In a previous post, I wrote about the Iranian healthcare system, where I introduced some general aspects. But how does it look from my perspective?
Well, as with most things in Iran, I had to learn my way around the healthcare system too—something that, unsurprisingly, didn’t happen overnight. In the beginning, back when I was still a student, the university provided us with insurance—on paper. Nobody had any idea how or where to use it.
Eventually, we found out that it could be used at a clinic affiliated with the university for certain treatments. What those treatments were, however, remained a mystery. So, we quickly gave up on it altogether.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about it for a long time. Why would I? I was 22 years old, full of energy and ambition, with a “if not me, then who?” attitude, ready to conquer Iran. And this approach worked wonderfully—until the day I got food poisoning.
At that point, Indiana Jones swiftly exited stage left, and Franz Kafka stepped in. There was something absurd about lying in bed, helpless, burning with a high fever on a pleasant spring day, just days after I’d been trekking along the Turkmen-Iranian border. With the last functioning brain cells I had, I managed to call a friend, who sent a driver to take me to a nearby clinic.
There’s a lot to say about Iranian healthcare, but calling it “patient-centered” would be a stretch. Within moments, they had me lying on a gurney that looked like it had survived World War II, drew the curtain, clenched my hand into a fist—and stuck the IV in. Since my Persian skills at the time consisted mostly of “hello” and “thank you,” I could only hope my friend had explained my symptoms correctly and hadn’t, by any chance, offered my kidney for sale.
Luckily, things didn’t get any worse—aside from the fact that I had no idea what they’d pumped into my veins. Soon enough, I was back home and feeling noticeably better. My friend, to his credit, not only arranged everything but also picked up the tab. What a gentleman!
Kafka left the stage, and Indiana Jones returned—until about six months later, when I got sick again. This time, I was smarter. I immediately called the Hungarian embassy. That’s how I got in touch with the embassy’s doctor, let’s call him Dr. Jafari, who also serves as the GP for most European embassies. He’s helpful, multilingual, and charges jaw-dropping fees for his services.
But desperate times call for desperate measures. After my last experience, I had learned that generating Kafkaesque scenarios in Iranian healthcare is a bad idea, so I went along with it. Dr. Jafari accompanied me to every appointment, handled the paperwork, translated my symptoms, and consulted with the doctors.
I soon realized, however, that the specialists he referred me to were all somehow connected to him. After every visit, not only did he pocket his fee, but he also got a little extra commission. This “success fee” didn’t sit well with me, so after my issue was resolved, I decided to avoid Dr. Jafari’s unparalleled services.
Thankfully, my Persian improved over time, and I discovered an online service called Snapp! Doctor. Thanks to my mild hypochondria, I quickly became a fan. I mainly used it for lab tests and their interpretation, but if a virus knocked me down, they were also my go-to solution. The service is available 24/7, and they’ll send a doctor or nurse to your home at any hour.
As a Hungarian, we’re familiar with the scenario: you go to the GP with flu symptoms, and they tell you, “Get some rest, drink plenty of fluids,” and maybe prescribe something over the counter. Well, in Iran, that’s not how it works. If your doctor doesn’t prescribe at least half a dozen medications—some of them prescription-only—they clearly don’t take you seriously.
So, if you call a doctor to your home in Iran, they’ll show up with an IV drip and a cocktail of injections guaranteed to get you back on your feet within a day or two. Whether it’s necessary or not is another question—or as my dear mother would say, “Why so many meds? Don’t be such a wimp!”
Over time, I shed my naive trust in Iranian medicine. In practice, this means that even when I’m half-dead, trembling with fever, I’ll still argue with the doctor about what they can and cannot give me—usually in the presence of a stunned friend. Kafka would have adored Iran.
This newfound confidence soon crossed borders. Recently, I was undergoing some cardiological tests in Hungary due to an illness. At some point, I decided to continue the process in Iran—because if anyone knows best, it’s obviously me. Tehran quickly delivered: I got an appointment at a luxury private hospital with one of the country’s most renowned cardiologists.
The hospital waiting area looked like the lobby of a five-star hotel: gleaming marble, spacious halls. But on the day of my appointment, after checking in at 9:50 a.m. for my 10:00 slot, I was still waiting at 10:30—no updates. When would it be my turn? “Soon,” they said. Finally, around noon, they started the tests, which dragged on until 2 p.m. Every step was handled by a different person, giving me plenty of time to marvel at their sloppiness and utter lack of patient-centered care.
Meanwhile, in Hungary, a thorough checkup in a public hospital, with a compassionate doctor and a two-page report, wouldn’t take more than an hour. The Iranian diagnosis? Barely anything. In terms of imaging, they managed about a quarter of what the Hungarian state-owned hospital could produce, yet I paid as much as I would have for a private consultation in Budapest. Hungary–Iran: 1–0.
And the moral of the story? Sure, the Hungarian healthcare system has its flaws, but in an international comparison, it’s not so bad. In Iran, healthcare is reminiscent of the American model: star doctors everywhere, where the smoke is often greater than the fire. I believed the grass was greener on the other side, but I was wrong. Don’t make the same mistake—whether you’re looking east or west.
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