6 min readJun 15, 2026 02:04 PM IST
First published on: Jun 15, 2026 at 12:15 PM IST
The first anatomy riots in America started in New York in 1788. A medical student, trying to scare away children stealthily watching an anatomy dissection, waved the flayed arm of a cadaver and told one boy, “This is your mother’s arm. I just dug it up.” What began as a cruel joke quickly turned into public outrage. New York witnessed violent protests against grave robbers, attacks on hospitals, and the deaths of several rioters. The incident exposed a deep social anxiety — the violation of the dead, particularly the bodies of the poor and marginalised, who often became unwilling subjects of anatomical study. More than 200 years later, another joke involving cadavers has ignited public anger. A medical student, attending a stand-up comedy performance, joked about students comparing the size of the private parts of cadavers. Social media erupted, and the outrage has largely been directed at Gen Z medical students. This anger is justified and needs deeper reflection.
The student at the centre of the controversy is from my alma mater. In the year 2000, when I entered Seth G S Medical College and KEM Hospital, on our first day of school, we were led into the dissection hall. It was like a rite of passage for naïve medical students. There were no elaborate foundation lectures or presentations on the ethics of handling cadavers. Instead, we had our venerable teachers shepherding us into that space. The dissection hall was a sanctuary — a safe space for the dead who lived on through this noble act, and for the living learners who learnt from the dead to save living patients. The cadavers were placed on tables, like how their relatives would place them for a final viewing, their last day of bodily integrity. There were flowers, white sheets, incense sticks, and light music. The atmosphere was heavy with respect, reverence, and gratitude. We role-modelled our teachers and learnt how to respect our cadavers. And thus began our dissection journey for a year with our revered cadaver.
Most cadavers in dissection halls are unclaimed corpses, with some donated voluntarily by individuals or families. Many died anonymous deaths, without families to claim them, perform their last rites, or remember their lives. We knew this, and so we named our cadavers. We imagined who they might have been. Did they have friends? Did they fall in love? What were their dreams? What struggles did they face? How did they arrive at that table? We did not have answers. But we had imagination. And imagination created empathy; it helped us remember that the skin, muscles, bones, and organs that lay before us belonged to a person who once had a life, relationships, aspirations, and fears. Perhaps someday, one of us or someone we love, may also become a teacher on a dissection table, helping another generation of doctors learn.
It is because of this background that the recent distasteful joke about cadavers by a medical student on a stand-up comedy show deeply disturbed me. In another old video the same student called her teachers “chindi” not knowing that some of the medical teachers including ones at KEM have donated their bodies for anatomy dissection by students like her. The resurfacing of another video where medical students appeared to sexualise cadavers and talked about trophy-taking of cadaver parts makes the issue even more uncomfortable, pointing towards its systemic nature. The response should not stop at condemning and punishing individuals. Students must be held accountable for insensitive and unethical behaviour. But this is an indication of the larger problem that is pervasive in medical education and the profession. We can say “not all medicos” and dismiss the issue, or use this moment to reflect upon the larger malaise and answer the question: Have we failed to preserve empathy as a core value in medical training?
Sensitisation needs to begin early in medical education, and the dissection hall is the first place in the long journey of a medical student where the importance of dignity is learnt. The first lesson of medicine is not anatomy, it is dignity.
It would be convenient to dismiss this as a “Gen Z problem”. It is not. Social media has amplified a culture where controversy generates attention and provocation becomes content. A shocking statement can bring visibility and temporary popularity. Doctors and medical students are not immune to these pressures. Despite ethical restrictions on self-promotion, many doctors increasingly build public identities through online content. The lure of visibility and virality is a quagmire that few can escape, and doctors are no different. This is why the solution cannot simply be outrage. This calls for a greater collective response towards ethical medical education and practice.
While the National Medical Commission did introduce initiatives such as the Cadaveric Oath, foundation programme, and modules on ethics, implementation is often tokenistic. They are frequently taught half-heartedly to students who face the pressure of attending coaching classes for postgraduate entrance examinations. The values and skills of empathy, dignity, and respect are not meaningfully assessed in their examinations and hence are not prioritised as crucial. To be sure, there are no easy solutions here. This requires sustained consultations, honest reflection, and implementation of evidence-based solutions. We do not have to reinvent the wheel — humanity and empathy in medical education do not need to be reinvented; they need to be prioritised and made non-negotiable. This is even more relevant in current times when AI and health technology are creating more distance and potentially more mistrust between the doctor and the patient.
The question before us is not only whether a student in the audience or the comedian should be punished for insensitive remarks. The larger question is whether this moment can push medical education and the profession to examine itself. If this bitter episode can lead to meaningful reform in medical education, making medical training more humane towards both the living and the dead, then the sacrifice of those who donated their bodies will not have been wasted.
We owe that much to our first teachers — our cadavers.
The writer is professor of Community Medicine, Hamdard Institute of Medical Sciences and Research
Sensitisation needs to begin early in medical education, and the dissection hall is the first place in the long journey of a medical student where the importance of dignity is learnt. The first lesson of medicine is not anatomy, it is dignity. 
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