GATA, Cerrahpaşa, and the sense of belonging

I have a patient, a retired senior sergeant from GATA Haydarpaşa, whom I have been seeing for many years. He comes for a check-up once a year. He came again recently. I noticed—he had done the same last year—that he had his laboratory tests done at a private institution instead of his old hospital, now the Sultan 2. Abdülhamid Han Research and Training Hospital. I asked him why. He looked at me with a half-smile, half-tearful expression. “Doctor, don't ask; I just can't bring myself to go there. I put so much effort into my old hospital, at least into its garden. If you have a free day, let me take you there; I will show you the roses I planted over the years and the pine trees that have now grown huge, one by one.” With a tear rolling down each cheek, he turned to his wife. “Isn't that right, dear? Thank God we raised the children, we have a little money in our pockets now, and we can afford to go private.”   

I also have a quite emotional memory regarding GATA Haydarpaşa. My late and precious grandfather, ophthalmologist Dr. Yusuf İzzet Törün, who was a graduate of the Haydarpaşa Military Medical School—the predecessor of GATA—is someone whose face I still remember in all its colors as he held my hand and gave me a tour of the Savarona when I was about three years old. Many years later, with me at the wheel, my 7-8-year-old granddaughter Esra beside me, and her 4-5-year-old sister Leyla in the back seat, leaning back against the seat with her soles visible, we were passing in front of my grandfather's old university. I said, “Esra, I don't know if I told you before, but my grandfather was a doctor just like your father, and his name was Yusuf.” Esra was happy and touched my shoulder with a smile. Honestly, I wasn't expecting a response from Leyla, but just as we had crossed the Haydarpaşa bridge and were arriving at the Kadıköy pier, Leyla's voice was heard from the back. Her mother is American, so she spoke half in English, half in Turkish: “So, you named my baba after your dede. (So, my father's name comes from your grandfather.) The traffic was very heavy; I couldn't hug my Leyla. 

Cerrahpaşa has been a very important part of my life for 60 years. As a student, professor, physician, father, husband, and patient, I have many memories, joys, sorrows, angers, and excitements there. Let me say in advance that its current appearance reminds me of Hatay or Gaza. Besides this, it is currently almost impossible to access the old patient files of this famous hospital, which has provided healing to countless patients and trained hundreds of thousands of physicians over these years. Please do not immediately attribute this nightmare to the current administration. I had seen fragments of this nightmare years ago. 

It was exactly 48 years ago. I was preparing a thesis for my associate professorship on Behçet's disease, which I have been trying to learn about throughout my entire professional life. Prof. Necdet Sezer, who had been my professor and even suggested I become his assistant when I was an intern, and who was internationally recognized in the field of Behçet's disease, had established a special uveitis (inflammation of the eye vessels, which is also the most feared symptom of Behçet's disease) outpatient clinic and laboratory at Cerrahpaşa. Although the professor was retired by then, I would have been able to access very important data for my thesis if I could have reached the patient files of the clinic he founded. I was frozen when I found out. As soon as the professor retired, the clinic he founded was closed, the patient files went to unknown places, and the clinic room was converted into a cloakroom. Let me draw your attention to this, and please do not pay much attention to those who hold them responsible for everything that happens at every opportunity: the ones responsible for the disgrace I am describing were neither foreign powers nor the country's administration. These wretched people were the ones at Cerrahpaşa who lacked a sense of belonging. 

Over the years, I have always observed this lack of a sense of belonging. With my promotion to associate professor at Cerrahpaşa in 1978, we moved into a brand-new Internal Medicine building within a year. Until I became the head of my clinic in 2003, this building did not have fire escapes. I wrote a short piece a few years ago about the tragicomic story of the struggle I had with the same wretched people, not just to get the stairs built, but to convince them of their necessity: 'Sana Ne Lan, dedi' (He said, 'What's it to you?'), Nobel Yayınları- 2022. I learned with sadness that this building is also to be demolished at the first opportunity. If I find a chance, I will definitely ask those who will rebuild the building: “Did you plan for fire escapes?” I fear that improving the place where one is, is not, unfortunately, a characteristic of my country's people.   

Exactly half a century ago, in order to go to the University of Nebraska, where I had applied for specialization, I was interviewed at the famous Veterans hospital in New Jersey. The interview took place in a trailer where the laboratory of a then-famous liver specialist was also located. At one point, I toured the main building and was amazed by its huge, packed library. Years passed. This time, I visited the famous Radcliffe Infirmary at Oxford University. This hospital building was built and opened for use in 1770—you read that right!—and it was still functional. Yes, just like what I saw in New Jersey, there were trailers in the garden, and a few more buildings had been added to the garden over time, but the main building was rock solid. I toured the building with envy, or rather, with direct jealousy, and I felt like I understood it immediately. No one had the power to touch this structure, which had identified itself with the contributions of those who worked inside it to medical science for centuries. A patient entering through its doors felt a little more protected, and a young doctor who started working here tried to be worthy of this place in the most direct way. 

The main opposition party has published its current draft party program. A new constitution might also be just around the corner. As for me, I cannot get our lack of a sense of belonging out of my mind. Do not drive us crazy, and do not say, “We will put this in the constitution if necessary.”