They bombed our classrooms, our wards, even our patients – but I refuse to stop treating the injured.
Before this catastrophe began, I was living the happiest days of my life, surrounded by the warmth of my family, the affection of my friends, and dreams that felt within reach. I spent most of 2023 preparing for my graduation and getting ready to move from lecture halls to practical training fields, rotating between the laboratories of the Islamic University in Gaza and the eye hospitals spread across the Gaza Strip.
On the evening of October 6, I was organising my books, tools and white coat, getting ready for a long training day at Al-Nasr Eye Hospital in Gaza. My feelings were a mix of excitement and nervousness, but I had no idea that night would mark the end of my peaceful life. At 6am the next morning, October 7, it wasn’t the sound of my alarm that woke me, but the sound of rockets. I opened my eyes, wondering, “Is this a dream or a nightmare?” But the truth was impossible to deny. A war had begun, turning our once-bright lives into a never-ending nightmare.
On October 8, I received the devastating news that my university had been destroyed – its laboratories, its classrooms and every place where I had learned how to help patients. Even the graduation hall, where I had pictured myself celebrating at the end of the year, had turned to rubble. I felt a sharp pain in my chest, as if a part of my soul had collapsed. Everything fell apart so suddenly. Overnight, all that I had dreamed of was reduced to ashes.
On December 27, 2023, the bombing in our neighbourhood intensified, and we were forced to leave our home and flee to the so-called humanitarian zones in Rafah. There, we took shelter in one of the hundreds of tents that had become the only refuge for survivors.
There was one thing I still held on to: my knowledge and modest experience in the field of eye care. I began to notice children and women suffering from persistent eye infections, caused by inhaling smoke and dust and constant exposure to dirt. Even I developed an infection in my own eyes. I looked at them, then at myself, and I knew I couldn’t just stand by and watch. I wanted to be a reason someone healed, a reason the light returned to their eyes.
In December 2024, I volunteered at Al-Razi Health Center, working in the eye clinic under the supervision of a remarkably compassionate doctor. At first, I was afraid and hesitant. The war had taken a toll on my memory and shaken my confidence. But the doctor told me words I will never forget: “You are hardworking. You’ll remember everything. And you will become a tool for healing others.”
Patients started arriving from everywhere: north, central and southern Gaza. The clinic wasn’t equipped for such numbers, but we did everything we could. I witnessed cases I had never seen before:
A four-year-old girl lost her vision completely due to severe corneal burns caused by an explosion near her home. She screamed in pain. She was far too young to endure such suffering. Despite the lack of resources, she underwent surgery to remove her damaged eye and replace it with an artificial one.
There was also an elderly man suffering from eye cancer. The disease was eating away at his eye, and there was a strong possibility it would spread to the other one. But we couldn’t help him. Resources were unavailable, and he couldn’t travel for treatment due to the closure of the borders. At every visit, I did my best to lift his spirits, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could ease his pain, even if only a little.
Most children were suffering from chronic conjunctivitis and the appearance of chalazion (fatty cysts on the eyelid), due to dust, touching their eyes with their hands, and a lack of hygiene in the camps.
The elderly, most of whom suffered from cataracts, a condition that leads to gradual loss of vision, needed lens removal surgery and intraocular lens implantation, but all such operations were postponed due to the disruption of communication with northern Gaza, the only place in the Strip where the necessary equipment was available.
During those months, the operating rooms turned into real teaching labs for me after the occupation destroyed the university’s lab. I accompanied the doctor to every surgery, performing them by the light of hope and the sounds of bombing. One time, a rocket hit a house next to the centre while we were inside the operating room. Despite the panic, we held ourselves together. We didn’t break down. Instead, we completed the operation successfully.
In the few moments of spare time, there wasn’t only room to talk about medicine. We spoke about the pain, about our lost homes, about our missing relatives, about postponed dreams. The war spoke from every corner of the clinic.
We faced severe difficulties due to the shortage of medicines. We had to prescribe alternatives whose side effects we didn’t fully know, but what else could we do? There was no other choice. The crossings were closed, and the medicines were unavailable.
One day, during a surgery, I felt dizzy and had severe chest pain. I couldn’t bear it, and fainted from extreme exhaustion, malnutrition and psychological pressure. I was just a person trying to hold on. But I didn’t give up. I returned the same day to continue my work at the clinic.
I am still here, moving between health centres, healing, listening and trying to bring light back into people’s lives, literally. My purpose is not forgotten. My spirit is not broken. I was made to help. And I will continue, even through smoke and rubble, with steady hands and an unshakable heart, until the light returns for all of us.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect media’s editorial stance.
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