It is 2am in the obstetrics and gynaecology emergency department of Assahaba Medical Complex in Gaza City. Through the open windows, I can hear the never-ending hum of drones in the sky above, but aside from that, it is quiet. A breeze flows through the empty hall, granting relief from the heat, and a soft blue glow emanates from the few lights that are on. I am six months into a yearlong internship and 12 hours into a 16-hour shift. I am so tired that I could fall asleep here at the admissions desk, but in the calm, a rare sense of peace envelopes me.
It is soon shattered by a woman crying in pain. She is bleeding and gripped by cramps. We examine her and tell her that she has lost her unborn baby – the child she has dreamed of meeting. The woman was newly married, but just a month after her wedding, her husband was killed in an air raid. The child she was carrying – a 10-week-old embryo – was their first and will be their last.
Her face is pale, as though her blood has frozen with the shock. There is anguish, denial, and screams. Her screams draw the attention of others, who gather around her as she falls to the ground. We revive her, only to return her to her suffering. But now she is silent – there are no cries, no expression. Having lost her husband, she now endures the pain of losing what she hoped would be a living memory of him.
It is my sixth night shift in obstetrics and gynaecology. I am supposed to rotate through other departments – spending two months in each – but I have already decided to become a gynaecologist during this rotation. Being in this ward brings joy to my life – it is where life begins, and it teaches me that hope is present regardless of the terrible things we are enduring.
Giving birth in a war zone – amid bombing, hunger, and fear – means life and death coexist. Sometimes, I still struggle to understand how life insists on arriving in this place surrounded by death.
It amazes me that mothers continue to bring children into a world in which survival feels uncertain. If the bombings don’t take us, hunger might. But what surprises me most is the resilience and patience of my people. They believe their children will live on to carry an important message: That no matter how many you have killed, Gaza responds by refusing to be erased.
Childbirth is far from easy. It is physically and emotionally exhausting, and mothers in Gaza endure excruciating pain without access to basic pain relief. Since March, the hospital has seen a severe shortage of basic supplies, including pain relief medication and anaesthetics. When they cry out as I stitch their tear wounds without anaesthesia, I feel helpless, but I try to distract them by telling them how beautiful their babies are and reassuring them that they have gotten through the hardest part.
With constant hunger here, many pregnant women are fatigued and do not gain enough weight during pregnancy. When the time comes to deliver, they are exhausted even before they begin to push. As a result, their labour can be prolonged, which means more pain for the mother. If a baby’s heartbeat slows, she might need an emergency Cesarean section.
Practicing medicine here is far from ideal. Hospitals are overwhelmed, and resources are severely limited. We’re constantly battling shortages of medical supplies. On every night shift, I work with one gynaecologist, three nurses and three midwives. I usually deal with the easier tasks, such as assessing conditions, suturing small tear wounds, and assisting with normal deliveries. A gynaecologist takes the more complicated cases, and a surgeon performs the elective and emergency Caesarean sections.
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