But we will persist as long as we can to keep this crucial lifeline for Palestinians in Gaza City going.
When I walk into the emergency ward of al-Shifa Hospital, I feel like I am back in October 2023, when the shocking number of wounded and dead brought in would overwhelm us every day. I see daily dozens of children, elderly, women and men rushed into the hospital with horrific injuries; many would be missing a limb or an eye.
The difference is that back in October 2023, we still had medical supplies and fuel for electricity, we were fully staffed, and all of the hospital wards were still functioning.
Today, al-Shifa is but a shadow of its old self.
The medical complex was repeatedly targeted in the genocide, and substantial parts of it were destroyed. With the efforts of hospital staff, the building of the outpatient clinics was restored and turned into the emergency ward; part of the surgery department was transformed into intensive care for bedridden patients.
Some doctors and nurses returned to work, but by far not enough. We do not have the necessary medical supplies to tackle the constant inflow of injured patients. Electricity keeps cutting off because of fuel shortages, and we are forced to use saltwater for drinking.
The medical staff are exhausted and starved. Earlier this week, I had an 18-hour shift during which all I had to eat was a single can of tuna.
Amid this horror, forced evacuation is looming over the hospital once again. We work in a constant state of fear of what comes next.
The atmosphere is heavy, and faces are tense. Patients look to us, the medical staff, for reassurance, while we try to hide our anxiety and hold ourselves together.
It is difficult to make any preparations for departure, given that we have received no clear information and no instructions about where to relocate. We don’t have enough vehicles to transport the large number of bedridden patients, some of whom are in critical condition, breathing on ventilators, and could die if moved. We have been given no guarantees that if we were to depart, we would be safe along the way.
We are still trying to make some basic preparations: medical files are being sorted, and lists of transport priorities are being compiled. But these activities are only deepening our despair. Nothing is more difficult than being forced to leave, not knowing where you would go … or how.
Then there is the question of what happens to the communities we serve after we leave.
Al-Shifa remains a vital lifeline for healthcare in Gaza and a last resort for thousands of sick and injured people.
The only other functioning hospital in the area is al-Ahli, but the conditions there are much worse than in half-destroyed al-Shifa. I went there recently on a visit and saw that there had been a lot of attacks in its vicinity; the sound of bombing was very loud.
If we are forced to leave al-Shifa, Gaza City will largely be deprived of health services. This would be a death sentence for the people who choose to stay and are injured or otherwise fall ill. It would extinguish the last vestiges of hope people try to cling to.
We have already been through this horror once before. In November 2023, we received orders to evacuate. We stayed, we were besieged, we ran out of fuel and food. The Israelis stormed the hospital and forced us to leave – hundreds of us, staff, walked to the south.
I did not return to al-Shifa until last month. When I saw the difficult situation inside the recovered area, my heart sank. I was not used to working in such conditions. What made my work even more painful was that I found out that a number of my colleagues had been killed in the 20 months we had been apart. At least three of the female nurses I worked with had been martyred.
As another evacuation looms, I feel a mixture of fear, anger, and anxiety. This hospital is not just a workplace, but a refuge and a last resort for thousands of people. The thought of seeing it emptied of its staff and patients once again and perhaps destroyed completely is heartbreaking.
Despite all this, we persist. We continue to treat the injured, console them, and cling to what remains of our responsibility. We dress wounds under the light of our mobile phones, perform operations under the sound of bombardment, and deal with death as a daily adversary.
We owe it to our patients, to our people, to demonstrate that even in the face of the worst horrors, we will keep going for as long as we can.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect media’s editorial stance.
