In some sessions we even had to shout to be heard, to overcome the sound of drones and bombs. And when there was no fighting outside, the background sound was the cries of children in the hospital.
Children maimed, with burns or without parents. Children having panic attacks, because physical pain triggers psychological wounds when pain reminds you of the bomb that changed your life forever. Calmer children draw drones and military jets.
War is everywhere in the hospital; the smell of blood is unbearable. This is the image I bring back from Gaza.
I’ve never experienced anything like what I saw in Gaza. There are some traits common to all the patients I saw there. Dark, almost burnt skin, because they are exposed to the sun all day. Weight loss because food is scarce. Their hair is white from the stress of these months of war. And they all have expressionless faces. A face that illustrates loss, sadness and depression. People who have lost everything.
‘I miss the little things. The pictures of my mother who died years ago, the cup I used to drink coffee with. I miss my routine more than my broken home,’ one patient told me.
‘I haven't had a glass of fresh water for months. What kind of life is this?’ another patient asked me.
As human beings, we are prone to recount the pain and suffering that we face. But how do you tell a story of grief to someone who is going through the same thing as you? That is why one of our priorities is to offer a safe listening space for our patients and for the Palestinian doctors and nurses who have been working non-stop for more than eight months.
