Dr. Haidar Al-Hakim

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵… 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

I wrote Physician on Fire in the in-between spaces…
after long days, heavy thoughts, and that silent question many of us carry:
“Is this it… or is there more to this life?”

And now… I’ve just been told it’s been reprinted. 🌹

And that it’s found a home inside Zwain Library Café. 🌷

I haven’t seen it on the shelf just yet…
but even hearing that—it landed with significance. ❤️

Because this isn’t just any place.

I took my wife and my two teenage daughters there on day two of the opening…
and they were genuinely impressed (which says a lot 😄).

There’s something about it.

🌷The calm. The intention. The feeling that you can sit, think… and breathe again.

Dr mohammad zwain … truly, respect 💐🤲

This is not just a café. Not just a library.

💯This is vision.
💯This is courage.
💯This is someone investing in minds, not just buildings.

💯Najaf needed this. More than we realise.

And as for the book…

It was never about selling copies.
It was about making sense of burnout… of losing yourself in medicine…
and slowly, painfully, finding your way back.

✅If it reaches one doctor… one student…
then it’s worth it ✅

Next month, inshaAllah:
📍 Book launch
📍 Talk
📍 Workshop
Real conversations. No filters. No pretending.

If you’re in Najaf or somewhere closeish … come by.

Even if it’s just for the coffee ☕

😘And soon, inshaAllah… I’ll finally see that book sitting there myself.

And Dr mohammad zwain —again, hats off 😍🌹🤲
You’ve built something special.

DoctorsJourney Iraq HealingTheHealers

⚠️ 𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐭.

𝐈𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝.
𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝.
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐞.

There is a strange theatre to public life in Iraq.

You walk into a café, and before the coffee arrives, the smoke does. 😣

You sit in a restaurant, and your meal marinates gently in to***co fog. 😶

You open the door of a taxi, and it’s less “transport” and more “mobile ashtray.”🤢

You go to a park for fresh air — and discover fresh air was never invited.🤮

And the hookah… glowing proudly, like a ceremonial fire we refuse to extinguish. 🤢

We complain about pollution.
We curse the dust.
We blame generators, traffic, the air itself.
Then we light a cigarette.
It’s almost poetic — if it weren’t so absurd. 🤢

The air in public spaces does not belong to one pair of lungs.
It is shared.
Borrowed.
Mutual.

Yet somehow, one person’s habit becomes everyone’s atmosphere.

And when the cigarette dies?
A flick.
A drop.
A casual little arc through the air.
Cigarette butts scattered like confetti.

Plastic bottles launched like beanbags.

Coffee cups abandoned like temporary art installations.
The street becomes the bin.
The pavement becomes the ashtray. 😣

We talk about building a better Iraq.
Modern hospitals.
Advanced universities.
Global respect.

But development begins with something painfully simple:

❌Don’t poison shared air.
❌Don’t throw rubbish on the ground.

This isn’t moral superiority.
It’s basic courtesy.

I’m not anti-people.
I’m anti-indifference.

Because what frustrates me isn’t the smoke alone — it’s the normalisation of it.
The shrug.
The “this is how it is.”

It doesn’t have to be.
Culture is not fixed.
It’s shaped by what we tolerate.

🎅Maybe I’ve become that slightly grumpy man who occasionally asks someone not to smoke near families. So be it.

If caring about clean air makes me grumpy, I’ll wear it proudly.🦸

Breathing should not require negotiation.

Rant complete. 🌹

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.

𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞.

🌷At MOCAT5, I arrived with intention — and left with perspective.

🌺Not everything needs a stage to be meaningful. Some things simply need presence.

What stayed with me was the human texture of it all.

A brief, warm exchange with Pro Zaid Shukur — simple pleasantries, unforced, respectful.

A quick in-person hello with Ammar Issa — busy halls, passing moments, the kind that still say we’re part of the same story.

🎊And then there was the younger generation.

-Bright eyes.
-Easy laughter.
-Serious ambition.
-Curious, confident, unafraid to enjoy the moment.

🎊We joked, talked, tried things — even handling Zeus staff with the young doctors, laughing as we tried to use it 🔱

💐The venue was beautiful.
💐The stalls were alive.
💐The energy had pulse.

Unexpectedly, it felt more like home than many conferences I’ve attended abroad.

My sincere thanks to the organising committee for a wonderful event, with special appreciation to Essam Al Rubaye for the welcome and efforts behind it.

🎉 in is not standing still.

🎉It’s gathering momentum — technically, intellectually, and humanly.

Events like this don’t just share knowledge; they restore belief.

👁️This was my first ophthalmology conference in a while 😂

And it reminded me of something essential:
👁️Growth doesn’t happen where it’s comfortable.
👁️It happens when you show up.

👉So if you’re hesitating — go.

👉If you’re unsure — step in anyway.

👉And if you’ve never been to Iraq, let this be your invitation.

👉Come where science meets soul.
Where learning spills beyond lecture halls.
Where food, laughter, and conversation stay with you long after the lights dim.

🎉Some places don’t just host conferences.

🎊They remind you why you chose this life — and why it’s still worth choosing.

17 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 1988 — 𝐊𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐦.

𝘈 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘴,
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 — 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 — 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦.

Today, we remember the martyrdom of 𝐒𝐚𝐲𝐲𝐢𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐞𝐡𝐝𝐢 𝐌𝐮𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐥-𝐇𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐦.

He did not seek power.
He carried responsibility.

He did not shout.
He spoke — and people listened.

An ambassador for freedom, dignity, and equity, he stood against the brutality of Saddam’s regime when standing meant risking everything. Courage over comfort. Principle over safety. Truth over silence.

🖤 He was fearless.
🖤Charismatic.
🖤A great orator and a natural leader.

💚Yet what stays with me most — even now — was his humility.

Despite the crowds.
Despite the danger.
Despite his stature.

He met everyone the same way: open, grounded, deeply human. No distance. No performance. Just sincerity.

My father, Dr Abdul Wahab Al-Hakim, was his personal secretary.

🖤That night, bullets tore through him — and he survived.

🖤A body wounded, a witness spared.
🖤Life clinging on so memory could be carried forward.

Sayyid Mohammed Mehdi Al-Hakim was a father in every sense of the word —
to his family,
to many Iraqis,
and to countless others across the world, especially in London, who found in him reassurance, direction, and hope.

💐Years pass.
💐Regimes fall.
💐History moves on.

🌹But his face, his voice, his mannerisms — his way of standing for others — live on in us.

🌹Martyrs do not vanish.
They become the moral spine of a people.

🌹They teach us, long after they are gone, how to stand when it would be easier to bow.

🖤May God, and 𝘈𝘩𝘭𝘶𝘭 𝘉𝘢𝘺𝘵 (peace be upon them), elevate your soul and your station Sayidnna 🖤🙌

🖤Your legacy is not behind us.

🖤 It walks with us.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵-𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

🎉Unwritten stories.
🎉Unworn white coats.
🎉Hearts still soft.
🎉Minds still open.

This wasn’t a lecture about anatomy or pathology.

It was a conversation about who they will become —
about professionalism, values, and the healthcare system they will one day carry on their shoulders.

And I keep coming back to one truth:
It’s never too early.

👁️Never too early to speak about integrity.
👁️Never too early to learn how words, tone, and presence can heal or harm.
👁️Never too early to understand the system you’ll work in — so you’re not shaped by it, but brave enough to shape it.

Before medicine becomes hurried.
Before empathy is tested by exhaustion.
Before doing replaces being.
Clinical skills can be sharpened later.
But character is formed quietly, early, patiently.

💭If we want a better healthcare system tomorrow,

💭we must plant its values today —
in lecture halls, in conversations, in moments like this.

💭Looking out at these faces, I felt something rare and steady:
hope.

✅Hope that this generation will question what needs questioning.

✅Improve what needs improving.

✅And lead with both skill and soul.

This is how change begins.

Not loudly.

But intentionally.
🌱

I recently ran a faculty workshop at the College of Medicine, Al-KAFEEL University in Najaf, on bridging the gap between senior staff and Gen Z students.
Same classrooms.
Same curriculum.
Very different realities.
Some faculty leaned in.
Others hesitated.
A few resisted.
And honestly — that response was the lesson.
This wasn’t about trends or opinions.
It was about how learning actually works.
Gen Z students aren’t disengaged.
They’re learning in high-information, high-interference environments.
Long, dense teaching overwhelms attention.
Memory strengthens through spacing and retrieval, not endurance.
Motivation grows with quick, specific feedback.
So when attention drifts or phones appear —
It’s rarely disrespect.
It’s usually cognitive overload, unclear signals, or different expectations.
The science is clear: Gen Z values purpose, clarity, participation, and authenticity.
They respond better to “learn with me” than “listen to me.”
Technology isn’t the enemy — it’s the environment.
They don’t need entertainment.
They need structure + engagement.
For some educators, this feels natural.
For others, it feels uncomfortable.
That’s normal.
Any idea that asks us to rethink how we teach will meet resistance — not because it’s wrong, but because it requires effort and reflection.
The bridges are simple: – change pace every 10–12 minutes
– use short, real clinical stories
– give quick, focused feedback
– end with one clear takeaway
Not a revolution.
Just intention.
We cannot change generations.
But we can build bridges with them.
And sometimes, building bridges means speaking new ideas — even when the room isn’t ready yet. Because you never know which sentence will stay, or which small shift will quietly change a classroom.
One word I’m taking into my next class:
Connection.

Today wasn’t just an orientation.

It was a beginning.

After the familiar twists and turns of Iraqi higher education, our first-year medical students finally arrived at the College of Medicine, Al-KAFEEL University. You could see it in their faces — excitement, nerves, quiet pride, and a thousand unspoken questions.

So we chose welcome before workload.

Flowers in their hands.
Sweets, cake, drinks.
A walk through the sights, the smells, the technology — and the promise of this place.

Because medicine doesn’t start with anatomy or exams.
It starts with feeling seen.
With knowing you belong here.

Soon enough, I’ll meet them again — properly — through Early Clinical & Professional Development.
Not to scare them.
Not to break them.

But to raise the bar.

To show them that being a doctor is not a costume you wear — it’s a way of thinking, speaking, listening, and standing up when it’s hard.
That world-class physicians are built early — in values, habits, humility, and purpose.

Medicine will test them.
Life will test them.
But if they learn early who they are becoming, the journey becomes meaningful — not just survivable.

Welcome to medicine.
Welcome to responsibility.
Welcome to a life that matters.

The real journey starts now. 🌱

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 —
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬.

Yesterday’s × session was one of those gentle lanterns.

I entered the room with some google slides…
but the students arrived with something far richer —
their hopes, their questions, and their quiet strength.

Suddenly the session felt less like teaching
and more like a shared moment of humanity.

This morning, a few of my Al-Kafeel students told me how the conversation stayed with them.
And that moved me deeply.
Because in a world that often pushes medicine toward survival and speed,
these young hearts are still searching for meaning, connection, and purpose.

To Zainab Hiyder — thank you for the warmth behind the invitation,
for the kindness in your messages,
and for building spaces where students can breathe a little more freely.

And to every student who joined — whether you spoke, chatted or stayed silent —
thank you.

Your presence gave the session its life, its softness, its spark.

Here’s to more moments like this —
where we pause, listen, and remember that medicine begins, and always returns, to the human heart.