“What are you studying again?”

I grab a suspiciously brown glass from the plastic crates in the dining hall and fill it with cranberry juice that isn’t really cranberry juice. 

I move to the salad bar, which serves a curious tomato and bean salsa that divides the Southeast Asians and those of us who can’t handle our spice quite as well. 

There’s a soup, too, on offer every day; its consistency ranges from watery to so thick that a fork and knife might be more appropriate for its consumption than a spoon. 

Our main dishes are ever-changing. Fish and chips are a mainstay, and the classic baked potatoes with cheesy beans often makes an appearance. I’ve yet to try either, which makes me question why I’m here in the first place. Reminders of the comforts of home have been few and far between. The noodles are vaguely Far Eastern and the rice hardly sticky, but we can always serve ourselves prawn crackers. 

I’ve been told that dessert is the highlight of the evening, but I rarely make it to dinner in time for cake and pudding. When I do, the portions feel excessive, and I satisfy myself with some fruit instead. It’s the least I can do; the most strenuous physical activity I’ve engaged in so far has been playing Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 on the piano. 

With my tray assembled and dangerously full, I sit down near an unassuming stranger.

“Hi! Where are you from?”

“Bulgaria/Singapore/Germany/Belgium/Nigeria/a little village in the South of England/London. You?”

“I’m not quite sure. But I do have a Chinese passport.”

“What are you studying?”

“Population Health. You?”

“Wait, what’s that? I’ve never heard of that before.”

What is population health? Maybe you’re wondering yourself. 

If you imagine medicine as the healing of one person, you can imagine population health as the keeping well of many. You might go to the doctor if you are feeling sick, but my field focuses on prevention. What are the factors that make one group of people more likely to suffer disease than another? How have perceptions of disease and health changed over time, and how is this reflected in demographic trends? How do we measure wellbeing, and how do we ask people about their health in a way that is humane, accurate, and practical? If health inequalities are unjust (and when are they ever just?), what can we do to rectify them?

These, and many others, are the questions that we try to answer, but rarely can.

My field is full of flaws and holes. One of the most important theories we study, the demographic transition model, is based on data from 19th century Sweden. Almost everything about the world has changed since then, not just healthcare. Our history has been plagued by figures such as English eugenicist Francis Galton, a perpetrator of the idea that differences in race and class were inherent rather than socially constructed. And something that we seek to improve, life expectancy, has declined for the first time in decades in a handful of countries.

But that’s why I (and many others) continue studying population health. Just like the other social sciences, our field has wide-reaching policy implications if public servants choose to use decades of research evidence to make their decisions. We, too, care for people, but unlike the emergency room doctor who performs a thoracotomy just in time to keep a heart beating, the population health scientist sees the results of their work unfolding throughout a whole lifetime. The healthcare system is only the second line of defense against illness; population health is the first.

“Hi! Wait, I know what you’re studying. Just give me a minute. Is it a science?

*smacks hand on the table

Biomed?”

“Yes! You remembered :D”

“What are you studying again?”

You could say it’s the study of a million biographies. Last week, our life course epidemiology professor told us to recount all the events that led us to this point: being first-year college students in a country that was not “home” for most of us. And we weren’t sharing our own stories; we had to share each others’.

We sit in stunned silence and with respect and with laughter (at each other, but mostly at ourselves), listening to stories of failure, perseverance, love, and necessity. Ordinary stories.

My course mates (the people who share my major for the Americans among you) form the most diverse class I’ve ever been a part of. We represent five continents and are 25 years apart in age. We may not have chosen this course for the same reasons, and some of us probably didn’t want to choose it, but those stories are a perfect embodiment of what we study.

“I study empathy.”