I would like to think that I’ve always had a grasp on the concept of racism, having been both a bystander, and on the receiving end of it. I have always made an effort to stay informed, but informed is not the same as invested.

The past few days have left me outraged, angry and overwhelmed; the manifestation of grief for a man I will never know. I am suddenly struck by an entirely abstract concept. How is it that we have formed a society where a person can be murdered, in broad daylight, by the very people who are meant to protect him? How is it that a lion can be safely captured and transported, but a human cannot?

Why is it even happening? How have we developed a concept of justice to be so unjust? How can an innocent man have his future taken from him, purely for looking a certain way?

I wish I had the answers to all of these questions, but I don’t. Instead I have to stand and watch, the way those bystanders did. I have to use my words, even though words just don’t feel good enough, because they aren’t working.

I remember somebody once telling me that if I wasn’t acutely aware of white privilege, then I was part of the problem. I struggled to understand this at first – I was upset, as I had always tried to treat people with respect, regardless of their race. However, I think I am finally beginning to understand; if we turn away from the horrors of our world en masse, then nobody will be there to address them.

The sad truth is that we need people of all races to combat this horrible threat. We need to utilise the very problem of race distinction to form a solution – to show that we stand as one, regardless of our faces or where we come from.

White privilege is not just a concept created to appease social correctness. It doesn’t matter what you choose to call it. White privilege is not fearing for your life when you leave your house. White privilege is knowing that a police officer wouldn’t compress your airway with his knee because of the colour of your skin.

It’s no use just being informed anymore. If it’s not alarming, if you’re not outraged, if you’re not willing to challenge these concepts or do something about them: you’re not paying attention.

Recently, I have found myself drawn to reading the obituaries at the back of the British Medical Journal. I’m not exactly sure why this is, but something about it feels important. It feels like a paramount final act, acknowledging the fifteen faces printed in the magazine.

Initially, I thought I was reading them as a force of habit, rather than as a result of any emotional attachment to these strangers. However, the journal had barely made it into my house this morning when I decided it should be opened as a matter of urgency.

I stared at the faces today – many of them sadly predictable. Retired physicians, however valuable, succumbing to long standing illnesses. Perhaps I am flawed for this trait, but I digest expected deaths rather easily, particularly in elderly people. I very much believe in the rationale of a good death versus a lengthened end-of-life.

Having said that, the fallible human in me struggles to apply this logic to unexpected deaths, or deaths that leave devastating holes in the lives of others. Deaths that leave the living alone, deaths that shatter families, deaths that leave holes in children’s hearts. I struggle to process these.

I found one obituary particularly hard to read, and that was of a surgeon, born the same year as my mother, who had died of cancer and left two teenagers behind. It is one of those tragic stories that makes absolutely no sense, and it hits home, because so many of the features are parallel with my own life.

The truth is, sometimes being a medic makes us feel invincible. Sometimes we are lured into the false sense of security that we can see the beasts coming, because we have spent years learning to look for them. This is not true. The cruel irony is that breast surgeons can still get breast cancer, and paediatricians can still lose their children.

These obituaries make me remember why I became a doctor, but they also remind me to keep living; I think that is a wonderful, generous, and selfless parting gift from individuals who spent most of their lives giving to others.

If I am being honest, I don’t always live my life to its maximum potential. Whilst I am cautious to not over-emphasise a concept that is difficult to maintain, I am so very grateful to be alive, and as long as I make the most of my years, perhaps a smiling photograph of me will be shared one day, remembering the life I once lived.