For how long!? From Gaza

My experiences at Al-Aqsa  Martyrs Hospital, January 2024

The first scene: 

Dozens of wounded as a result of the bombing of a house above Abu Dalal Mall arrive at the hospital. They are treated despite the scarcity of capabilities and the huge deficit in medical supplies. One of the injured, whose brain matter and intestines are out, takes his last breath (gasping) and there is nothing that can be done. The doctors’ decision in light of the principle of differentiation between the wounded? Whoever has more hope of survival is dealt with. He is left to die in peace. The family stands around him, feeling helpless and with pain in their hearts. I am called to deal with the situation and try to ease their burden and move them toward acceptance. The minutes pass very slowly and his family looks at me pleadingly, Please do something, but unfortunately there is nothing that can be done, as his medical condition is hopeless. It is not humanly or emotionally possible for the family to accept this matter; finally this young man gave up his soul, and the screaming started.

How can we get over this pain and how can we forget what we see in his family’s eyes? What if we were in a similar situation with someone close to us?

Ohhh … my God, your kindness and mercy to us …

The second scene:

These children, Muhammad and Bassem, were rescued from under the rubble of their homes, which were mercilessly bombed by the Israeli occupation over their heads. They lost all of their family members. I worked with them in Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital. They were in a state of shock. They had not spoken a single word for three days. They were stunned and have derealization (disconnected from reality).  After a great effort that lasted for hours, they sat down and began to interact with me in a simple way. Oh God, have mercy on these little ones.

The Third Scene:

I had a very tragic and painful assignment yesterday: A young man in his forties, whose house included all of his family members—father, mother, brothers, their wives and children, and his wife and children—was bombed by Israeli warplanes. He woke up three days later in Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, not knowing what had happened to them. He did not remember anything, and thought he and the others were all simply injured. In fact he had lost all but his thirteen-year-old son, Samir, who suffered fractures and burns all over his body and was lying in the same hospital in another department. I was called to help the medical staff deliver the news to him, have mercy. Oh God.

I started talking to him and checking on his health, then I accompanied him to visit his son in the other section and gave them the opportunity to speak and check on each other. Then I accompanied him to a place with some privacy and started talking to him about the last moments before the bombing and what he remembered—where he had been, what he was doing, and what he knew about his family, and I began to tell him, little by little. I started with his eldest son, his wife, and his parents, and with every piece of news he screamed, suffered, and cried. Oh my God, have mercy upon him.

It was a difficult time, passing very slowly, as if death was looming over our conversation. As soon as I completed the task, I felt extreme stress, collapse, and terrible pain in all parts of my body until I could no longer stand. Oh my God, have mercy on us.

My experiences with war as a professional and a human being 

February 6, 2024 

Fact: Death was not the only painful aspect of this war, although it was the hardest for some. During this war, I personally lost three of my cousins, one of whom was my childhood friend, Rami, who fled from northern Gaza to the Nuseirat camp in search of safety. Rami, a kind and loving person, returned from a trip to Turkey just before the war. His daily Facebook posts showed his travels. Rami faced this war as if it was not part of his plans for the near future. He left as if he had never existed. The phrase “as if he had never existed” echoed in my ears, as my uncle Fares said in his farewell to his martyred son Omar, saying that Omar died as if he had never existed. Experiences of loss became great pain and trauma, initially thought to be long-lasting, but as the war intensified, the shock of death diminished, overwhelmed by the daily chaos, as the death reached beyond comprehension.

The shock of loss lost its luster, and phrases such as “Who was martyred now will rest” and “I wish we had died before this” appear. Despite my long career in mental health, I find it difficult to categorize these responses to their grief. However, there is a scene in the Qur’an that resembles this reaction, where people say similar words in the face of impending doom. Amid war fatigue, other losses such as preoccupation with home, hunger, poverty, shattered prospects, lack of hope, and despair of receiving help weigh heavily on people, forming the cognitive triad of depression.

But succumbing to the clutches of depression was not an option for people here. The depletion of life and its necessities, the life of displacement, living in tents, high prices, and the inability to access the basic necessities of life made giving in to depression a luxury that the people of Gaza did not have.

Despite my well-known solidarity, at the beginning of the war I was preoccupied with the basic needs of my family and staying with them, and while I was immersed in the shock of loss and war, I overlooked the dilemma of my eldest son, Ahmed, who was expected to finish high school and prepare for university. Ahmed lost this academic year. His ambition and intelligence, demonstrated through accomplishments such as obtaining an Access Scholarship, mastering the English language, and leading community initiatives, charted a bright future for him. His question during the war: “What will happen to me? The year has passed!” And it hit me like a thunderbolt. His subsequent request to move to the West Bank to attend school highlighted his specific needs. To meet them, I joined the only hospital in the central middle area and gained the strength to interact more logically with reality.

Ahmed has actively engaged in and supported various initiatives for children, but the ground offensive of the war forced us to leave our home and be displaced to Rafah, which is supposed to be a safe place according to the instructions of the Israeli army. However, even there, we were pursued by bombing. During this displacement, we lived in a tent, reminiscent of the experiences of displacement in 1948. However, I did not stop my professional work and immediately became involved in psychological interventions. My passion for work was mixed with the feeling that I was helping myself and my family to recover. Work diaries became nightly stories, helping my family members endure through shared common humanity and self-compassion. 

And how many questions still remain, waiting to be answered: How long can we withstand? When will the war stop? Will Ahmed continue his studies and go to university as planned? Do we really live in a world that understands the meaning of humanity and its rights, or are we in a jungle devoid of all feelings and humanity?

For how long?!

January 2, 2025 

It has been over fourteen months since the war began, and the weight of loss is a shadow that never leaves. Each name etched into my heart feels like another thread unraveling the fabric of who I am. I lost Amani, my dearest friend and trusted colleague, a psychologist whose compassion knew no bounds. She was someone who shared my dream of healing our people, someone whose laughter could brighten even the darkest moment. Her absence is a constant ache, a silence that screams in every corner of my life. Then there was Kholoud, another cherished colleague and psychologist, a partner in the daily battle to mend broken spirits. Kholoud had this incredible way of connecting with people, of making them feel seen and understood. Losing her was like losing a part of our collective strength, a blow that left me struggling to find the energy to continue. I carry the loss of my cousin Rami, a soul so full of life and love that his absence feels like a cruel joke. And then my brother-in-law, whose steady presence and quiet kindness were a foundation for our family. Both were taken too soon, leaving behind a void that no words can fill. And Dr. Saeed Judeh, my cousin and the only orthopedic surgeon in northern Gaza. His loss wasn’t just personal; it was a wound for an entire community. He gave his life to serving others, and his death feels like a betrayal of everything good and just in this world. Each loss cuts deeply, each one unique and irreplaceable. Together, they form a tapestry of grief that threatens to engulf me entirely. And yet, I have not allowed myself to stop. I have not had the luxury to mourn fully, to scream, to collapse under the weight of it all. Every time I feel the pull to surrender, to collapse under the immense weight of my grief and exhaustion, I remind myself of all those who have anchored their strength within me. They planted the stakes of their resilience within my ribs. They are the ones who instilled their hope, their resilience, and their trust in my ability to stand firm. I continue to stand, not only for myself but for them, so that they do not crumble alongside me. Their faith in me is my foundation, and their unspoken plea for me to remain standing gives me the strength to endure, no matter how heavy the burden becomes. What makes it harder are the relentless waves of false hope. Every announcement of a ceasefire, every promise of peace, feels like a cruel trick when it inevitably shatters. The hunger, the poverty, the endless struggle—it all compounds the sense of abandonment. The world has left us to fend for ourselves, to bear the unbearable alone. And yet, deep in my heart, I believe in a justice greater than this world. I believe that oppression and darkness cannot endure forever. It is this faith that keeps me going, the belief that the lives of those I’ve lost—Amani, Kholoud, Rami, Saeed, and so many others—will not be in vain. Their memories fuel my resilience, their love and light propelling me forward when all I want to do is stop. They remind me that even in the face of unimaginable loss, there is still strength to be found, still hope to hold on to. And so I continue, one step at a time, refusing to let their sacrifices be forgotten.