June 28, 2024
I arrived at
Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital on March 2 after surviving an attack that killed 14
members of my family. I was the sole survivor in my family. When I arrived at
the hospital I was suffering from pelvic and acetabular fractures that kept me
from walking or even standing.
Injured Palestinians are brought to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir
El-Balah for treatment following the Israeli attacks in Khan Younis on
March 8, 2024. (Photo: Ali Hamad/APA Images)
Due to the lack
of medical care and staff, I was unable to undergo the surgery I needed.
Incapable of walking, I was allowed to stay in the hospital, among the many
wounded women and children who were suffering the most.
From my bed in
Room 7 on the third floor of Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital I was able to witness the
suffering of more than 25 wounded women and children. My bed was covered on
three sides by a yellow curtain but I could still meet the others in my room,
many of whom were severely burned and had undergone several surgeries under
impossible medical conditions. I met others who received amputations, and many
others who lost children. Others waited helplessly for their medical referrals,
and many died while doing so. And those were just the cases I was able to see.
The majority of
the wounded I saw while on my rare trips through the hospital were burn
victims. I especially remember several of the women and kids that came to Room
7 burnt and screaming their lungs out in pain.
Karima, 50, got
injured during Ramadan’s first days. She lost 52 people of her family;
including her son, his wife, and her grandchild among the martyrs. Her back and
legs were completely burned. Screaming out of pain, she went for surgeries day
after day. She could not undergo any operations during her first week in the
hospital due to the severity of her injuries. She waited helplessly to be able
to travel to receive the proper treatment, and she died 50 days after being
injured. Those days echoed the 50 years she lived, but they were solely full of
pain.
On the first
evening of Eid, four people came to Room 7 sobbing and screaming. The house
beside theirs got bombed and shrapnel hit their gas supply. Nasra, a mother of
two, was cooking Eid dinner when the bombing hit. The gas became a fireball
within seconds and burned Nasra, 29, her daughter, Qamar, 2, her brother,
Yousef, 13, and her nephew, Hasan, 1.
Within a week,
little Hasan died. After multiple surgeries, the other three started to heal.
Tragically, however, a month after being discharged from the hospital, Yousef’s
house was bombed and he was burned again all over his body. He died three days
later.
In May, Hala,
22, and her two-year-old son, Esam, were bombed while in their house and they
were the sole survivors from under the rubble. Her back and both legs were
burned and her son’s face and legs were, too. Both are waiting for the Rafah
crossing to open to travel for medical care.
Wesam, 27, had
been diagnosed with diabetes. She was living in a tent when a piece of wood cut
her foot. The overwhelming number of injuries means that hospitals are not able
to give each patient the time and treatment they need to recover. Doctors had no
choice but to amputate her foot.
Asma’ tore my
heart apart. She is only 16 years old. She looked a very nice, and was a neat
and calm girl. While displaced in Al Nuseirat Camp, a piece of shrapnel
severely wounded her right hand. Like many others, she waited for her medical
referral for treatment. Unlike many others, after about 40 days, she finally
received it.
While I was in
the hospital the wounded children’s floor grew overcrowded with many kids
facing deadly injuries. To make room, many of them were transferred to the
third floor which was the women’s floor.
Dana, only 3,
got wounded by a quadcopter bullet while living in a tent. It cut through her
stomach, kidney, and intestines and stopped near her heart. She underwent a
difficult surgery, but still had the bullet stuck in her little body. Her
father was martyred during the first days of this war but she kept crying for
him. “Dad! I want my dad!”
Lubna had the
most tragic story I heard. She is 13 and is the eldest daughter in her family.
A missile hit her house in Khan Younis and killed her entire family but her.
She lost her parents and all her siblings. After undergoing multiple surgeries,
her aunts and uncles found it difficult to tell her the truth. They kept
telling her that her parents were alive but severely injured. She left the
hospital for her uncle’s house, still without knowing she was the only survivor
in her family.
I befriended
Mira, 6 years old. She was displaced in Deir El Balah and the building she was
in got bombed by a shell. A shrapnel injured her right leg, creating a
wide-open wound. Screaming, she got her wound cleaned out without any
anesthetic. Even so young, and in so much pain, she would still insist on
trying to brighten my mood, whenever she saw me sad.
It was seeing
the wounded mothers who were suffering from both pain and loss that was the
most devastating. It saddened me even more when they forgot about their own
pain and thought only about their wounded or dead children.
Lina, 33, lost
her two daughters in the bombardment of her neighbor’s home and her back was
broken in the attack. Immediately, she underwent an operation. Incapable of
walking or even a little movement, she just kept crying for her two babies.
I don’t think
that Nasra once screamed from the pain of her own burns. Each time she did cry,
she was crying for her injured two-year-old daughter.
Almost all women
in Room 7 were mothers. Samar, 38, lost her youngest son, Sanad, and had her
arm shattered. Amal, 36, had her leg crushed, and was confined to a surgical
bed, leaving her kids, who visited her many times, to fend for themselves.
Sabreen, 29, had gaping injuries in both legs, and a newborn baby. Ameer, her
son, was only a month old when she was hurt and he was forced to live his
second and third months in hospitals with his mother.
Almost 70% of
the wounded need more complex surgeries and medical care than could be provided
through the decimated health sector in Gaza and need to travel to receive it.
I, for one, was not able to receive the proper medical treatment I needed, and
I was also not given permission to travel. And there are many more like me,
helplessly waiting her turn to travel. Karima died waiting. All patients are
now waiting for an unknown amount of time since the Rafah crossing was closed
on May 6.
Women and
children in Gaza are suffering the most. My three yellow curtains deprived me
of seeing most of these beautiful women and children. But hearing their
stories, screams, and prayers was my window to the horrors they lived through.
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