Biology Internships Abroad

My internship with International Medical Aid (IMA) in Mombasa, Kenya provided a truly transformative experience that shaped my aspirations in medicine. The in-country support was exceptional. Every member of the IMA team—from Margaret, Benson, and Hilda to Mitchel—was kind, attentive, and incredibly knowledgeable. They didn’t just answer questions; they offered thoughtful insights grounded in deep clinical experience and cultural understanding. Their steady presence made me feel safe, supported, and at home in a place that was entirely new to me. The accommodations were comfortable and culturally immersive, allowing me to connect more deeply with the local community. The food was diverse and reflective of Kenyan cuisine, adding to the authenticity of the experience. Visiting local schools and engaging with children and staff was especially impactful; their joy, curiosity, and warmth were a powerful reminder of the importance of human connection. This journey reinforced my dedication to addressing global health inequities and making a meaningful impact through medicine. It did not just influence my career path; it left a lasting positive imprint on the communities I served—and on who I am. I have always had a desire to step out of my comfort zone and face challenges on my own, which is somewhat unusual given that I have a twin with whom I share much of my life. Despite our closeness, I’ve always felt called to explore the world independently and push myself to grow. At sixteen, I traveled alone to Quito, Ecuador, where I worked in daycares supporting children in under-resourced communities. That experience taught me a great deal about myself and my drive to help others. At twenty-two, I found myself preparing for something even more profound: a journey to Mombasa, Kenya. When I was younger, I dreamed of opening a nonprofit organization in Kenya. I would buy bracelets with the colors of the Kenyan flag, imagining the day I would wear them there. At nine years old, I wanted to be everything—mermaid, astronaut, chef, doctor, fairy, hero. As high school ended, being asked to choose one path felt unfair. I applied to universities in France and Egypt for engineering, but it never felt right. Learning about community colleges in the United States offered hope: a chance to explore different fields before committing. Taking a leap of faith, I moved to the U.S., despite my father’s concerns about the distance from Egypt. My mother—my hero—encouraged me every step of the way and taught me I could be more than one thing: a doctor, a helper, a dreamer. After a few semesters, I chose Biology and pre-medicine, but a small part of me still hesitated, unsure if I had truly found my calling. On October 8, 2023, I attended a conference at the University of California, Davis. There, I discovered International Medical Aid. Their booth introduced a program that offered hands-on hospital experience and, incredibly, the opportunity to do it in Kenya. I subscribed to their newsletter, and a few months later, I applied for the summer program in Mombasa. My father was worried about my safety, but my mother reminded me, “Do not let anything or anyone hold you back. If you cannot reach the moon, reach for the stars.” Soon after, I was on my way. I left Los Angeles on May 30, flying through Washington, D.C., and Ethiopia. In a surreal twist, I ran into a former roommate from UC Davis who, without us realizing, had applied to IMA the same way, chosen the same country, dates, and flights. We arrived together in Mombasa on June 1 and were driven to the IMA Woolsack residence in Nyali, where I met the interns and roommates who would define the next weeks of my life. My first visit to Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital was on Sunday, June 2. We met Dr. Shazim, an internal medicine physician, who gave us an orientation and assigned departments for the following day. Afterward, we toured Fort Jesus, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, with a guide who brought its history to life. The experience made me eager to learn not only medicine in Kenya, but also its culture and past. My first rotation was in Obstetrics and Gynecology. As we walked into the department, I noticed monkeys jumping around outside the windows—apparently a normal sight. Our team of six interns was split between the first floor, where vaginal births took place, and the second floor, where cesarean sections were performed under the guidance of Dr. Hirsi. One of the first things that struck me was the equipment. Instead of modern fetal monitors, providers often used a simple plastic cone to listen to fetal heartbeats, due to limited supplies and infection-control needs. I couldn’t help but compare this to Hoag Hospital in the United States, where I volunteer. The contrast in resources was stark: instruments were reused, washed, and repurposed out of necessity. My appreciation for the abundance in U.S. hospitals grew quickly. Initially, I wasn’t sure if Obstetrics and Gynecology was for me. That changed within days. For our first C-section, our group rotated in. I was nervous. One intern nearly fainted and never returned to the department. When it was our turn, I watched as the patient—on her fourth C-section—was prepared. Once anesthesia took effect, Dr. Hirsi made a small incision and then separated tissues with his hands rather than cutting through muscle. I hadn’t expected that, but later learned it is a standard technique to promote faster healing and less pain. When the baby was delivered, I cried. Witnessing life begin is indescribably powerful. In Kenya, C-sections are free at public facilities like Coast General, and once a woman has one, she usually continues with them, which influences birth patterns across different socioeconomic groups. In that first week, I saw multiple C-sections and vaginal births, as well as the difficult realities behind them. One case that stayed with me involved a mother giving birth alone. Everything happened quickly. Her placenta became retained, and only a few medical student interns were nearby. With limited staff—only about two doctors assigned per day—Kenya’s physician shortage was painfully clear. Eventually, a doctor arrived and used a technique I’d never seen to manually remove the placenta. It was intense, chaotic, and bloody. The lack of privacy, emotional support, and cleanliness was heartbreaking, yet the strength of the patients was extraordinary. By the end of the week, I was sad to leave the department. I had formed meaningful connections with nurses and doctors whose dedication I deeply admired and hope to work with again one day. My second week was in Pediatrics, divided between inpatient and outpatient. I worked closely with Clinical Officer Ken, who taught us through case after case of sepsis, tuberculosis, anemia, and malaria. While the patterns were repetitive, they reflected real epidemiology and exposed the weight of preventable illness. I preferred the inpatient ward, where I could build longer-term connections with children and families. In the mornings, Dr. Sharifa rounded thoughtfully on each patient, teaching and challenging her interns along the way. Her presence as a wise, compassionate female physician inspired me deeply. We also saw how cultural beliefs shaped care. One newborn with jaundice needed phototherapy and an NG tube, but the family hesitated. The mother believed she lacked sufficient breast milk; the father didn’t want to buy formula, which was too expensive. Traditional beliefs and financial barriers overshadowed medical recommendations. In the U.S., a psychiatric or social work consult might be standard in such a scenario. In Kenya, the extreme shortage of mental health professionals and social support systems leaves many families on their own. On my final days in Pediatrics, I met a mother who quietly asked me to adopt her three-year-old son, Imran Ramadhan. He had developed meningitis, which led to seizures and severe muscle weakness. He’d been hospitalized for weeks beyond his discharge date because his family couldn’t pay the bill. In Kenya, patients who cannot pay are sometimes detained until their balances are cleared. Leaving his room, I fought back tears. That night, I started a GoFundMe and raised over $2,000. Before I could pay the bill, I had to leave Mombasa, but I worked with IMA afterward to transfer the funds so Imran and his mother could finally go home. Since then, I’ve stayed in touch, helped them secure housing, and continued supporting his treatment. While $2,000 may not stretch far in the U.S., in Kenya it changed the trajectory of a family’s life. They have become part of mine. That experience is engraved on my heart and continues to motivate me to return one day as a physician, not just an intern. Every week, we had debriefs, simulations, and lectures with IMA, including a powerful session on Kenya’s disease burden and mental health challenges. There are roughly 100 psychiatrists in the entire country, most based in Nairobi, leaving many regions effectively without access to specialized mental healthcare. Psychiatry had always interested me; I’m often the listener among my friends, and I know firsthand how critical mental health support is. Hearing stories of loss, stigma, and limited access made the need feel urgent and personal. It strengthened my resolve to advocate for mental health, both clinically and culturally. Beyond the hospital walls, we visited schools to lead hygiene, reproductive health, and mental health education sessions. These schools lacked technology and basic supplies, yet they were full of bright, hopeful students. The children greeted us with high-fives, hugs, and unfiltered joy. Teaching them how to brush their teeth and talk about mental wellbeing felt both simple and profound—a reminder that meaningful impact can begin with small, human interactions. Throughout my time in Mombasa, I became acutely aware of all the details I had once taken for granted: adequate staffing, reliable equipment, infection-control protocols, protective gear in operating rooms, timely lab results, accessible medications. At Coast General, I saw surgeries performed with limited protective equipment and pediatric patients waiting too long for critical labs. I saw conditions like hydrocephalus and severe malnutrition tied to gaps in prenatal care and health education. I learned how cultural beliefs, systemic constraints, and economic hardship weave together to shape outcomes. Witnessing these realities strengthened my resolve to pursue medicine—specifically Psychiatry—and to one day establish a nonprofit organization supporting healthcare accessibility in Kenya. I want to stand at the intersection of clinical care, mental health advocacy, and structural change. I am profoundly grateful for my time with International Medical Aid. Coast General Hospital, the IMA team, my fellow interns, and the communities we served changed me. Stepping out of my comfort zone revealed my purpose. Waking up excited for each day in the hospital confirmed that medicine is where I belong. This journey humbled me, sharpened my awareness of my own privilege, and ignited a fire to give back. One day, I hope to return to Mombasa as a physician with the skills, resources, and team to expand critical services—much like the Italian cardiac surgeons I saw performing life-changing surgeries that were previously unavailable in the region. International Medical Aid didn’t just offer an internship; they created the space for a lifelong commitment to grow. My experience in Mombasa will guide me as I work to build a future where compassionate, equitable care is accessible to all.

My experience with International Medical Aid was outstanding. I learned so much about my personal interests in medicine and my role as a global citizen. I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity I had to visit Mombasa, Kenya, and meet such inspiring, genuine people. Thank you to the IMA staff for your constant support and guidance. You went above and beyond to welcome us and ease the transition to Kenya. The residence was beautiful and safe. I felt comfortable and reassured by the security and the organization by all management. The food was great! I greatly appreciate the kitchen staff and all of their hard work. Thank you for introducing us to Kenyan food and always greeting us with warmth and kindness. The community in Kenya was so welcoming and happy. I absolutely loved getting to know individuals at the hospital, clinics, and locals from the Mombasa area. Viviane and Aaron guided us on the safari and they were the best. I was so grateful for the pure joy and excitement they brought on the trip. Bella, Margaret, and Benson, thank you for all of your support and constant attention to detail to make sure each and every one of us had an enjoyable stay. Hilda, Naomi, and all of the housing staff, thank you for making the residence feel like home. I always felt comfortable and happy. Your friendship and kindness made a huge impact on me over the three weeks of my stay. Dr. Shazim, thank you for inspiring us to be active learners and challenge ourselves as medical students, but more importantly, as human beings. Your passion for medicine and education was refreshing. You made us all excited to learn and share about our time in the hospital. This trip was such a touching and inspiring experience. I had the opportunity to put myself in uncomfortable or foreign situations, inside and outside of the hospital, pushing myself to handle each situation with grace and gratitude. I learned so much about the socioeconomic challenges that impact the Mombasa community and healthcare system. I also learned so much about medicine from the inspiring healthcare professionals at Coast General, and I am so grateful for the time I had to grow and expand my medical knowledge. The environment and culture in Kenya warmed my heart. Everyone is kind and eager to learn and love one another. I felt this welcoming energy and will carry it with me in my future medical plans. Asante Sana. Moments after observing a cesarean section for the first time, I turned the corner to the maternity ward and heard a woman screaming. I rushed to her bedside, hoping I might witness a vaginal birth, but the air in the maternity ward was thick and tense. A young woman named Brenda had been in labor for nearly 24 hours. Exhausted and agonized, she rolled in her bed and attempted to find a comfortable position. As I stood beside her, silently watching her struggle, I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. My medical knowledge was limited, and there was little I could do to ease her suffering; but what I lacked in experience, I made up for in persistent dedication to help this person in need. Unfortunately, medical intervention could not relieve the natural progression of childbirth; Brenda needed comfort and companionship. Holding her hand and rubbing her back, I stayed with her and assured her that she was not alone. This moment stuck with me, as I learned that true patient care supersedes clinical procedures. I had an opportunity to provide comfort, a calm presence in the overwhelm of pain and fear, and support in a vulnerable and painful situation. This lesson shaped my experience in Mombasa, Kenya. From the bustling clinics where we treated hundreds of patients to the quiet moments of reflection in between, I realized that true healing requires more than just medical knowledge. It requires empathy, connection, and a deep understanding of the cultural and emotional contexts that shape people’s lives. Prior to this trip, I was accustomed to sterile, orderly spaces with private rooms, abundant supplies, and high-tech equipment. However, the atmosphere at Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital is starkly different. The hospital is constantly overcrowded—corridors are packed with patients, loved ones asleep on the concrete outside, doctors rushing from bed to bed, and students following closely and silently. Private spaces are nonexistent. Gloves and masks, taken for granted in many other healthcare settings, are used sparingly. The lack of clean drinking water limits the ability to attend to patients’ most basic necessities. While the sight of lizards crawling on the walls and cats roaming freely through the hospital was initially jarring, this was a daily reality. Unwelcome bugs invade sterile spaces, intensifying an ongoing battle against infection. My experience at Coast General exposed not only the logistical difficulties but also the emotional and psychological toll on both patients and healthcare workers. The lack of privacy, the constant threat of infection, and the visible signs of resource scarcity paint a vivid picture of the harsh, demanding realities faced in these settings. Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, everyone in the hospital united, responding with resilience and resourcefulness. Where resources are lacking, the human spirit fills the void, and people overcome the limitations of medicine with the art of human connection. During one overnight shift in the maternity ward, a nurse asked me to grab a condom from one of the free bins in the hospital. Confused and sleep-deprived, I delivered the condom to a surgeon repairing a woman’s uterine hemorrhage. The patient had pushed through labor prematurely and was rushed to emergency surgery. Without a traditional uterine balloon tamponade (UBT), the surgeon responded creatively and efficiently. I watched as the doctor quickly created a makeshift UBT, inserting a catheter into a condom. She filled it with saline to apply pressure and stop the uterine hemorrhage. Despite unexpected challenges and limited resources, her resilience and inventiveness saved a young woman’s life. The staff are innovative and resourceful, constantly finding new ways to provide care in the face of adversity. I noticed cut-up cardboard boxes folded into makeshift file cabinets, just one example of the resourcefulness of the Kenyan people. These observations stand in direct contrast to the extreme wastefulness I have witnessed in the United States, where resources are disposable and easily replenished. The resilience and ingenuity of these healthcare professionals deepened my respect for everyone working in low-resource environments. In less optimal operative conditions, doctors and nurses maintain a delicate balance between rationing resources and prioritizing sterility in the hospital. This experience rejuvenated me during a long night shift and opened my tired eyes to the importance of flexibility, quick thinking, and problem-solving in medicine. It underscored the urgency of patient care, demonstrating how nurses and doctors sacrifice their time to address individual needs. Their consistent composure and compassion, in such trying conditions, inspired me. I left Mombasa with a newfound appreciation for the luxury of abundant resources and a sterile environment but, more importantly, with profound gratitude for models of resilience, adaptability, and unwavering commitment to healthcare. As part of the public health services sector, Coast General serves as an interventive facility, “providing the most accessible and affordable care for populations in Kenya” (The Current State of Healthcare in Kenya, 2024). The majority of the population cannot afford private hospitals or preventative care, so they go to this hospital exclusively for interventions. Anyone can be seen if they pay the minimal registration fee of only $5, as all additional expenses are handled after the patient is cared for. This method of care is drastically different from hospitals in the U.S., in which most medical consultations include a discussion about insurance policies or expenses. While Coast General remains one of the most accessible hospitals, there is an overwhelming ratio of patients to staff and an uneven distribution of resources compared to private settings. Unfortunately, “lower standards of care when compared to the private sector result in poorer patient outcomes and higher incidences of hospital-acquired infections” (The Current State of Healthcare in Kenya, 2024). This high risk of infection threatens all patients and healthcare providers. With no private rooms, individuals are disproportionately exposed to communicable diseases, and the open layout of the hospital exposes patients to animals or toxins from the outside. Because patients typically visit Coast General for intervention rather than routine health maintenance, they are at risk for long-term health complications. By the time they seek medical attention, their conditions have often progressed to severe stages, resulting in higher mortality rates and requiring more complicated treatments. This pattern highlights a critical gap in the healthcare system: the lack of preventative care. Without regular health checkups and screenings, the risk of acquiring non-communicable diseases (NCDs) significantly increases as well. Conditions such as “cardiovascular diseases, cancers, diabetes, and chronic obstructive pulmonary diseases are especially prevalent” (Disease Burden in Kenya, 2024). Unsurprisingly, these “NCDs account for 27% of the total deaths and over 50% of hospital admissions in Kenya” (Kenya NCD Report, 2015). As a result, the hospital is often a last resort, and many patients arrive when their illnesses are life-threatening, overwhelming an already under-resourced system. To mitigate this national issue, International Medical Aid hosts clinics, organizing multiple stations to simulate a comprehensive medical visit. During one of these clinics, hundreds of locals arrived to receive general testing, including BMI, blood glucose, and blood pressure. Afterward, they received individual consultations with local doctors and acquired appropriate medications from the pharmacy. This health clinic was incredibly moving—the overwhelming turnout of families, spanning multiple generations, reminded me how important these resources are in the local community. Moreover, the health outcomes I observed were concerning. I encountered patients with glucose levels as high as 28 mmol/L and blood pressure readings reaching 220/130, underscoring the dire consequences of insufficient preventative care. In a better-resourced healthcare system, these issues could have been identified and managed earlier, reducing the need for emergency interventions and improving overall outcomes. Preventative care is essential to mitigating long-term health risks, yet it remains inaccessible to the majority of the Kenyan population due to resource limitations and the overwhelming demand for emergency care. Therefore, lack of support for preventative healthcare not only burdens the public sector of the healthcare system but also contributes to the cycle of poor health outcomes. It is critical to bridge this gap by promoting regular health maintenance and providing adequate resources for prevention to improve the population's health and ease the strain on hospitals like Coast General. In addition to the public and private sectors, faith-based organizations (FBOs), supported by religious groups, contribute significantly to Kenya’s healthcare system. In fact, “30% of healthcare in Kenya is provided by The Christian Health Association of Kenya (CHAK) and the Kenya Conference of Catholic Bishops,” reflecting the widespread impact of spirituality on Kenyan culture (The Current State of Healthcare in Kenya, 2024). With smaller patient populations and a dual focus on prevention and treatment, FBOs incorporate religious teachings, offering both physical and emotional healing. While the public health sector and faith-based organizations are distinct in development, structure, and focus, faith and spirituality still significantly impact public healthcare. Healthcare workers and patients alike turn to religious practices or prayer in moments of need. Thus, faith transcends the boundaries that separate sectors of the healthcare system, connecting all providers under a universal goal of relieving pain and supporting the broader Kenyan community. In this strongly religious city, Coast General bridges the gap between medical intervention and cultural values. The hospital illustrates how, even in secular settings, faith is a consistent force for both patients and providers. Throughout my time, I observed religious influences on healthcare initiatives, inspiring unity and resilience and underscoring the necessity of culturally sensitive care. In the Women’s Health Clinic, for instance, we discussed menstrual hygiene and the female reproductive system. Many young women were shocked and visibly uncomfortable when we demonstrated the function of tampons because their religious beliefs rebuke inserting anything into the vagina before marriage. Additionally, tampons are foreign and unfamiliar to this population, so it is reasonable that the women responded with such hesitation. As a result, we shifted our presentation, approaching the topic of tampons and sexual intercourse with greater sensitivity and understanding. We created a safe space for vulnerable conversations, where the women could ask questions not only about menstrual hygiene but also about their bodies, relationships, and beliefs. This clinic revealed the importance of cultural awareness, taught us how to lead a discussion with transparency and respect, and reinforced the value of acknowledging religious foundations while still providing critical health information. Just as religious and cultural beliefs influence the way women approach menstrual health, these values impact more life-threatening conditions, such as Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV). While speaking with the young women about menstrual resources, we avoided conversations about contraceptives and intercourse. This education gap shocked me, especially when I recalled my own sexual health education, which included conversations about intercourse and emphasized the importance of contraceptives. In Kenya, where the HIV burden is severe, this lack of comprehensive sexual education was alarming. In Mombasa specifically, HIV prevalence is “1.2 times higher than the national rate, standing at 7.5%,” and young women face a disproportionately higher risk (Kenya HIV Estimates, 2015). Due to religious and cultural pressures, young adults rarely receive education on safe sex practices. This lack of awareness fosters guilt and anxiety, perpetuating a cycle of fear and social stigmatization surrounding HIV. Deeply rooted in religious beliefs, the stigma further exacerbates the HIV epidemic, as individuals struggle to reconcile their faith with the reality of their health needs. Without education that challenges these harmful stigmas, the crisis continues to grow unchecked. In one particularly heartbreaking case, a mother brought her one-year-old child to the emergency room. The boy presented with severe malnutrition and suffered from gastritis, pneumonia, and oral thrush—symptoms indicative of late-stage Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (AIDS). Dr. Priyanka, the consultant, gently inquired whether the mother was on HIV treatment. The young mother averted her gaze and remained silent, ashamed to admit her status. With downcast eyes, she acknowledged that she birthed her son naturally and had been breastfeeding him, unknowingly increasing his risk of contracting the virus. As we learned from Dr. Shazim, there is a 10% risk of contracting HIV in utero, a 10% risk from the birth canal, and an additional 10% risk from breastfeeding (Dr. Shazim, 2024). Despite her child’s deteriorating condition, her silence made it difficult for the medical team to intervene appropriately. This case was not unique—many patients are burdened by the social stigma surrounding HIV, so they avoid acknowledging their diagnosis out of fear of rejection by their community or family. The intersection of faith and healthcare further complicates this issue, as some patients delay or refuse life-saving treatment due to deeply ingrained beliefs. Alternatively, we learned that some patients visit faith-based organizations as a substitute for modern medication. With a virus such as HIV, however, hypnotherapeutic or purely spiritual remedies are ineffective and leave the patient with a false sense of a cure (The Current State of Healthcare in Kenya, 2024). Navigating these challenges requires a delicate balance of empathy and respect. Although it was painful to witness patients deny themselves treatment, I learned to honor their values while striving to provide compassionate and culturally sensitive care. While faith can, at times, pose an obstacle to treatment, it also serves as a source of strength for patients and healthcare workers. In one instance, I assisted a nurse in the pediatric emergency unit with a young baby who urgently needed an IV placed. The boy was poked and prodded—nearly 30 times—each attempt unsuccessful. The mother remained calm while holding her screaming, squirming child, her quiet resolve contrasted with the growing tension in the room. My heart raced, while one nurse switched out for another, hopeful that a new set of hands might do the trick. Thirty minutes passed—still no luck. Focused, yet frustrated, the nurse looked at me and whispered, “I’m not sure who or what you believe in, but start praying.” Gently resting my hand on the baby’s head, I closed my eyes and prayed silently for a miracle. Moving from the child’s small feet to his jugular vein and finally to a scalp vein, we made one last attempt. Moments later, the IV was successfully in place. A palpable sense of relief washed over the room. The moment resonated with me, strengthening my conviction in the healing power of faith, especially during the most difficult days in the hospital. This experience underscored the profound intersection of faith and medicine—two forces that, in times of great stress, collaborate to provide comfort and hope. As a student, I felt powerless and underprepared, with little to offer beyond emotional support and a calm presence. However, these experiences with faith taught me a vital lesson about the true responsibility of a medical provider—not just to heal, but to support, aid, and comfort. Although faith and healthcare are intricately linked in Kenya, the strength of these cultural values extends far beyond the hospital walls. Immediately upon arriving, I recognized the interconnectedness that weaves the entire community. Peering out the bus window, I frequently saw locals smile and wave with curiosity and a general sense of welcome. They do not lead with judgment or criticism, but rather with a desire to understand and love. I will never forget a conversation I had with two nurses in the surgical ICU. At around 2 a.m. during an overnight shift, the hospital slept. I sat with a patient in the ICU who had Tetralogy of Fallot (TOF). He was recovering from open-heart surgery three days prior. That night, I was given a unique gift: an opportunity to share my perspective on a highly controversial topic. The nurses wanted to know me; they took an interest in my belief system. We did not argue over our differing opinions; instead, we laughed as we shared opposing viewpoints. In this unique interaction, we bonded over our differences. I appreciate those two nurses for their open curiosity and transparency. They are exemplary of the accepting and inquisitive Kenyan community, and I will carry this open-mindedness with me in my future career. At Coast General, an individual’s health is a collective responsibility. Relationships are at the heart of daily life, and the sense of community is as important to survival as any medical intervention. This communal mindset stands in contrast to the more individualistic, fast-paced culture I am accustomed to. I feel a profound sense of gratitude for the opportunity to meet such selfless, caring individuals. The Mombasa community made me feel welcome and appreciated, from the kind smiles of the IMA staff to the warm hugs from children at the hygiene clinics. Overall, this trip reminded me that friendship and community are invaluable in every area of my life. I witnessed this firsthand when we visited the Maasai community, where the community is the foundation of survival and success. The Maasai live by an unspoken code of selflessness, each member playing a vital role in upholding the tribe’s wellbeing. Watching them work together was awe-inspiring. One of the most striking moments was witnessing the Maasai men come together to build a fire—a process that requires collaboration, patience, and teamwork. The same spirit of unity is carried through every aspect of their lives, from the boys who hunt a wild lion as a rite of passage to the interactive dance ceremonies that welcome guests into their community. The men protect the land and lead their families, building homes that, after nine months of labor, remain for nearly a decade. The women are quiet yet resilient. They nurture their children, prepare meals for the family, and craft intricate handmade jewelry. The cattle, sheltered in the heart of the village, provide milk and resources in return for protection. Even the dogs have a critical function in guarding the community. The Maasai convey how survival is most successful when the tribe works as one—when each individual commits to the shared goal of protecting and sustaining their people. This sense of community mirrored the relationships I built in Mombasa. Whether during night shifts in the hospital, long debriefs after an intense day, or quiet moments on early-morning bus rides, my peers met me with patience and grace. Just like the Maasai community, we formed a tight-knit family of interns, doctors, and nurses—each of us supporting one another through the chaotic and often overwhelming demands of the hospital. International Medical Aid fosters this supportive and positive community. The interns and staff cultivate a collaborative and culturally immersive environment. This program aims to inspire prospective healthcare workers, encouraging self-awareness and reflection. The weekly clinics, lectures, and group discussions are a testament to IMA’s effort to promote compassion, respect, and humility. I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to work alongside such dedicated and selfless individuals. The bonds we formed, built upon shared values of loyalty and a genuine passion for healthcare, reminded me that medicine is not a solitary pursuit. It requires a collective effort—a team of individuals willing to sacrifice their comfort for the betterment of the patient and the entire community. This experience reaffirmed that the healthcare community is a tribe, driven by a deep responsibility to those we serve. As I continue my journey toward becoming a doctor, I carry the lessons learned from the Maasai community, the greater Kenyan community, and the relationships I formed with my fellow interns and future healthcare professionals. I plan to apply these tools and continue my path to medicine with awareness and intentionality, because individual success depends on our ability to work together and remain loyal to our patients, to each other, and to the shared goal of healing.