone from a nearby city sent him a brand-new pair of shoes.

His first.

He cried that night—not out of joy, but out of the weight of it all. The expectations. The love. The burden of dreams too heavy for one boy’s shoulders.

Medical college in the city was a different universe. English lectures, anatomy labs, models, ward rounds, night duties—it was overwhelming. His classmates came from cities, spoke fluent English, wore branded clothes, and had expensive phones.

Raheel would sit in the back, quietly observing, copying notes late into the night. He couldn’t afford extra classes or paid notes. But he made it through—one lecture, one prayer, one breath at a time.

In his third year, he received a call. His father had collapsed in the fields during a heatwave and passed away before Raheel could return. It was the hardest moment of his life. He wanted to drop out, to go home and support his mother. But she stopped him.

Over a crackling phone line, she said, “Your abbu always wanted to see you in that white coat. Don’t let his dream die.”

So Raheel stayed.

He passed his final professional exam with honors. At the graduation ceremony, he looked around and saw no family in the audience. His mother couldn’t afford the travel, and his siblings were working.

But in his heart, he felt them all.

Today, Dr. Raheel runs a free clinic near his village. He treats the poor, the forgotten, the ignored. Patients come on donkey carts, motorbikes, even on foot—just to be seen by “the barefoot doctor who made it.”

He doesn’t take money from the poor. He remembers too well what it felt like to be helpless.

Every Friday, after closing the clinic, he walks to his father’s grave and sits silently for a while. Then he returns home, takes off his shoes, and walks barefoot in the courtyard. It reminds him of where he came from—and of the mother who gave up everything so he could walk with pride.

Because some doctors are born in hospitals. Others are made in huts, raised by prayers, and shaped by pain.