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Mrs. Doyle was a supporting character in the '90s Irish TV show Father Ted. As a priests' housekeeper, she had a recurring line: "Will you have a cup of tea, Father? Ah go on, go on, go on ...." The running joke was that she would never take no for an answer.

Scottish and Irish cultures share some traits, and it would be fair to say that as a Scot, I have certain Mrs. Doyle tendencies. Teaching days always used to begin with the ritual enforcement of refreshments, but my recent experiences facilitating simulations for refugee doctors have changed my practice.

Picture the scene: Six refugee doctors arrived at the Scottish Centre for Simulation. They came from a variety of different countries, including Iran, Iraq, Libya, and Sudan. These doctors had endured war or persecution in their home countries, and often an arduous journey to reach Scotland. They had lost homes, possessions, and loved ones. They had jumped through dozens of bureaucratic hoops to prove their qualifications and passed challenging language and clinical exams. Finally, The Bridges Programmes, a Scottish charity, referred them to the simulation center for training prior to commencing their first Scottish medical jobs. They had spent an hour on a bus traveling to an unfamiliar hospital. It was raining hard and they were all drenched. I gave them my most welcoming smile.

"Can I get anyone a tea or coffee?" I asked. "No, please let me get you something. Glass of water? Anybody? You're all soaked, I'm sure a hot drink would help."

I am not sure exactly how long they let me go on for before one participant finally met my eyes and whispered, "We're fasting." They all looked embarrassed, and I was mortified. I had completely missed that it was Ramadan.

I made various other mistakes over the following months, even after Ramadan was over. The Christmas treats that I tried to foist on participants contained alcohol. My ideas to incorporate music and film in some sessions were considered sinful by the more conservative participants. I congratulated myself on providing access to a prayer room, then found that the planned break times were not appropriate for prayer. Each mistake stung. I was trying to improve the learners' enjoyment, but instead was creating discomfort, demonstrating my ignorance, and generating embarrassment.

In some ways, I walked a mile in the refugee doctors' shoes. I learned about culture through my mistakes instead of being explicitly taught. This painful learning method is implicitly recommended -- watch, learn, take part -- we'll let you know if you're getting it wrong. Although mistakes aid learning, they also have the potential to erode relationships. Instead, I propose explicit intercultural competence teaching, both for refugee doctors (and indeed any international medical graduates) and for the faculty who are training them.

Over time, the realization dawned that the special measures created for refugee doctors were relevant to other groups too. Plenty of learners have religious requirements related to diet or prayer. Refugee doctors with children often had no funding for childcare or family to help, so we tried to keep essential content within school hours. No such considerations were made for participants on other courses, who were expected to mold their lives around our training schedules or else not participate. I regret that some learners might have been excluded due to circumstances beyond their control.

I would love to say that I now provide bespoke courses that take into account each individual's needs -- but this is not realistic. I am, however, much more cognizant of each individual's life outside of training, and more understanding when life circumstances result in lateness or failure to complete prelearning assignments. I explicitly teach intercultural competence. I ask if participants need to leave early, require specific break times, or have dietary requirements. And finally, when I offer a cup of tea, I (reluctantly!) accept no for an answer.