Nurana Alekseeva

I am a doctor living in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. Every day I walk into my clinic, smile at the receptionist, greet my colleagues, and go about my duties as a gynecologist. But behind the sterile walls of one small, windowless room, I live a second life. For the past two years, I’ve been performing illegal abortions.

I’m 38. When I studied medicine in the US, I believed I’d return home and open doors for women here. I came back because I felt I owed it to them—to the countless women who never had the freedom I did. What I hadn’t fully understood back then was how heavy that responsibility would feel.

The women who come to me are usually afraid to even make eye contact at first. Some are very young. Others are married, but their husbands are violent or absent. A few have been raped—by strangers, by relatives. The state offers no protection, no compassion. Abortion is nearly impossible to access through official channels. Left without options, they swallow bleach, insert sharp objects, or simply beg me to do what no one else will.

I’ve tried to say no before. I once sent a girl away, convinced I had to protect my license, my career. She returned a week later with a high fever and internal bleeding. I saved her life, but barely. That moment stays with me. It told me what kind of doctor I truly wanted to be.

What I do is illegal, yes. But for me, it’s not a question of law—it’s a question of conscience. I keep my head down, don’t tell my family, keep records locked away. I pray every day that no one reports me. But even if they do, I won’t stop. If they take away my license, they take it. I didn’t become a doctor to be safe. I became a doctor to help.