The rape and murder of Kolkata physician Moumita Debnath sparked worldwide outrage.
Debnath had just finished a 36-hour shift at RG Kar Medical College and Hospital and, as there was no call room available for resident physicians at the hospital, sought a few moments’ respite in a seminar room.
On August 9, Debnath’s semi-nude body was discovered in that room. She was bleeding from her eyes, mouth, and genitals. An autopsy revealed that she had been violently raped and strangled.
In an apparent attempt to conceal the crime, the principal of the college, orthopedic surgeon Sandip Ghosh, allegedly declared Debnath’s death a suicide. Debnath’s father expressed concerns that the hospital delayed the investigation and alleged that the Kolkata police tried to bribe his family not to file an official report.
On-the-Ground Reports
For insights into this horrifying case, the situation on the ground, and to learn more about the physician culture in India, I spoke with Vinay Aggarwal, MBBS, former president of the Indian Medical Association and current chairman of its Action Committee.
Aggarwal denounced the Kolkata police’s ostensible complicity with the cover-up, alleging that they hurriedly and inexplicably took Debnath’s body for cremation and engaged in evidence-tampering: “They ransacked the crime scene at the medical college. Ghosh claimed it was a scheduled renovation. I suspect they were removing evidence. They have arrested one person, Sanjay Roy [a civic Kolkata police volunteer]. But we do not believe all the culprits have been arrested. It is believed in the community that students from influential families are involved with the rape.”
The violent crime and alleged corruption within hospital leadership and law enforcement provoked widespread fury in India. Ghosh resigned, but maintained his innocence and claimed defamation. He was hired as the principal of another medical college hours later.
This gross injustice — the fact that a male physician could advance his career despite demonstrably poor leadership after a woman’s rape and murder on his campus and significant allegations of misconduct — incited further protests.
“There are still many questions. The medical profession in Bengal is enraged,” Aggarwal said.
While I and my female Indian-American colleagues in medicine had strong emotions about Debnath’s murder, none of us were surprised. Although we live in this country, we feel the pain of our community in India.
“I felt the usual feelings: anger and resignation,” general surgeon Mohini Dasari, MD, MS, told me. “Despite all the advocacy in the world, this keeps happening. There is a piece of me that feels resigned to the idea that some of this will never change.”
“Obviously I was horrified,” said Aditi Misra, MD, PhD, an internal medicine resident, “but not shocked. I thought, ‘Oh, this again?'”
A Long History
Debnath’s murder evokes another case of sexual violence in medicine: the 1973 rape of Aruna Shanbaug. The young nurse was sodomized and strangled at a Mumbai hospital and remained in a vegetative state for over 4 decades until her death. The perpetrator was charged with robbery and attempted murder, but never charged with rape.
Stories like these are commonplace for Indian women in medicine. And unfortunately, we in the Indian community have not yet reached a point where we can openly discuss sexual violence.
Kanksha Buch, a recent college graduate currently applying to medical school, said to me: “It’s incredibly taboo — my dad and male relatives recognize it, but they’re uncomfortable. They just don’t have the words to talk about it, so the solution is, ‘Overprotect your daughters.’ A major reason we don’t talk about it is shame — if you’ve been mistreated sexually, you’re labeled damaged goods. We need to be able to have conversations about it as a first step.”
Abuse of women is a cruel reality in which we were raised. Most women in our community, including those in medicine such as myself, have a story of male violence.
“Sexual violence is an expectation. It’s not reprimanded, women are expected to take it. The conversations focus on the man’s future, and we don’t even use the word ‘rape,'” says internal medicine resident, Neha Narayan, MD. “No one asks if the women are okay. I wish it were different.”
But sexual violence in medicine is not a uniquely Indian phenomenon. Institutional betrayal of women in medicine who report abuse or sexual misconduct commonly occurs in the U.S. too. One Indian female physician who practices in the U.S. and declined to be identified, fearing retaliation, reported a male classmate in medical school for sexual harassment: “[The medical school administration] treated me like I was the problem, so I just stopped saying anything,” she told me. “I didn’t want issues for residency, so I shut up.”
Shaming Those Who Speak Up
I’ve alluded to my own experience reporting a male peer’s similar behavior; my then-institution chastised me: “If you are communicating about his prior activities and it impedes his ability to continue his education or to [be employed], that could be problematic.”
I was incredulous. How could they possibly be more concerned that I’m talking about his sexual misconduct than they are about the fact that he willfully engaged in it? Why must women be harmed to protect this man’s reputation?
We even resist talking about it, despite our lofty principles. After I shared my experience, many physicians were supportive, but some were surprisingly angry, claiming I was “painting all men with the same brush,” merely by telling my story. Forbidding free discussion allows sexual misconduct to proliferate unchecked in medicine.
Dasari reported a surgeon’s inappropriate behavior and misogynistic attitude during residency and consequently faced professional retaliation: “Another woman witnessed it too. The chair told us to assume good intent, saying, ‘He probably didn’t mean it.’ The process wasn’t confidential, though we were loosely assured it would be. The surgeon retaliated by telling colleagues I was a pathological liar who shouldn’t be trusted with patient care.”
When she wrote about her experience, a male surgeon responded, “Calm down, or face the consequences,” as though Dasari deserved retaliation for simply sharing the facts.
Sexual violence does not exist in a vacuum — it arises from these attitudes. Yet, medical culture still avoids confronting misogyny, often dismissing it as “just words” or “freedom of expression,” lambasting reporters as “oversensitive,” and punishing women for coming forward.
Women in medicine are not “woke,” “hypersensitive,” or “vindictive misandrists” for calling attention to misogyny and identifying perpetrators. Violence against women is unacceptable and evading an honest conversation about it for men’s comfort is disrespectful. My community shows how failure to acknowledge sexual violence allows it to become a reality around which women must shape their lives. We should neither be expected to endure it nor vilified for resisting it at work.
Cultural patriarchy and shame in India, indignant opposition in America, and institutional betrayal in both countries collectively silence Indian women in medicine and perpetuate sexual violence in the hospital.
We cannot sincerely confront this issue if we’re not honest about it.
It is with immense thanks and gratitude to the following women that I write this article: Aditi Misra, MD, PhD, Mohini Dasari, MD, MS, Kanksha Buch, and Neha Narayan, MD. Buch created the cover art at the beginning of this article; her art was inspired by Indian classical dance embodying the graceful, feminine, yet resilient and passionate spirit of women.
Chloe Nazra Lee, MD, MPH, is a resident physician in the Department of Psychiatry at the University of Rochester Medical Center in New York.
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