Advising Dr. Moshref
One fall morning in 1986, a serious young man with a square jaw and heavy brow—a man of extraordinary purpose—arrived without warning at the office of David Tate (M’70, MS EDU’80), director of Purdue’s highly competitive Medical Laboratory Sciences program.
“There was this intensity that just oozed from every pore,” Tate says.
To make sure his advisees felt comfortable, Tate rarely used the overhead lights; instead, he installed a series of table lamps and often tuned his radio to the campus NPR station, which aired classical music throughout the day. He kept a clean desk and lined the walls with books and pictures of his family, aiming for a vibe he calls “your uncle’s cabin in the woods.”
The young man—never dropping his gaze—introduced himself as Karim Moshref (HHS’89). He said that he and his family were from Afghanistan—from Kabul, the capital city—and that he was here now, in Tate’s office, to enroll in the premed program at Purdue. He wanted to become a doctor, he said. Again. Tate flipped through Moshref’s file as they spoke, astonished by what he had already accomplished—a seven-year medical degree from Kabul Medical University, four years of practice with various groups in Pakistan—and dreading the conversation soon to follow. Despite his credentials, Moshref’s CV was virtually useless in the United States. Nothing would transfer.
“When I looked at that, it broke my heart,” Tate says.
But Moshref himself was unflappable, rigid in his seat, deliberate in his every word. He wasn’t fishing for pity or favors. He was simply ready to move forward. To start again. Tate would often ease students into the program, sign them up for a few classes and test their appetite for the rigors of the program.
“But with Karim, I didn’t even try to talk him out of it,” he says. “We sat down and plotted it out, and I’ll tell you, it makes me nauseous—I felt totally helpless. I just felt absolutely, totally helpless.”
And Tate didn’t know the half of it.
