Every time I step foot into a hospital in Gaza I witness unspeakable brutality and the most horrific injuries imaginable to a human being.
For example, I was standing next to the resuscitation room at Al-Aqsa Hospital as doctors administered a sedative to a nine-year-old child to ease his suffering as he lay dying.
His mother’s screams echoed throughout the building and still haunt my nightmares.
Since Israel began bombing the Gaza Strip in October, I have been working with my colleagues at Palestinian Medical Assistance (MAP) to support the emergency response. Every mission comes with its own challenges, including impassable roads and the constant threat of bombing.
But life here has not been easy.
I was born in Saudi Arabia to Palestinian parents but moved to Gaza when I was 10 years old.
I lived a relatively decent life despite the daily shortages of water, electricity, healthcare and freedom of movement caused by the Israeli occupation and blockade that has cast a shadow over everyone’s work, lives and passions.
Yet Gaza felt like a place of opportunity, a place where, if you worked hard, you could live a somewhat normal life: education, work, relationships, and, if you were lucky, travel. I’ve been lucky enough to visit other parts of the Middle East, the US, and the UK.
After completing a Masters degree at Durham University, he returned to the UK in 2022 and joined MAP.
My work involves advocating for Palestinians’ right to health and dignity, and involves visiting projects, documenting stories, presenting research and speaking with journalists and partners.
At the beginning of October last year, my life seemed to have settled down so much that I even got a cat that I named Beastie.
However, on the 7th of that month the current war began and I was forced to become an emergency response humanitarian.
I now spend my days delivering much-needed assistance to communities – from distributing hygiene kits, clothes, mattresses, blankets, food and medical supplies, to providing shelter, medical supplies and assistance to displaced families.
Our water tanks are empty and the thought of another day without a drop of drinkable water weighs heavy on my mind.
And perhaps most frightening of all is the ever-present fear of death: According to the Ministry of Health, more than 38,000 Palestinians have been killed by Israeli forces to date, although a recent letter published in the Lancet suggests the real death toll could be more than 186,000.
Two of my uncles and thirteen cousins died, three of whom are still buried under the rubble.
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One uncle died while clutching his four-year-old son’s arms while trying to protect him from shrapnel caused by his car during a nearby Israeli airstrike.
This loss is immeasurable. He not only leaves behind memories, but he also leaves our grieving family with the responsibility of caring for six young children.
As I write this, I received the sad news that my cousin who lives in Rafah was killed by a drone missile while searching for bread.
We were not able to properly mourn their deaths or hold funerals for them, we were lucky to be able to bury some of them or at least bury some of their bodies.
One of my wartime habits is to keep a bottle of water within reach when I go to sleep, as it can be a lifeline if I get trapped under rubble, as many in Gaza are trapped under rubble and more than 10,000 people are reported missing.
Until recently I was in Rafah, a designated “safe zone”, but the recent invasion has forced me to move again.
Every day I go to work I don’t know if I’ll make it home, but when I do, I worry that I’ll be killed or injured in my sleep.
Another day, I was at Al-Aqsa Hospital when we heard loud artillery fire nearby.
Ten minutes later, the emergency department was overwhelmed with patients – there were so many injured people that there weren’t enough beds, and many were lying on the floor waiting to be seen.
I remember very clearly an old lady lying on the floor wrapped in a blanket, her face was covered in blood, her eyes were wide open and for just a second our eyes met. I left the department, trying to catch my breath.
My cat Beastie has always been with me, she is a survivor just like us all.
Sometimes I don’t have enough food to give her, but when I approach her, Beastie immediately rolls over and asks for a belly rub.
It’s as if she senses my emotional state and always offers me comfort and friendship when I need it most, which I have needed a lot during these difficult times.
I haven’t seen my sister and nephews for months now and I miss them so much.
I am also really worried about my mother who needs medical support for her chronic illness and there is nowhere to get it. At one point she was unable to walk because of her illness.
The international community needs to recognize that what is happening in Gaza is not a recent event. It has been going on since 1948, when more than 700,000 Palestinians were forced from their homes or fled by militias during the creation of the State of Israel. We call this the Nakba, which means “catastrophe.”
The people of Gaza have endured decades of displacement, oppression, blockade and violence, and I hope that the world will abide by international law, achieve a ceasefire and end the occupation of Palestine.
Our life-saving humanitarian work depends on the safe and unhindered movement of aid supplies and personnel, but that is not happening in Gaza.
For example, in January our team of British doctors and staff were staying in a house in Al Mawashi that the Israeli army had agreed to designate as a “safe zone”. The house was subsequently destroyed by Israeli airstrikes.
Thankfully, all survived, but other humanitarian workers in Gaza were not so lucky.
We have lost a lot in this latest war, but I hope it won’t last forever, I hope we can get through this and rebuild Gaza for our children.
Many close friends and loved ones were killed.
Will it be my turn tomorrow? Only time will tell.
Until then, I will continue to fight for survival and try to provide aid and care for my beastie as best I can.
Description: My coworkers don’t seem to like me and I get left out of conversations.
Continued: My mother’s funeral was hard, but my sisters’ cruelty was the hardest of all.
Continued: I was sexually abused as a child and police used me as bait to catch predators
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