I had closely followed the genocidal war in Gaza for nine months when an opportunity came around to volunteer as part of a medical mission organised by the United Nations, World Health Organization and the Palestinian American Medical Association.
As a trained nephrologist, a doctor who treats patients with kidney disease, I felt there was a critical need for specialised medical care amid the collapse of the healthcare system in Gaza and the high number of medical specialists who had been killed.
I also felt it was my duty as a Muslim to help the people of Gaza. Islam teaches us that whoever saves one life, it is as if he had saved all of humanity; taking care of others is an act of worship, and standing up against injustice is a moral obligation.
I believe my degrees are not meant to simply hang on the walls of an air-conditioned office or help me drive the nicest car or live in an expensive neighbourhood. They are a testament to the fact that I have taken an oath to dedicate my expertise to the service of humanity, to maintain the utmost respect for human life and to offer my medical knowledge and compassion to those in need.
So on July 16, I departed for Gaza with a few other medics.
We entered the strip through the Karem Abu Salem crossing. We went from observing the prosperity, comfort and wealth of the Israeli side to recoiling at the destruction, devastation and misery of the Palestinian side. We basically saw what apartheid looks like.
On our short trip through southern Gaza to reach our destination in Khan Younis, we saw many buildings bombed, damaged or destroyed. Homes, schools, shops, hospitals, mosques – you name it.
The amount of rubble was sickening. To this day, I can’t unsee the landscapes of destruction I witnessed in Gaza.
We were accommodated in Al-Nasser Hospital because it was too dangerous to stay at any other place. We were welcomed and cared for so much that I felt embarrassed. We were seen as saviours.
I treated patients with kidney problems, worked as a primary care physician and sometimes helped during mass casualty events in the emergency room.
Dialysis requires clean water, sterile supplies, reliable electricity, medications and equipment that must be maintained and replaced – none of which was guaranteed under the Israeli blockade. Each dialysis session was a challenge. Every delay increased the risk of my patients dying. Many of them did die – a fact I struggled to accept, knowing that under normal circumstances, many of them could have been saved and lived normal lives.
I remember the smiling face of one of my patients, Waleed, a young man who suffered from kidney failure caused by early-onset high blood pressure, a condition that, with access to proper treatment, could have been managed appropriately.
Dialysis was Waleed’s lifeline, but he couldn’t get an adequate number of sessions due to the Israeli blockade causing severe shortages of medical supplies. Malnutrition and worsening living conditions only accelerated his decline.
I remember how short of breath he was, his body overloaded with fluid and his blood pressure dangerously high. And yet, every time I saw him, Waleed greeted me with a warm smile, his spirit somehow intact, his mother always by his side. A few months after I left Gaza, Waleed passed away.
Another patient of mine was Hussein, a gentle, kind-hearted, deeply respected man. His children cared for him with love and dignity.
He suffered from severe hypokalaemia and acidosis: His body’s potassium levels were dangerously low, and acid built up to toxic levels. To address his condition, he needed basic medications: potassium supplements and sodium bicarbonate pills.
These were simple, inexpensive, life-saving medicines, and yet, the Israeli blockade did not allow them in. Because he could not find these pills, Hussein was hospitalised multiple times for intravenous potassium supplementation.
Despite his immense suffering, Hussein remained gracious, brave and full of faith. When speaking, he always repeated the phrase Alhamdulillah (praise be to God). He passed away a few weeks ago, I was told.
Waleed and Hussein should be here – smiling, laughing, living happily with their families. Instead, they became casualties of siege and silence. These are two of so many tragic stories I know of and I witnessed. So many beautiful lives that could have been saved were lost.
Despite this grim reality, my colleagues in Gaza continue to do their utmost for their patients.
These are medics who are bruised in every way. They are not only battling the daily struggles of life like all other Palestinians in Gaza but also witnessing daily horrors of headless babies, amputated limbs, fully burned human beings and sometimes the lifeless remains of their own loved ones.
Imagine working with no anaesthesia, limited pain medications, very few antibiotics. Imagine surgeons scrubbing with plain water, children undergoing amputations with no sedation, full-body burns patients’ dressings being changed with no pain relief.
Still these healthcare heroes just keep going.
One of the nurses I worked with, Arafat, made a deep impression on me. He was living in a makeshift shelter with multiple family members. It offered no protection against the elements – the cold winter, the scorching heat or the drenching rain.
He starved – like all other Palestinians in Gaza – losing 15kg (33lb) in nine months. He walked 2km to 3km (1 to 2 miles) every day to work with worn-out sandals, facing the danger of Israeli drones bombing or shooting him in the street.
And yet, the smile never left his face. He took care of more than 280 dialysis patients, treating them with care, attentively listening to their anxious families and uplifting his colleagues with light humour.
I felt so small next to heroes like Arafat. His and his colleagues’ resilience and persistence were unbelievable.
While in Gaza, I had the opportunity to visit Al-Shifa Hospital with a UN delegation. What once was Gaza’s largest and most vital medical centre was reduced to ruins. The hospital that was once a symbol of hope and healing had become a symbol of death and destruction, of the deliberate dismantling of healthcare. It was beyond heartbreaking to see its charred, bombed-out remains.
I stayed in Gaza for 22 days. It was an absolute honour to visit, serve and learn life from the resilient people of Gaza. Their relentless courage and determination will stay with me until I die.
Despite witnessing what I could have never imagined, I did not have the urge to leave. I wanted to stay. Back in the United States, I felt profound guilt that I left behind my colleagues and my patients, that I did not stay, that I did not do enough.
Feeling this constant heartache, I cannot understand the growing number of people who are accustomed to the daily reports of Palestinian deaths and images of torn bodies and starving children.
As human beings and as health workers, we cannot quit on Gaza. We cannot stay silent and passive. We must speak out and act on the devastation of healthcare and attacks on our colleagues in the Gaza Strip.
Already fewer and fewer healthcare workers are being allowed to enter Gaza on medical missions. The current blockade has prevented all medical supplies from going in.
We, as healthcare professionals, must mobilise to demand an immediate lifting of the siege and free access to medical missions. We must not stop volunteering to help the struggling medical teams in Gaza. Such acts of speaking out and volunteering give our colleagues in Gaza the hope and comfort that they have not been abandoned.
Let us not allow Gaza to be just a symbol of destruction. Instead, let it be the example of unbreakable spirit.
Stand, speak and act – so history remembers not just the tragedy but also the triumph of human compassion.
Let us uphold human dignity.
Let us tell Gaza, you are not alone!
Humanity is on your side!
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
